Robert Tanenbaum - Malice

The first man laughed and stepped forward, extending his hand. "Mr. Karp, it's been a long time." He was nearly as tall as Karp, and like his brother, Mikey O'Toole was a redhead with sea-green eyes and a constellation of freckles on his face.

"Too long, Mikey," Karp said, nodding and shaking his hand. "And I thought we agreed you'd call me Butch. That Mr. Karp business coming from someone I've known since he was nine years old makes me feel older than Methuselah. You remember my wife, Marlene Ciampi?"

"Yes, sir, Butch," Mikey O'Toole replied, turning to Marlene. "And of course, I never forget a pretty face."

"Ha! I see the apple fell from the same tree," Marlene said, laughing. "Your brother was a great bullshitter, too. And it's Marlene, before you 'ma'am' me again; then I'd have to hurt you."

"I meant every word," O'Toole said, then turned to the younger man, who stood behind him smiling at the repartee. "I'd like you to meet my attorney and, more important, my friend, Richie Meyers."

Shorter and muscularly compact, a former all-American collegiate wrestler and nationally rated chess master, Meyers appeared to be in his midthirties, although his short blond hair and tan face made him look younger. He shook their hands; then his eyes glanced to something behind Karp and Marlene. "And who are those two fine young gentlemen?" he asked.

Looking back, Karp saw the twins, Isaac and Giancarlo, peering from the hallway that led back to the bedrooms. "Gentlemen is a relative term when it comes to these two rascals, who by the way are supposed to be in bed and asleep," he growled. "But since they're here…Zak and Giancarlo, come on out and meet an old friend, Mikey O'Toole, and a new friend, Richie Meyers."

Pleased to be invited to join the party, the thirteen-year-olds emerged and shook hands, which gave the visitors a chance to appraise the boys. Born only minutes apart, they were alike and then again, not so much. They both had curly dark hair, like their mother-Giancarlo wore his somewhat longer, while Zak kept his short. The merry brown eyes and cupid-bow lips were nearly identical, and again favored their mother's Mediterranean looks.

However, Zak was stockier, more muscular, and carried himself like an athlete. His face was already more rugged than that of his brother, and more olive-colored, like Marlene's. Giancarlo's features were more delicate-not effeminate, just leaning toward classically beautiful rather than ruggedly handsome. Like Michelangelo's David, Meyers thought, an impression heightened by his complexion's almost translucent quality.

"Any baseball players between the two of you?" O'Toole asked. "I'm always scouting."

"Me," Zak responded immediately. "Any position, and I can already hit a curveball."

"Impressive," O'Toole commented, then looked at Giancarlo. "And you?"

"He's horrible," Zak answered for his brother. "Can't field, can't hit, throws like a girl. He's afraid he'll hurt his hands."

"At least I have more brains than a golden retriever," said Giancarlo, then acted as if he were throwing a ball. "Here, boy, fetch. Get the ball. That's a good Zak."

With technique born of long practice, Marlene moved between the two potential combatants. "What my little Neanderthal Zak meant to say is that his brother, Gianni, is a gifted musician. He plays several instruments and prefers not to ruin his chances at playing Carnegie Hall."

"Nothing wrong with that," O'Toole responded. "I wish I'd learned to play an instrument."

"Ah, you can always do that when you're old and can't play ball," Zak quipped.

"Out!" Karp commanded before Giancarlo could protest. "You two can continue to impress our visitors with your obnoxious behavior tomorrow. In the meantime, lights out, and I better not hear any squabbling."

Giving each other a dirty look, the twins did an about-face and headed back down the hall to their bedroom. If they engaged in any murder and mayhem after that, at least they did it quietly.

O'Toole gave Karp an amused look. "Quite a handful, those two."

Karp rolled his eyes. "Yeah, any more of a handful and we might all end up in the loony bin. If only they'd put as much effort into their bar mitzvah lessons. They're so far behind, they've had to delay the event until next fall when-if we're lucky-they'll pass into Jewish manhood only a year behind their peers."

It wasn't an entirely fair assessment of his sons' efforts. After all, they'd had to deal with their father getting shot recently, not to mention a half dozen run-ins with terrorists, murderers, and psychopaths over their short lives. Not exactly conducive to studying the Torah, Karp thought, but still they seemed to have plenty of time for their Game Boys and Xboxes.

"They'll be worse tomorrow if they don't get to bed," Marlene said. "Fortunately, it's Saturday so they can sleep in a little."

"Sorry to get here so late," O'Toole apologized. "There weren't a lot of flights from Boise International to New York on short notice. You sure you don't want us to stay in a hotel?"

"Not at all," Marlene replied. "We have plenty of room if you don't mind sleeping on bunk beds surrounded by entirely too much pink, as well as posters of the Backstreet Boys and a hundred or so stuffed animals. It's our daughter Lucy's room. She's currently living in sin in New Mexico with a handsome young cowboy."

"I'm sure it will be just fine," O'Toole responded. "But I got dibs on the bottom bunk. I tend to toss and turn, so the top bunk would pose a hazard."

A few minutes later, the four adults were settled on the couch and chairs of the loft's living room, each nursing a bottle of beer that Marlene had brought from the kitchen. "What's Sawtooth like?" she asked.

"What? You mean you haven't heard of the home of the 'Fighting Nez Perce' at the University of Northwest Idaho?" O'Toole responded. "Well, I guess it's a pretty small town-population maybe forty thousand if you include ten thousand students from the university. The town was originally built in the 1880s to support the timber, mining, and ranching industries of the area. And there's still a lot of that around. But over the past twenty years or so, it's gained a reputation as a fly-fishing and hunting destination. More recently, maybe five years, it's been developing fast as a retreat for city folks trying to get away from it all, mostly from California. The university, of course, plays a big part in the town's makeup and character. So do the Basques."

"Basques?" Karp asked.

"Yeah, there's actually quite a population of them in Idaho," O'Toole replied. "They're from a region between Spain and France, but ethnically, linguistically, and culturally neither Spanish nor French. Apparently, Idaho's mountains are a lot like their homeland. Some of the families arrived more than a hundred years ago, mostly to herd sheep, and many still do. They're good, hardworking people and well thought of in the community, though they tend to stick together and cling to their traditions."

"There's a great Basque cultural center in Boise and a smaller one in Sawtooth," Meyers interjected, "that you should check out if you ever come out our way."

O'Toole shot Meyers a funny look, then continued. "There was a large influx of them after World War Two. Apparently, they deal with a lot of prejudice and animosity, particularly in Spain."

"Speaking of prejudice," Marlene asked, "isn't Idaho one of the states famous, or infamous, for white supremacists?"

O'Toole's eyes grew hard. "I know Idaho gets the rap as the home of the Aryans and neo-Nazis and all that crap," he said. "And for sure, there's some of it. Starting about twenty or so years ago, they began moving to rural areas in Idaho, Washington, and Oregon with the idea that because there weren't many people of color living there, they could create an all-white homeland when the inevitable 'race war' began. In fact, there's a big compound about ten miles from Sawtooth that's home base to the Unified Church of Aryan People. But I've lived in Sawtooth for three years now and the vast majority of people aren't like that."