in private.”
“Now?”
“If it’s convenient.”
Cork glanced at the long lines in front of the two serving windows. “Will this take long?”
Burns said, “I know you’re busy, but when you hear what we have to say, you’ll understand why it can’t wait.”
“All right. This way.” Cork led them to the door of the Quonset hut and stood aside so they could enter. He came after them and closed the door. “Have a seat.” He indicated the two chairs at the table. He went into the serving area, grabbed an empty stool, told Judy he would be in to help as soon as he could, and returned to the rear of Sam’s Place. He set the stool at the table. “Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee, soda?”
“Thank you, no,” Burns said.
“Well, then.” Cork sat on the stool and looked from one woman to the other. The noise from the band and from the crowd came in through the open windows, the distracting sound of revelry. “Just a minute.” He went around the room, sliding the windows closed. “That’s better.” He sat on the stool again. “So.”
Burns said, “When I introduced you to Becca, did her name mean anything to you, Mr. O’Connor?”
“Call me Cork. And no, it doesn’t ring any bells. Should it?”
“Becca?” Burns nodded her encouragement for the woman to speak.
“Mr. O’Connor-Cork…” The Bodine woman faltered. It reminded Cork of when his children were young and confessed to something worthy of punishment. She gathered herself and went on. “My husband’s name was Clinton. Everyone called him Sandy.”
Cork had been leaning toward her, smiling his encouragement, trying to let her know he wasn’t someone she had to fear. But when he heard the name, he sat back and everything in him went stony.
Burns said, “That name means something. The pilot of the plane your wife was on.”
“What do you want?” Cork said.
“To talk to you and to show you something.”
“What could we possibly have to talk about?”
“I’m a lawyer, Cork,” Burns said. “And I’m Becca’s friend.”
“You’re representing her?”
He was speaking of the wrongful death suit that had been brought against her husband’s estate because of his drinking the night before the plane went missing.
“Not technically.”
“What is it you want?”
“Everyone who lost someone on that plane is a party to the lawsuit, everyone except you, Cork.”
“Believe me, it’s not because I don’t hold Sandy Bodine responsible for the death of my wife.”
“Why then?”
“I don’t owe you, or you,” he said, looking pointedly at the Bodine woman, “an explanation. I think we’re at the end of our conversation.” He stood up.
“Please,” Becca Bodine said. “Please, just listen.”
He’d struggled to get past his grief, to let go of his yearning for Jo, to begin to move on. He’d thought he’d done it. Now here it was again, threatening him in the form of a woman with a fearful look on her face and tears in her eyes.
“Goddamn it,” he said. “You want to know why I’m not part of that lawsuit? I’ll tell you why. I sold all that land out there for a million dollars. I don’t need the money from a lawsuit. And I don’t need the pain of dredging up the past and having it dropped in my lap again. And-” He broke off and turned away and stormed across the room. He stared out the window at the people and the colorful balloons.
“And what?” Burns said.
“I hate lawsuits. Nobody wins in the end except the lawyers. And, hell, the last thing we need is Indians suing Indians.”
“You can help that not happen,” Burns said quietly.
“Yeah? How?”
“Tell him, Becca.”
“Mr. O’Connor-”
“It’s Cork, goddamn it.”
The Bodine woman sat back as if he’d hit her. Then she gathered herself and threw her next words like punches. “My husband wasn’t a drunk. My husband wasn’t irresponsible. My husband was a good, loving, hardworking man. And he didn’t kill your wife or anyone else.”
“Go sell it to Disneyland, Ms. Bodine, because that’s the only place your fantasy might come true.”
“You… you… you son of a bitch!” She stood and flew across the room. Her open hands rammed into Cork’s chest and she shoved him powerfully backward.
“Becca!” Burns leaped to her feet.
“Why did you even think he might listen?” the Bodine woman said. “Let’s go. He won’t be any help at all.”
Burns stepped between her friend and Cork. “Will you both settle down for a moment, please? Cork, give us a chance to explain. Becca, understand that what we’re asking isn’t easy.”
“He won’t listen to what we’re asking,” the Bodine woman snapped viciously.
“What is it you’re asking?” Cork shot back with equal venom.
The door to the serving area opened, and Judy poked her head in. “Everything okay?”
“We’re fine, Judy.” Cork felt the heat of his anger passing. “We’re fine. Go on back.” He looked toward Burns. “So what is it you want?”
“We just want you to look at a videotape,” Burns said. “That’s all. Just look at a videotape.”
“Of what?”
“Of the man accused of flying drunk.”
“What’s the point?”
“When you see the tape, you’ll understand the point.”
The Bodine woman stared at him and looked perfectly willing to have another go at him. “Well?”
“You have the tape?” he asked.
“Here.” Burns went back to the table, reached into her large purse, and drew out the cassette, which she offered to Cork.
He took it and walked to the television on the stand in the corner. It was a combination TV–VCR-DVD that he sometimes used in his PI work. He hit the Power button, slid the tape into the player, and moved back to the stool where he’d been sitting. The screen was dark for a few moments, then a grainy, black-and-white image appeared. It was a long bar with ten stools. A bartender moved in the jerky way of people caught on security cameras. There were several people at the bar. The time-date in the corner told Cork the tape was shot in November, the night before Jo’s plane went down. The bartender turned to reach for a bottle on the shelves back of the bar, and a man walked up to an empty stool and sat down. He wore a ball cap with a large brim. Though Cork couldn’t see his face clearly, he recognized the man: Sandy Bodine.
“I’ve seen this tape before,” Cork said.
“All of it?” Burns asked.
“Enough.”
“Please, fifteen minutes is all we’re asking.”
Cork shut up and watched. The man drank, smoked, talked to the bartender, talked to the other customers, did all the things a man getting drunk at a bar would do. At the end of fifteen minutes, Cork said, “Okay, so what?”
“What did you see?” Burns asked.
“Exactly what I expected to see. Sandy Bodine doing what a pilot should never do the night before he flies.”
“Getting drunk.”
“Yeah. In a quarter hour, he downed two doubles of Jack Daniel’s.”
“My husband stopped drinking fifteen years ago,” the Bodine woman said. “He’s been a member of AA since.
