The Daisy Ducks Read online

  "We know and we don't know, Mary. It's simple and complicated. I could explain it to you in a few seconds, and you could to me. And we could never explain it or understand it in a thousand years. We need a break . . . and then a coming together again?

  "I guess I agree. I've felt so . . . so annoyed with you lately, Charlie. And so far away, too."

  "And you've had reason to be. I think I've got to get a little of this wanderlust out of my system."

  "Listen: watch out for Roantis and Summers. Those two will get you into trouble, Charlie. They won't mean to, but they will. Trouble seems to follow them wherever they go."

  "Maybe it doesn't follow them, Mary—maybe they tote it with them."

  * * *

  A week later, I drove Mary down to Framingham to catch the train to Albany. I took her luggage into her compartment and put it on the overhead rack. I sat down on the facing seat and looked at her. A true knockout. Her nylons hissed as she crossed her legs. I like that sound. Leaned over and kissed her. Her dark eyes bored into mine.

  "You going to behave while I'm away?" she asked.

  "Of course. What a silly —"

  "You're not going to fool around with Janice, are you?"

  "Certainly not. The very idea makes my stomach churn."

  "Anything else churning?"

  "C'mon Mare . . ."

  "Well, I just wonder sometimes . . ."

  "Listen, as soon as I get back, I'm going to stop by the office and watch the beginning of the renovations. Then I'm going to pack and head down to the Breakers. Then . . ."

  "Then what?"

  "I, uh, don't know what. Maybe I'll stay down on the Cape for some fishing."

  "It's too cold for fishing, Charlie."

  "Well, there's just not that much to do in mid-March. Tell you what: when you get back, let's fly down South somewhere. Florida, Nassau, maybe St. Thomas, okay?"

  "Deal. But you behave, hear? I just know Janice will be waiting for you at the house."

  "Oh, the hell she will. And you must know that I would never commit any act that would require premeditation."

  "Just impulsive acts."

  I didn't answer. She was painting me into a corner. I kissed her good-bye and waved when the train pulled out. I missed her even before I got back to Concord.

  When I walked into the Concord Professional Building, the odor of paint, joint compound, and carpet cement hit me full force. I heard shouting at my end of the hall. "Watch dat tank!" screamed Moe at the workmen. In my heart, I wished they'd drop the tank, destroying it and the entire host of loathsome sea creatures within.

  "It's not gonna work," said Moe ruefully. He tugged at his short beard and ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. He stomped around in the hall and fumed. "It's no use. I can't get anything done around here, not wid dis cockamamy —"

  I surveyed the situation and was forced to agree with him; even remaining on the premises was a waste of time. Moe and Susan Petri and I went to the main lobby and got cups of machine coffee. Moe tasted it and gasped.

  "Susan, I want you to take the week off," I said. "If you don't go out of town, you might want to stop in every few days for half an hour and play the answering machine tape and set up appointments. Moe, are you going to come in at all?"

  "Of course, dummy. To feed my fish."

  "Then," I said, getting up, "I am leaving, knowing that everything here is in good hands."

  "Where are you going?" asked Susan, who was pursing her luscious lips at the edge of the paper cup and blowing softly on the hot coffee. "What will you be doing?"

  "I'm so glad you asked," I said, pausing at the door, "because I haven't the faintest idea."

  13

  I SAT ALONE on the rough teak deck of the teahouse, wrapped in a Japanese robe. I held a steaming cup of keemun tea in both hands and watched the water ripple in the tiny pond. The pond was bordered by rocks and bamboo staves. Dwarf bonsai trees grew from the rock crevices and in big pots that Mary had made. Except for the whisper of the miniature waterfall and the faint sound of the wind chime, it was still. Two big goggle-eyed goldfish ghosted into view from the depths of the water, then flashed away, their bronze sides winking faintly. I rose, walked through the small house, and peered out its rear doorway to the driveway and the back of the house.

  The motorcycle, bright metallic red, was where I had left it earlier. It represented everything that I, a middle-aged suburban professional and married father, should not do. It was everything forbidden. It was the embodiment of rebellion, danger, and freedom.

  I loved it.

  Two days earlier, I had returned from the Concord Professional Building—and my little visit with Moe and Susan Petri—to find a car in the driveway. Its door opened and a pair of stunning legs snaked out, tipped in tennis shoes.

  "Oh hi there!" Janice had squealed as she advanced. "Is Mary around?"

