Christopher Sorrentino - Trance

“Who would’ve told me that?”

“This person we’re discussing.”

Rose drew on the cigarette and flicked the ash before it got too long and fell into her clean wash. She’d been going to hang it up outside when these two men drove up. She liked the smell of clothes that had dried on a line.

“You’d better wait for my husband.”

“Oh, your husband knows the story.”

“She doesn’t know the story.”

“The husband knows.”

“A girl who talks to her father, Manhardt. But not her mother.”

“Very, very odd, Toomes.”

“In my experience the girls talk to their mothers.”

“Not in mine,” said Rose, as breezily as she could manage.

Howard’s car pulled into the driveway then and Rose set the basket of laundry on the porch and went down the steps and up the walk to meet him. He looked curiously at the men but seemed unperturbed as he went around to open the trunk and remove a bag of golf clubs from it. It didn’t help that he was dressed like an idiot, in a lemon chiffon shirt, buff and orange plaid slacks, and white patent leather shoes.

“They’re from the FBI,” she told him.

His face just hung there, drained of anything but its own blank astonishment, like the moon in a play for children.

“They’re asking about Susan,” she said in a low tone. “But they won’t say anything.”

“OK.” He hoisted the bag of clubs onto his shoulder and began down the walk. “Howard Rorvik.” He extended a hand toward the nearest man, Toomes. Toomes glanced briefly at Manhardt, then took it.

“We’d like to talk to you, Mr. Rorvik.”

“About my daughter, yes. Come inside.”

“That’s the subject, is it?”

“So my wife tells me, yes.”

“Is that right?” Toomes smiled.

It was cool and dim inside the house. Rose offered the FBI men something to drink and was thankful when they declined.

“I’ll get to the point, Mr. Rorvik. We’re looking for your daughter. In fact, we’re trying to find both your daughter and your nephew.”

“How can that be? They’re right there.”

“Right where, Mr. Rorvik?”

“Why, living together. They all live together along with Susan’s boyfriend and God knows who else up in San Francisco. You know how things are these days.”

“If you say so. And exactly where would that be?”

“Someplace downtown. Let me double-check.” He got up and went into the den, where in one of the cubbies of an old secretary he found a letter. He came out wagging it.

“Let me guess,” said Manhardt. “Six Two Five Post Street.”

“So you do know where she is.”

“I know where Industrial Photo Products, Inc. is. That’s what’s at Six Two Five Post.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No one lives at Six Two Five Post. Here’s something else I’ll bet you didn’t know. Your daughter has been working under an assumed name. Susan Anger.”

“Fiery!” said Toomes, smirking.

“Now tell me,” continued Manhardt. “Why would perfectly nice, law-abiding kids start lying to their folks, assuming fake names, using mail drops, and suddenly disappearing?”

“I don’t know.”

“They must be the only people in town,” said Toomes.

“They must be the only people in the entire state. You didn’t hear out here in Palmdale about your daughter’s little rally for the Symbionese Liberation Army?”

“Oh, that. She and Angela Atwood were very close friends. I think she was just hurting after Angela died.”

“Ever heard of the Bay Area Research Collective?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“It’s your daughter and a group of other very close friends. Dedicated to publishing and disseminating left-wing revolutionary propaganda. You didn’t know about that, did you?”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“Not your sort of reading material.” Manhardt glanced at the coffee table. Life, Time, TV Guide, Shõgun.

“No.”

“So you’d agree there are some things about your children that you don’t know?”

“Apparently so.”

Manhardt said, “We’d like to talk to your daughter about a friend of hers. Has she ever mentioned a Guy Mock?”

“Jeff’s sportswriter friend,” said Rose.

“That’s right. Very good.” Manhardt said this in a nasty way that made Rose want to spit in his eye. He continued. “How about Joan Shimada? Your daughter ever mention her?”

“Joan …?”

“Shimada. An Oriental girl. Japanese.”

“I think maybe.”

“She would have stood out, wouldn’t she?” asked Toomes. “You were a fighter pilot, weren’t you, Mr. Rorvik? Which theater?”

“Pacific,” said Howard.

“Ahhh so,” said Toomes.

“Didn’t I read about her in connection with Alice Galton? And Mock too?”

“You might have seen their names,” said Manhardt.

“Joan Shimada spent last summer with Alice Galton, we think,” said Toomes. “Shortly after your daughter Susan was pledging allegiance to the SLA in Ho Chi Minh Park, so called. Shimada spent her time in a house in Pennsylvania that was rented by your daughter’s friend Guy Mock. After that we lose her trail. Turns out she has a friend in San Francisco.”

“Not just any friend,” added Manhardt.

“No. This friend arrived from the East Coast right around when Joan Shimada’s trail vanishes. Her name is Meg Speice. And guess what? Meg Speice and Susan Anger happen to work the very same shift at the Plate of Brasse. Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”

“What else do you expect me to make of it?” said Howard.

Rose said, “We’re not even sure Susan knows this girl, Shimada.”

“We are,” said Toomes, brightly.

“Do you want to hear something even more interesting? Your daughter’s paid a few visits to a friend in Soledad.”

“Soledad,” echoed Toomes.

“There’s a state penitentiary there,” said Manhardt. “The man she’s been to visit lives in it. He’s named Willie Clay.”

“Your daughter ever mention this man?”

Howard and Rose both shook their heads.

“Clay got busted a few years ago for running a bomb factory out of a Berkeley garage,” continued Manhardt. “He was head of a group called the Revolutionary Army.”

“Catchy,” said Toomes.

“Your daughter ever mention this outfit?”

Howard and Rose both shook their heads.

“Thing is, Clay was working with a few associates. Two were caught. The other is at large.”

“That would be Joan Shimada,” said Toomes.

“Your daughter’s friend Guy Mock’s friend. Your daughter’s colleague Meg Speice’s friend. A woman who spent two months last year with the fugitives your daughter publicly swore allegiance to. See? There’s a pattern.”

“You want to talk to your daughter and nephew, Mr. Rorvik. You want to fly up to Frisco and try and talk some sense into them.”

“How would I do that if this address is a fake?”

“Oh, someone there’s passing on the letters. A friend.”

“A fellow traveler.”

“A dupe. Who knows? Would we bumble in there with a bunch of stupid questions and scare them off? Send a note today and tell them you’ll be there on, say, Friday.”

“Look at that face,” said Toomes.

“The Bureau will pay your expenses, Mr. Rorvik.”

“You want me to pump the kids for information. Find them for you so you can follow them.”

“They’ll thank you for it later,” said Toomes.

“We’ll put you up at the Hilton. You’ll buy some sourdough bread, ride the cable cars, toss some change at a mime. Take the whole weekend. A working vacation.”

“Everybody loves Frisco.”

“Write the note today and we’ll be back tomorrow with your plane ticket. All right?”