T. Boyle - Talk Talk

He looked dubious. “But you grew up here, right?”

Peck made a show of shooting his cuff to glance at his watch. “No,” he said. “San Francisco. But my wife, you know?” he said, pushing himself away from the bar and making his way back to the phone. He dialed again, staring at the dirty buff-colored wall and the graffiti he'd already committed to memory, and it rang once, twice, and then she picked up.

“It is Natalia.”

“It's me.”

Silence. Nothing. He heard the low buzz of the transmission, staticky and distant, and behind him the jukebox starting up and a sudden shout of laughter from somebody at the bar. “Natalia?”

“I hate you. You son of a bitch. I “hate” you!”

He shot his eyes down the length of the bar, cupped the speaker in his hand. “Where are you?”

“You are a liar. And a-a crook. Just like the crooks on TV-bad TV, daytime TV. You are-” and she began to cry in short drowning gasps.

“Where are you?”

“You lie to me. And to your mother. Your own mother.”

“Listen, it's all right, everything's going to be fine. Did they-did you drive home?”

Her voice came back at him, strong suddenly, fueled with outrage. “Drive? Drive what? They have taken the car. No, they have impounded, they say. And I am a sweated woman. I am hungry. And who is to pick up Madison from camp, tell me who?”

“What did you tell them? Where are you now?”

She said something in Russian then, something grating and harsh, and broke the connection. He felt himself sinking. It was all over. Everything was over. That was when he felt a pressure on his arm, somebody poking him, and looked up into the face of some bloated loser in a black motorcycle T-shirt and a whole regalia store's worth of rings, pendants and armbands. “You done, man? I mean, can I-?”

“Jesus!” He had to restrain himself here, because things could get very dark, very quickly. “One minute,” he said, redialing. “I got disconnected.”

But this clown wouldn't take a hint. He just stood there, arms folded. “Don't I know you?” he said.

“You don't know me,” Peck said, and maybe he did. Was there a motorcycle involved here someplace? “Fuck off.”

“It is Natalia.”

He turned his back on the guy, cradled the receiver-and if he made a move, touched him, anything, he was dead-and tried to control his voice. “Take a cab,” he said. “Wherever you are, take a cab and meet me-”

“Wherever I am? I am in some, some ugly place in your ugly town where you grew up to be a liar and I do not even know your own name. Bridger Martin? The policeman says you are not Bridger Martin. You are not Da-Na. William, does that ring a bell? Huh, William?”

“Hey, man, listen-” The loser was there at his back, but he was nothing because he understood what was going down here, what Peck was radiating, and the discussion was over. “I mean, this isn't your fucking living room, man-give somebody else a chance, you know? “Public.” It's a “public” phone.”

One look for him, one look over his shoulder, the Sandman look, and the guy backed off, taking his fat-laden shoulders and fat wounded ass back to the bar, putting on as much of a show as he could muster. Settling himself on a barstool now, picking up a glass of whatever shit he was drinking and scowling into the mirror in back of the bar as if to remind himself what a badass he was underneath his fat exterior. “Never mind about that, not now. I'll make it up to you, I will-”

“No, you won't.”

“I will.”

“No, you won't.” She paused to draw in a breath. “Do you know why? Why is because I will not be here. I am leaving. I am picking up Madison in the taxi and I am going to my brother because he is not a liar and a crook. You hear me?”

“What did you tell them?” he said. “Did you tell them where we live?”

There was a silence. He thought he could hear her breaking down again. The smallest voice: “Yes.”

“Oh, fuck. Fuck. What's wrong with you? Huh? Tell me. Why would you tell them where we live?”

“I was scared. They are threatening. They say they will-” Her voice fell off. “My green card. They will take my green card.”

He felt cold suddenly, the air-conditioning getting to him, the beer weakening him till he could barely hold the phone to his ear. “What did you tell them about me?”

“What I know. That you are a liar. And a thief.”

He wanted to get a grip on this, wanted to command her, but he couldn't find the right tone of voice and he felt the control slipping away from him. “Please,” he heard himself say. “Please. I'll tell you where to meet me-you can be here in ten minutes. We'll pick up Madison together and-”

“I am going now,” she said, very softly, as if it were a prayer. And then she broke the connection.

He dropped the phone. Let it dangle on its greasy cord. Then he turned and walked the length of the room as if he were walking the gauntlet and when the loser at the bar tried to block his way, tried to say something about a Harley Electra Glide, he just set him down hard and went out the door and into the heat, and if he slammed a shoulder into some drunk in an aloha shirt who was trying to light a cigarette and negotiate the door at the same time, well, so what? He wasn't responsible, not at that moment. Not anymore. And how he managed to wind up with the guy's cell phone tucked away in the inside pocket of his jacket, he couldn't have begun to imagine.

IN THOSE FLEETING FURIOUS SECONDS Peck Wilson spoke to her without words, spoke as clearly and unambiguously as if he were tapped into her consciousness, his internal voice wrapped round her own till it shouted her down and made her quail. He'd lost control. She could see it in his eyes, in his movements, in the look that passed between them like the snap of a whip, and Bridger had lost control too. No matter that he'd lectured her over and over on keeping their distance, keeping their cool, identifying the man and his car and staying clear till the danger had passed and the police could move in and handle the situation-when it came down to it, the sudden proximity was too much for him. They were walking hand in hand through the pall of heat radiating up from the saturated earth, trying to look casual and pedestrian, and then the car appeared right in front of them, pulling into the drive and sliding to a stop just clear of the walk. The engine died. Both doors swung open. And there he was, Peck Wilson, emerging from the car, the rigid barbered slash of hair at the back of his neck and the tapering dagger of a sideburn, his summer suit and open-necked shirt. He had the stuffed toy under one arm and he was looking straight ahead, his eyes on his mother and the little girl standing there on the porch. And then his wife the liar got out too, dressed as if she were going to a cocktail party. Dana froze in mid-step.

That was when Peck Wilson swung his head reflexively to the right and the look passed between them, the first look, the look that went from shock to fear to rage in an instant, and before she could think or act Bridger was rushing him. The toy fell to the ground. The sun stabbed through the trees. There was the sudden clash of their bodies, a dance Peck Wilson knew and Bridger didn't, balletic and swift. And then Bridger was down and thrashing from side to side and Peck Wilson stood over him, aiming his deliberate kicks, and she was screaming, all the air inside her compressed and constricted and forcing its way through the squeeze box of her larynx. He glanced up at her, and there was the whipcrack of that second look so that she knew what he would do before he did, and when he came for her, when he snatched at her wrist, she wasn't there. She ran. She had no choice. Bridger was on the ground. Her blood recoiled and she was gone.