  I replied that she was not; she was out of town. Janice's face bore not the slightest hint of surprise at this tidbit. For good reason: she knew Mary was away. And standing there in the driveway looking at her in the tennis outfit, I knew it would only be a matter of time before I would give in to temptation. Don't get me wrong; I didn't want or plan to. But, like Mae West, I never give in to temptation . . . unless it overwhelms me. Sooner or later it would. So I made small talk with Janice for almost twenty minutes. I did not ask her to come inside. After a while, she left.

  But she would be back.

  That's when I first thought about leaving town. I went down to the cottage and did a day's work, then drove back to Boston. That evening I treated Liatis and Suzanne to dinner at Legal Sea Foods with Mike Summers, who had continued to lose weight and build muscle, revealing a physique that was mythically hewn. All during dinner, from the raw oysters through the lobster and scrod to the dessert and coffee, Roantis kept prodding me about the Daisy Ducks and the loot that was rightfully his. He'd obviously told Summers all about the golden statue and the pact with Vilarde, too. Far from being angry at having been excluded from the original deal, Mike seemed anxious to get involved in the search for a chunk of the action.

  The next day at the BYMCU, Mike went through his paces in the ring with Tommy Desmond. The force of their sparring punches seemed to shake the old building's floor. I did my five miles, worked out on the Universal gym machine, and returned to Concord where, filled with boredom and dissatisfaction, I soon found myself looking idly through a road atlas. I had a week, perhaps ten days, to be off on my own. Since Mary and I were in what's popularly called "a bad place" in our relationship (which I hoped to God was temporary) and considering Moe's advice, I was further induced to leave Concord—and New England as well. Should I fly down to Tarpon Springs for a week of deep sea fishing? No. I had promised Mary that that would be her vacation, too.

  My eyes had wandered over the map. Texas had been nice. Perhaps there was another area, closer to home, where spring came early. My eyes settled on North Carolina and the Smoky Mountains. I began to think about Bill Royce. Roantis had remembered Bill's hometown, a place called Robbinsville. I found it on the map. I realized I could even call down there and ask around for Bill's whereabouts. The more I thought of this approach, the more I realized it wouldn't get me anywhere—except maybe in trouble.

  Then I had gone into the garage and started the bike. I was out on it, touring the back roads and country lanes that were temporarily free of ice and snow, for two hours. I purred along at forty, leaning into the gentle curves and accelerating on the straights. It had been a feeling of total freedom.

  And now I sat at the lacquered tea table and stared out at the bike, silent and still on its stand, yet with the aura of a crouched cat, ready to spring forward with exhilarating speed and power. Even parked, a motorcycle is not boring. It's adventure on wheels. A rolling death wish. I walked out of the little garden and along the driveway toward the garage. I had a list in my head; it was time to pack.

  I unlocked the Krauser hardshell bags fr
om each side of the bike and took them inside. They looked a bit like Samsonite suitcases and weren't much smaller. I filled one of them entirely with clothes; in the other I packed clothes and other things I might need, like my binoculars, a camera with two lenses, a steel thermos, and my Browning Hi-Power pistol with spare magazines.

  I called Western Union and sent a Mailgram to Mary at her mother's. She would receive it the following day, by which time I planned to be well inside Pennsylvania. Then I returned to the bike, locked the bags onto the frame and locked them shut, took a sauna bath, made a drink, thawed out some spaghetti sauce in the microwave, cooked dinner, and ate. I called my neighbor, Jim Burke, and asked him to feed and look after the dogs. After that, I gathered all the material I had on the Daisy Ducks and sat down with it. I went over everything: notes I had made on the phone calls, notes on visiting Kaunitz, snatches of information Roantis and Summers had given me, and the information on the remaining Ducks—or the presumed remaining Ducks.

  Just before I went to bed I called Roantis and told him I was going off on a motor trip to the Southern Highlands.

  "Tomorrow? Early? Jeeez Doc, you dint give us much notice —"

  "Us? Who's us?"

  "Uh . . . me and Mike."

  "Why do you care? You're not coming."

  "If you turn up something we will. Bet your ass! Look, how long will it take you? When do you expect to get out to Robbinsville?"

  "Day after tomorrow, in the evening I think. But that could change."

  "Listen Doc, stay in close touch. Me and Mike want to know where you are at all times, okay?"

  I promised him I would, and said I hoped both of them would live clean and not misbehave. Then I went to sleep.

  Next morning I awoke before dawn. I was too wound up to return to sleep. Outside it was dark and cold. Ordinarily, hydraulic levers couldn't have pulled me from under the covers. But today was different, and I was up and dressed in many warm layers before five o'clock. At five-o-three I inserted the ignition key into the control nacelle of the big BMW and felt the two wide, transverse cylinders hum and vibrate. I rolled out of town, out Route 2 West, south on 495, out 290 through Worcester before that city had even begun to blink awake, down to go West and then onto 86, which would take me southwest into Hartford.

