Joseph Kanon - Los Alamos

“I’ll walk from here,” he said at the corner.

“Two blocks,” she said. “Goodness, look at the crush.”

The street was lined with cars, some double-parked near the gallery entrance. It seemed the only party in town.

Her voice, cool and efficient, cracked when he reached to open the door. “Michael.” Her eyes were suddenly bright with panic. “You’ll be careful.”

“Nervous?”

“I am, actually. Funny, after all this.”

“I know. This time it’s real.”

“It doesn’t feel real.” She straightened her shoulders. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you down.”

He smiled at her. “You couldn’t. Anyway, maybe it’s just an audition. Maybe nothing will happen.”

She looked at him, her eyes scanning his face. “That would be worse, wouldn’t it?”

He nodded. “Okay, let’s go. Act naturally. Look at the pictures.”

“And not at you. I know.”

“I’ve got Holliday outside. Just in case.”

She looked up at him quizzically, unfamiliar with the name.

“The police.”

“Oh,” she said. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Take your time parking,” he said, moving away.

Holliday, out of uniform, sat in a car in the next block. Connolly stopped to light a cigarette, and when he spoke it appeared he was fiddling with his lighter. “Everything all right?”

“Could’ve made a fortune in parking tickets here. What’s wrong with these people, anyway?”

“No cops.”

“What’s that in your pocket?”

“My wallet,” Connolly said, looking at him. “I like it in front. You can’t be too careful in a crowd.”

Holliday sighed. “Just watch your back.”

“Spot anybody hanging around?”

“Not yet. Just you.”

Connolly grinned and continued walking, glancing at both sides of the street. The gallery doors were open and people had spilled onto the side courtyard, talking in small groups, their voices like the murmur of bees. Inside the noise was louder, mixed with the tinkling of coffee spoons and ice cubes. A long table had been set up in the front room with a coffee urn and plates filled with sugary sopapillas. At the other end were bottles of wine and cheese cut into cocktail cubes. The crowd was as Emma had predicted, the women in floppy hats and long skirts cinched with silver-turquoise belts, the men in suits with bolla ties. Connolly noticed with a little relief that there were a few other uniforms, all officers, presumably local friends unconnected with the Hill.

He made his way slowly through the crowd, feeling obvious and self-conscious, but no one seemed to notice him. Busy with their friends or the paintings, they assumed he belonged to someone else. And after a while he began to feel the invisible anonymity of a large party, as if he weren’t really there at all. There were fewer people in the two rooms that led from the main room in a circle around the patio, and he wandered through these, looking at paintings, aware that he’d be more easily seen. Cowboys. Pueblo landscapes. Prickly-pear cactus in flower. No one approached him.

He circled back to the main room and took a glass of wine, looking around. Suppose no one came? Or someone had already seen him and decided not to risk contact? Maybe there’d be another message, a proper one this time, with a guidebook and a quiet place. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Emma come in. He stepped back into the second room. Between the paintings were pedestals with sculptures and wide terra-cotta pots painted in geometric Indian designs. There was a painting of the park by the Alameda, the river visible behind the trees, and Connolly stood in front of it as if he’d found the prearranged meeting place. There were the bushes where they’d found Karl. He peered at the lower right-hand corner for the artist’s name. Lothrop, in tiny block letters.

“Hello,” a voice said. “The gentleman with the turquoise, isn’t it?”

He turned slowly, prolonging the moment. For a second he couldn’t place him. Then he recognized the man from the jewelry shop. Chalmers? Something like that. Sonny. Behind the wire glasses, his eyes were bright.

“Hello,” Connolly said. The man seemed slighter outside the shop. Connolly tried to imagine him with his arm raised, holding a crowbar. No, it didn’t seem possible. Unless the eyes had been furious, the body coiled in surprise.

“I thought it was you. I didn’t realize you were in the service,” Chalmers said pleasantly. “Do you like the pictures?” He glanced toward the wall to see what Connolly had been looking at. “Ah yes. The park.” He turned to face him. “I often wondered, did you find what you were looking for?”

The question floated as casually as an inquiry about the weather. Connolly met his eyes. “Yes, I did.”

“Good,” Chalmers said. “Good. What happened to the turquoise pieces?”

“I still have them.”

“Perhaps you’re interested in selling them.” So this was how it was done-the new meeting, a chat back at the store.

“Maybe. I don’t think I ever introduced myself. My name is Steven Waters.”

“A pleasure,” Chalmers said easily, nodding. Just a name. “Are you”-he hesitated-“with somebody?”

Connolly, caught off-guard, had the unexpected feeling that Chalmers might be making a pass. Or was he just making sure Connolly had come alone? “No,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

Chalmers fluttered, embarrassed. “Forgive me. I thought I knew everyone here, that’s all. It’s my gallery, you see. You’re very welcome.”

“I am supposed to be meeting someone here,” Connolly said, another try.

“Yes, I see. Well, I hope you enjoy the pictures. If you do wish to sell the turquoise, come and see me at the shop.”

“Any particular time?”

Chalmers looked at him, puzzled. “Whenever it’s convenient for you.”

Connolly watched him move away, turning to another group of guests like a concerned host. But was he anything more? Connolly walked out to the patio to have a cigarette, feeling oddly deflated. Had they made contact or not? Is that all that happened, the suggestion of another time and place? After all the waiting, the anxious drive down, did he turn now and go? Or had he imagined it all? Perhaps the man was simply checking his guest list or looking for a new friend. The fact was, Connolly didn’t want it to be Chalmers, so unprepossessing and ordinary that he seemed hardly worth the long search. But why not him? A drive to the church, a quick meeting, a meeting afterward with someone else, and it was done. No fog and trenchcoats, just business as usual. But what had Chalmers really meant? He went over the conversation in his mind. Was it possible-almost a comic thought-that the language of espionage was no different from that of a pickup, all the words that meant something else, verbal sex, the invitation not really offered until it was accepted?

He looked around. All over the room people were making contact. He put his hand in his pocket, feeling the gun. The late afternoon sun flooded the patio. In broad daylight, he thought. Maybe this was how it was done. A nice middle-aged man, a harmless exchange that might mean anything. But there had been nothing casual about the meeting at San Isidro. Except they’d already known Eisler. This was just a sighting. Connolly tried to imagine himself as the other man. What would he be looking for? An amateur. A soldier, nervous, looking around. Someone new to it, who needed to be approached with more than the vague promise of the jewelry shop. But carefully. Connolly realized then that if it was going to happen, he was already being watched.

He went into the gallery rooms, moving toward the refreshments, then back again, staring openly at people now, a soldier looking for someone. He caught Chalmers glancing furtively at him, but with no more purpose than a proprietor keeping an eye on the stock. Emma avoided him, talking to a man in a double-breasted suit who was probably asking her too whether she was with somebody. A woman jarred his elbow, brushing past toward the cheese. So where was he? Hadn’t he made himself visible enough? He moved into the interior room, empty now as people, finished with the paintings, clustered on the patio with drinks. He walked slowly, pretending to study the pictures on the wall. The cathedral in the snow. A Soyer imitation of the bar at La Fonda. A heavy metal statue of a rider-where had they got the scrap? — his horse reared back, hooves sticking up. A giant cob of corn. “Do you like it?” A woman’s voice, throaty.