dandy,” Lou said, laughing uneasily.
“Let’s see now,” Jack said, “am I supposed to shoot you, or her, or both of you?”
“Why not shoot yourself?” Margaret suggested. “That would be the best bet—you have got your insurance all paid up, haven’t you?”
Jack laughed and Margaret seemed to relax.
“Where’d you guys take off to in the car?” she asked me.
“We made a grocery run,” Jack said. “Had to lay in a few essentials for him—you know, beer, aspirin, Alka-Seltzer—staples.”
“We saw you take off,” she said. “We kinda wondered what you were up to.”
“Hey, Alders,” Lou said, “what time are we supposed to be at Sloane’s?”
“Jesus,” Jack said, “you’re right. We better get cranked up. We’ve got to pick up Carter.”
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“Another guy. Works for the city. You’ll like him.”
“We’ll have to stop by a liquor store, too, won’t we?” I said.
“What for? Sloane’s buying.”
“Sloane always buys,” McKlearey said, putting on his shoes. “He’d be insulted if anybody showed up at one of his parties with their own liquor.”
“Sure, Dan,” Jack said. “It’s one of the ways he gets his kicks. When you got as much money as old Calvin’s got, you’ve already bought everything you want for yourself so about the only kick you get out of it is spendin’ it where other guys can watch you.”
“Conspicuous consumption,” I said.
“Sloane’s conspicuous enough, all right,” Jack agreed.
“And he can consume about twice as much as any three other guys in town.” Lou laughed.
“We’ll probably be late,” Jack told Margaret.
“No kidding,” she said dryly.
“Come on, you guys,” Jack said, ignoring her. We went out of the trailer into the slanting late-afternoon sun.
“I’ll take my own car,” McKlearey said. “Why don’t you guys pick up Carter? I’ve got to swing by the car lot for a minute.”
“OK, Lou,” Jack said. “See you at Sloane’s place.” He and I piled into his Plymouth and followed McKlearey on out to the street. I knew that my brother wasn’t stupid. He had to know what was going on with Margaret. Maybe he just didn’t care. I began not to like the feel of the whole situation. I began to wish I’d stayed the hell out of that damned poker game.
5
MIKE Carter and Betty, his wife, lived in a development out by Spanaway Lake, and it took Jack and me about three-quarters of an hour to get there.
We pulled into the driveway of one of those square, boxy houses that looked like every other one on the block. A heavyset guy with black, curly hair came out into the little square block of concrete that served as a front porch.
“Where in hell have you bastards been?” he called as Jack cut the motor.
“Don’t get all worked up,” Jack yelled back as we got out of the car. “This is my brother, Dan.” He turned his face toward me. “That lard-ass up there is Carter—Tacoma’s answer to King Kong.”
Mike glanced around quickly to make sure no one was watching and then gave Jack the finger, “Wie geht’s?” he said to me grinning.
“Es geht mir gut,” I answered, almost without thinking. Then I threw some more at him to see if he really knew any German. “Und wie geht’s Ihnen heute?”
“Mit dieses und jenes,” he said, pointing at his legs and repeating that weary joke that all Germans seem to think is so hysterically funny.
“Es freut mich,” I said dryly.
“How long were you in Germany?” he asked, coming down the steps.
“Eighteen months.”
“Where were you stationed?”
“Kitzingen. Then later in Wertheim.”
“Ach so? Ich war zwei Jahren in München.”
“Die Haupstadt von the Welt? Ganz glücklich!”
Jack chortled gleefully. “See, Mike, I told you he’d be able to sprechen that shit as well as you.”
“He’s been at me all week to talk German to you when he brought you over,” Mike said.
“Man”—Jack laughed—“you two sounded like a couple of real Krauts. Too bad you don’t know any Japanese like I do. Then we could all talk that foreign shit. Bug hell out of Sloane.” Very slowly, mouthing the words with exaggerated care, he spoke a sentence or two in Japanese. “Know what that means?”
“One-two-three-four-five?” Mike asked.
“Come on, man. I said, ‘How are you? Isn’t this a fine day?’” He repeated it in Japanese again.
“Couldn’t prove it by me,” I said, letting him have his small triumph.
He grinned at both of us, obviously very proud of himself. “Hey, Mike, how’s that boat comin’?” he asked. “Is it gonna be ready by duck season?”
“Shit!” Mike snorted. “Come on out back and look at the damn thing.”
We trooped on around to the back of the house. He had a fourteen-foot boat overturned on a pair of sawhorses out by the garage. It was surrounded by a litter of paint-scrapings which powdered the burned-out grass.
“Look at that son of a bitch,” Mike said. “I’ve counted twelve coats of paint already, and I’m still not down to bare wood. It feels pretty spongy in a couple places, too—probably rotten underneath. I’m afraid to take off any more paint—probably all that’s holding it together.”
Jack laughed. “That’s what you get for doin’ business with Thorwaldsen. He slipped you the Royal Swedish Weenie. I could have told you that.”
“That sure won’t do me much good right now,” Mike said gloomily.
We went into the house long enough for me to meet Betty. She was a big, pleasant girl with a sweet face. I liked her, too. Then the three of us went out and piled into Jack’s car. Betty stood on the little porch and waved as we pulled out of the driveway.
Jack drove on out to the highway, and we headed back toward town through the blood-colored light of the sunset.
“You have yourself a steady Schatzie in Germany?”
