Leon Uris - A God In Ruins

“Here, let me give you a hand.”

Strong old bastard, Maud thought. Red was put together in quality tailor-made shirts and jeans and the prerequisite turquoise and silver trimmings. His voice was politely soft. He could let his eyelids drop in such a manner as to block him from looking on another’s eyes but at the same time look directly at you.

Peterson’s villa was halfway up a thousand-foot butte, negotiated by a series of switchbacks. The building was unevenly integrated into the natural contours of the hill. A smashing flying wing seemingly hung way out with no apparent support, its vista nearly to infinity.

Maud took quick takes. Five-car garage. His and hers Mercedes.

Furnishings a daring but easy mix from ultramodern to staunch Western. Paintings were expensive, partly Western and the balance from Impressionism, nearly to modern.

Maud had not seen a more magnificent suite since the Peninsula Hotel. Marble floors with soft Navajo coverings, huge and fluffy monogrammed towels, hot jets, seating for two or more, and every electronic convenience imaginable. It’s going to be interesting, she thought.

They took drinks on the flying-wing veranda. Staff, well trained and silent. Maud lifted a pair of binoculars and scanned beyond the valley where a set of book cliffs threw off their covers to take a vibrant fling before the sun dropped. She picked up a car ripping around the curves to the house and into the garage. In a moment, Red Peterson’s wife, once among the most beautiful show girls in Vegas, appeared with a pair of preteen girls.

Maud watched him turn into an affectionate pussycat daddy. “My wife, Greta, and my daughters. Joan is named from my momma and Tammy after Tammy Wynette.”

They found their presents in Daddy’s pockets and traded talk to catch him up. He’s just like I am with my grandchildren, Maud thought. Maybe they will be both of our salvations.

Greta gathered them up and moved them to their desks for homework. Greta was still extremely beautiful, a Walkure, an Amazon. She had little to say as she curled his long gray hair with her forefinger.

It certainly did not appear to be a dysfunctional house. What a show girl Greta must have been, not a high kicker in the chorus line, but at six feet she stood on the platform of the ascending staircase, arms out, breasts out, and packing forty pounds of glitter.

The daughters were animated and seemingly at ease with themselves and strangers.

It all broke up the snarling, leathery image of Red Peterson. And Greta? What the hell! A six-foot Swedish lady comes to Vegas to find herself a Red Peterson. He pampered her, and she knew what to do in return.

Not a bad life, winters in Mexico and high-roller trips to Vegas or a New York or Paris spree.

Red’s hand slipped between his wife’s legs.

“I’ll let you two talk,” Greta said. “I’ll have dinner served on the veranda.”

“Sure, Swede,” Red said, “and maybe you’ll join us for dessert.” He patted her backside as she arose. “The donkey is going to ride tonight.”

Now, not to get it mixed up, Maud thought, is Red making a pass at me by getting a rise out of me? Maud realized that Red had held her hand just a little too long and tried to get a peek up her leg in the Wagoneer. That should have delighted ‘most any sixty-year-old divorced grandmother, except that Red was threatening.

“This cognac is magnificent,” Maud commented.

“Ought to be, it cost enough. You’d think it was biblical.”

Red had started life as a son of a Gulf shrimper and went the daring way by taking his best shot at the oil fields of Tyler. In the fifties and sixties it was strike and boom, boom, and bust. He went through three fortunes, and he sang the wildcatter’s song of big winner to broken-hearted loser.

Red smelled a coming collapse of the oil fields early in the sixties and sold off his equipment and leases.

What hot spot remained for an old wildcatter? Mexico for a time. Venezuela for a time. Hell, these countries had so many crooks in office, the guy out in the field didn’t have a chance.

Immigrant smuggling from Mexico showed promise. He knew every bend in the Rio Grande. It led to drug smuggling.

During the Clinton years the North American Free Trade Association reversed the established pattern of traffic at the borders. In the old days Mexican vegetables and fruits and cheap goods had flowed to America. Now America was exporting heavily to Mexico.

American weapons, in eighteen-wheelers, lay under the false bottoms.

The trucks went through without sincere inspection.

Once on the Mexican side, a few friends had to be taken care of, and passage was open to Central America.

An incredible dinner on the veranda followed, but the air turned cold instantly when the sun dropped, and they retired to Red’s office, a tucked-in little room to remind him of the bitter past, complete with rolltop desk and big pictures of oil men and oil strikes. Red had been a wiry and handsome young man in those days.

“Got any more of that thousand-year-old cognac?” They sparred until Greta led Joan and Tammy in to say good night. Maud thought Greta a tiny bit condescending, indicating a feline bent. Or was it that Red went for all women, despite age and configuration?

Promised once more the donkey would ride, Greta departed.

“Well, now, Miss Maud, what brings you to the fleshpots of New Mexico? I’ve been trying to reach The Combine for more goddamn years than I’d like to think.”

“It’s a closed club, Red. We reached you because we feel we can deal with each other now.”

“What kind of deal?”

“There have been virtually no Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms stings since Thorn ton Tomtree has been in office.”

“Yeah, he sure likes unimpeded commerce.”

“Red, we’ve been looking into your operation since some of our top agents started disappearing in Colon.”

“I heard about it; cut to the chase, Miss Maud.”

“Smugglers’ routes have changed. Contraband moves north and south. Vancouver is practically an oriental city. Once an eighteen-wheeler gets into the States, the way is through Route 99, inland California. You’ve put a lock on the border and through Mexico. It’s not friendly to us anymore.”

“You’d think The Combine would be happy enough supplying the new NATO armies.”

“We’re all greed heads in a greed head business,” she said.

“I like that, Miss Maud. I’d like to be on a slow boat to China with a load of weapons heading to Colon and pass a sister ship on the high seas with a load of American guns heading for the Philippines. What level deal are we talking about?”

“Top level. Partners from Vancouver to the southern tip of Argentina.”

Oh, my goodness, Red thought. The power of The Combine was awesome.

“All supplies?”

“Uh-huh. Fifty-fifty split after expenses. Cash. It includes ack-ack, fifty-caliber machine guns, dynamite, water-treatment plants, medical supplies, field boots, you know, you know .. .”

Red was silently adding zeros to his potential take. All the hard work had not been in vain.

“Why?” he asked softly.

“You’ve got a very fine reputation, and you also have what seems to be foolproof access into and through Mexico. You’re a man who is well thought of, a straight shooter. The Combine sees enormous growth in the Southern Hemisphere marketplace. There are now three opposing guerilla groups in Cuba, restless bands along the Amazon, weapons for the dealers, and a half dozen spots in the Caribbean ready to pop.”