Т Паркер - The Room of White Fire

The ringtone of my phone startled me.

It was Laura Vazquez and I apologized for bothering her at such a difficult time. In a faint, stoic voice she thanked me for what I had done the day before and asked me what I needed.

I told her what Clay had once said to his old boss, Timothy Tritt, and asked Laura if she had any idea what her husband’s “other half” of white fire might have been. I told her that I thought Clay might have come there yesterday in order to discuss that “other half” with her husband. I was crashing around for something, anything that would lead me toward Clay, and she must have sensed it.

She was quiet for a beat. “Mr. Ford — Clay left here just an hour ago. He was with a young woman named Sequoia. He asked me to see John’s war trunk and I let him see it.”

“What was in it?”

I pictured the contents as she listed them for me: his Air Force uniforms, rank insignias, training certificates, discharge papers. Commemorative plaques and medals. Some hats and T-shirts. There were photo sticks and some photographs he’d printed.

“He never really got into that stuff,” she said. “He seemed happy enough to forget it. The war. The trunk was down in the wine cellar, pushed into a far corner with fishing and viticulture magazines piled on top.”

I’d seen it and not known what I was seeing. “Did Clay take anything from the trunk?”

“Dolls. From Romania, I believe. Two of them — colorful, folksy dolls. Mounted on the same wooden base, fighting with swords.”

The jittery fog of White Fire vanished as a wave of adrenaline passed through me. “He left an hour ago?”

“Yes, no more than an hour ago.”

“Did he say where they were going?”

“If he did I don’t remember. I’m sorry, Mr. Ford. Today is the second-worst day of my life.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Vazquez. Please give my best to Michael.”

“I will do that.”

My next call, to Sequoia, went straight to voicemail, so I sent a text.

4:46 PM

Where are you?

4:47 PM

Drawing closer to Deimos. Sequoia drives and I plan.

4:48 PM

Hi Clay. How are the dolls getting along?

4:48 PM

You talked to my parents and Laura.

4:49 PM

Are the dolls valuable?

4:49 PM

Beyond value.

4:50 PM

Explain, please.

4:51 PM

Truth contained to be revealed.

4:52 PM

By Spencer? Because the world must hear it from the god of terror?

4:52 PM

4:53 PM

Where did Roshaan go?

4:56 PM

4:57 PM

We need to talk about Aaban and Roshaan.

4:58 PM

I will tell you when and where.

4:58 PM

Remember you are Asclepius, the healer.

4:59 PM

I am he.

4:59 PM

Part of your mission is to protect S.

5:01 PM

With my life. I love her.

Then, the unforgettable sound. I turned to watch a late-model Cessna 182 taking off, the Lycoming turbocharger roaring to life.

I got home after dark. A fire raged in the pit, orange flames roiling upward, my five loyal Irregulars roasting s’mores on wire hangers, five inquisitive, up-lit faces watching me come up the walkway with my duffel. Led by tenor Burt Short, they broke into the chorus of Warren Zevon’s “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner,” their standard landlord welcome.

“We saved you one marshmallow and some chocolate dust,” said Grandpa Dick. “But you’ll have to make your own hanger.”

“Pour him a drink,” said Grandma Liz.

“You look like you’ve engaged the enemy,” observed Lindsey Rakes.

Wesley Gunn handed me a wire hanger and I saw his two black eyes. I took his chin in one hand and turned his face to catch the firelight.

“Things went a little south, south of the border,” said Burt.

“Drink, Rollie?” asked Grandpa, holding up an empty tumbler.

I declined, Dick eyeing me with concern. I set my duffel on one of the concrete picnic tables and looked out at the pond. Justine sat in the rowboat in her big straw hat. Looking my way, then gone. Adios, my living ghost. The pond lay flat and black and empty, and beyond it spread the hills and the distant scattered lights of Fallbrook. The night sky was gray and starless.

I lay back on a chaise longue and watched the smoke rise above the flame-lit silhouettes of my confederates. Burt took the adjacent chaise and filled me in on the Mexico run. As planned, he had driven Wesley and Lindsey down to Tijuana to a clinic once used “to great success” by an old friend of his. But, thirsty, they had stopped off at his favorite bar for “a” margarita, which had become “five,” leaving them too jovial for the clinic but just fine for shopping, and, later, dinner at La Gaviota, Burt’s favorite Tijuana club.

Later in the club cantina, after several more drinks — and the steady traffic of “distinguished professional women”—Wesley confessed that he was still a virgin. So Burt introduced him to one of the women. She was taken by strapping Wesley’s boyish smile. Burt brokered a deal with the woman’s “manager,” which put Wesley and the woman together in an upstairs room for one hour. Burt had bargained the manager down from two hundred fifty to one hundred dollars, and sent eighteen-year-old Wesley on his mission with the money, as a “gift.” At the end of the hour, the woman demanded two hundred fifty, then “feigned outrage” when Wesley offered all he had, which was Burt’s one hundred, and thirty-six dollars of his own. Her manager appeared with two policemen, took the money from Wesley but knocked him to the floor, twice, before the cops dragged him downstairs and out. “So, it resolved as we’d hoped,” said Burt. “Wesley gained black eyes but shed his innocence.”

Behind the haze of woodsmoke, Wesley lifted a bottle of beer our way, offered a pained smile. “And how was your weekend, Mr. Ford?”

“Uneventful.”

Wesley gave me a skeptical once-over. “Sometimes that’s best.”

I closed my eyes for a minute, listened to the conversations going on around me, then got up and collected my duffel from the table. Dick held up the empty tumbler again, an inquisitive look on his face. It drives him bats when I refuse alcohol. “Excuse me,” I announced. “I have a date to get ready for.”

“About time you had a date,” said Dick.

“Excellent, Rollie,” said Liz.

“She’s not good enough for you,” said Lindsey.

“Hope it goes better than mine,” said Wesley.

Paige Hulet had accepted my dinner invitation and wanted to meet on “neutral ground.” She’d arranged for a table at Tiburon on Fifth Avenue in downtown San Diego. I arrived on time and was seated. I wore a trim navy wool suit, a pressed white shirt, and a weirdly patterned necktie given to me by Justine. Tiburon was a handsome place, smoked glass and darkly burnished woods, with a wine list that weighed pounds.

She strode across the room in a black calf-length dress pleated from the waist down, a black-and-red woven shawl, strapped black heels, and a shiny red clutch. Hair up, a trace of lipstick, and a smile.

I stood. “Dr. Hulet.”

“Mr. Ford.”

She set her bag on an adjacent seat, then the shawl. Her shoulders and arms were graceful. I felt that hyperfocused energy of being with a beautiful woman who is there because of you. I sat across from her. “This is not like seeing you at your work,” I said.