Т Паркер - Swift Vengeance

Rasha’s handshake was rough and strong, contrary to his sleek appearance. We sat opposite each other, midway down the long picnic bench under the palapa. I gave him the pond view. My view was of the old adobe brick house. The casitas stretched along the shore, Lindsey’s number three now without Lindsey, who had departed with Zeno and Burt at daybreak for a Best Western in Oceanside. I’d ordered Dick, Liz, and Clevenger not to interrupt in any way my meeting with Mr. Samara. To my right, Burt and Rasha’s bodyguard — Timothy — stood at ease by the barbecue, talking quietly. The top of Burt’s head came only to the midpoint of Timothy’s torso.

“This is all good,” said Rasha Samara, looking out to the pond and beyond. “It’s good you left it native and drought-tolerant.”

“I pretty much leave it alone,” I said. “You build landscapes for a living.”

“Golf courses. Nothing like this. How old is the house?”

“Well over a century.”

He smiled, more with amusement than warmth. “Americans have a shortened view of history.”

I shrugged. “A century is long to me,” I said. “This whole property was a wedding gift from my wife’s parents.”

“I’ve read about her and the accident,” he said. “Very sad. My wife died of cancer just a few years earlier. Both of them were robbed. So were we. We have a lot in common.”

I nodded. Rasha offered me a cigarette from a silver case. I declined. He lit the smoke with the case and slid it back into his suit-coat pocket. Through the slow-moving cloud I saw Burt and Timothy looking back at me. Timothy had taken on a new alertness, back straight, his big fingers intertwined softly in front of him.

I opened my briefcase and set between us a pen and two copies of my standard contract. It’s a simple document, stating the purpose of the investigation, responsibilities and limitations of both parties, and compensation. It sets forth the basics of my insurance policy — California requires one million dollars of insurance for any PI who carries a firearm while working. It covers injury and destruction of life and property. It felt odd to be taking twenty-four hundred dollars in advance for locating a woman who was living in one of my own rentals.

Rasha glanced through one copy without patience. When we had both signed and dated them, I gave him one, then checked the signature page of my copy. It had the same patient, artful, Arabic flair with which he’d signed his card to Lindsey. I put the contract and the pen back into my briefcase, set it on the pavers at my feet.

“Should I continue to call and text and email Lindsey?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Obviously, I’ll need to know if she responds. But if she’s choosing not to communicate with you, do you have an idea why?”

He ground out his cigarette in my hand-collected clamshell ashtray. “We dated one time. Then she said, No more. She could think I’m stalking her now.”

I thought about that, let the silence sink in. “Tell me about it.”

“Lindsey was one of my son’s teachers,” he said. “At the back-to-school night I saw that she was strong and intelligent and beautiful. She also seemed to be in turmoil. I saw her for parent conferences. I saw her at fundraisers for the school, and some of our son’s athletic events. It was two years later that I asked her to go riding. That was just a few weeks ago.”

“How did it go?”

“I love Arabian horses,” he said. “The more time I spend with them the less time I want to spend with people. I’m not quite half joking. We rode from the stable where I live. It’s beautiful desert. Very Arabian. I was born in the U.S. and I learned English as my first language and modern Arabic as my second. But Arabia is in my blood. Like the horses are. My family spent many weeks there when I was a child. Whole summers. Parts of the American West remind me of the Saudi Peninsula. The weather, the flora, the geology. So we rode. Lindsey and I. She’s very good. We rested the horses. Talked. We shared cheese and salami, drank wine, and watched the sunset. When we rode back, we hardly said a thing. I think we were lost in our own pasts, but something told me this was a beginning. That someday soon, I would be able to introduce Lindsey to Sally. In my heart. You probably know what I’m talking about.”

Burt led Timothy to the Ping-Pong table, and together they lifted off the fitted plastic cover. Burt got the paddles from a hutch and set the box on the table. I could see his bottom-toothed grin as he tightened up the net and big Timothy pawed through the box for the right paddle. Burt is a ferocious player, torqueing his short, muscular body into almost every shot, starting low and ending high. Mid-rally, he’s a lateral blur. Plays far back from the table and lets her rip. I try to crowd the table and hit early. Take away my opponent’s time. I can beat Burt, but not often. Timothy held up a dimpled/smooth two-sided paddle and a ball. Nodded. Lumbered smoothly to one end of the table, bouncing the ball on his paddle.

“Yes,” I answered. “You want to forget and remember. Sometimes, the same things.”

“The daily torture,” said Samara. “I dated a lot after Sally. Many expensive restaurants and destinations. And then I’d had enough. Something broke or healed. I don’t know which. It doesn’t matter. Then I spent three hours with Lindsey Rakes and welcomed myself back into the world again.”

Then came the ticka tocka, ticka tocka of Ping-Pong.

“How long did she live here?” asked Samara.

“One year.”

He studied me, sharp eyes in a sharp face. I thought of the phantom image behind the wheel of the Toyota the night before.

“How many casitas do you rent?”

“Five,” I said. “There are six, but I keep number three available for friends. Emergencies.”

“Which was Lindsey’s?”

“Two.”

Rasha regarded the casitas. Similar shapes. Different-colored doors and window trim. “Are these the rules, or are they a joke?”

He was looking up at my posted rules, framed and protected by clear plastic and screwed to one of the palapa’s thick palm-trunk uprights. When I’d first started renting casitas — two years ago now — I’d been serious about posting rules. It seemed to make good sense, to let everyone know what was expected and what wasn’t. Rules would put me in charge, but I could still be a nice guy. I watched Samara read them, something between a smile and a smirk on his face.

“They started out serious,” I said. “But now I’m not so sure. I haven’t had any rotten renters yet.”

“What about possession of guns and knives?” he asked.

“Implied by rule two,” I said, thinking: Interesting, the knives.

“Alcohol?”

“Rule one.”

“Obscenity and lewd conduct?”

“Rules one and five.”

I smiled, but Rasha didn’t. “Why is it that when I go online and to the Fallbrook Village News , I find no information about rentals here?”

“It’s all word of mouth,” I said. Which was true.

“Casita three is open?”

“Three and four,” I said. “People tend to sit tight for the holidays.”

“May I see one?”

“No. They’re not ready for tenants yet.”

He gave me a dark look. Maybe darker than the moment required. Maybe that was part of Lindsey refusing a second date. As much as fearing her own attraction.