  I cleared Hartford before seven-thirty, and with the growing light felt I could push the bike a little faster. I discovered I could go close to seventy with nobody seeming to care. On to Interstate 84 West all the way to Danbury, where I stopped for coffee and a twenty-minute breather. Then across the line into New York, where I ate, finally. I hummed across the bottom pointed end of that state and entered Pennsylvania shortly after eleven. Then came Scranton; I picked up my long road there: Interstate 81 South. This road would shoot me right down the pipeline—the long series of valleys of the Appalachian chain.

  The road was almost deserted, and I made the bike sing. At seventy, the moving air around a motorcycle is chilling, even in the summertime. In early March in New England, it'll freeze your flesh dead in no time. But I had the touring fairing on the front of the bike, and I sat comfortably behind it in the relatively still air. The twin cylinders, which on a BMW stick straight out to the sides, were right in front of my feet, and the slipstream around them was warm. I had on winter longies, flannel-lined jeans, and insulated boots. Up on top I wore two sweaters and a fleece-lined leather jacket. The jacket was not to look tough; it was to keep the wind off and, in the event of a spill, to keep at least a little bit of my skin on. I had a thick wool scarf and my full-face helmet over a watch cap. Then, of course, I had my huge, gauntleted riding gloves to prevent frostbite.

  Many people wonder why anyone would choose to ride a motorcycle when they could drive a car. Certainly a motorcycle is much more dangerous and uncomfortable. But the difference between even the hottest sports car and a good bike is the difference between that sports car and a station wagon—times two. On a bike you can lean into corners, matching the degree of lean with your speed and the sharpness of the curve. After you've spent, say, three thousand miles on a bike you get the feel of it, and soon you can make even the sharpest curves all but disappear.

  But the real reason people ride bikes is the feeling of total freedom they give the rider. On a bike, even a trip to the drugstore is an adventure. With the pavement slipping underneath you in a blur, the ground surging up to kiss you on either ear as you lean over in the turns, you are conscious only of speed, power, and a sense of flight. Because after a while on a cross-country ride, something strange and wonderful happens: the bike disappears. And then it's just you, suspended three feet over the road, flying. The closest thing to it is downhill skiing.

  So I flew on and on down the interstate, with Tinkerbell's magic dust on me. I stopped every two hours, then every hour as the afternoon wore on. Riding a bike is strenuous; your attention cannot wander, even for an instant. The noise, motion, and vibration all contribute to the fatigue. My pace slackened sharply after three o'clock. Toward four-thirty, I realized I was all biked out for the day, and I rolled into the Holiday Inn at Winchester, Virginia, where I took a room and soaked for almost an hour in a steaming tub.

  I dressed and shaved and thought about calling the Boss. Mary had received my Mailgram by this time. The more I thought about it, the less attractive it seemed. What was I going to tell her? I thought up a little white lie to make things go smoothly. I sprawled out on the bed and dozed for an hour, then went into the dining room and ate. Roast beef, au jus. It wasn't too bad, considering it had been frozen and was thawed in a microwave. I ate lots and lots and returned to the room, where I poured myself a Johnnie Walker and water and called Mary.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi Mary. Guess what?"

  "I know what. You're nuts. I got the telegram this morning."

  "I'm in Virginia."

  There was a sigh of resignation. Or was it exasperation?

  "Charlie. What the hell's going on? Are you trying to see how much our marriage can stand before it snaps? I was finally understanding why you didn't come with me to Schenectady and you said you wanted to oversee the office renovations and now this. It's too much —"

  "I know, but listen. Brady Coyne called me after you left. He's at this private fishing reserve in the Smoky Mountains where they fish for brownies all year round. He asked if I wanted to join him and, well, I just couldn't say no. It's been so long since I've really been fishing —"

  "What's this lodge called?"

  "The uh, uh—oh hell, I forgot. But I have a number to call him there when I get close. Listen, I'll call you again when I get there tomorrow night, okay?"

  "All right, Charlie. But behave yourself, and be careful. Which car did you take, the Scout or the Audi?"

  "The, uh, German vehicle."

  "Oh. Well, take good care of it. And you be sure to call me tomorrow night, okay?"

  "Yes."

  "Who else knows where you are? Did you tell the kids?"

  "No. You're the only one who knows. Susan knows I'm not coming in until the redecorating's finished."

  "Wait a minute, Charlie. Something's fishy. You didn't tell Moe. Why not? You tell Moe everything."

  "Uh, he, uh, was out somewhere. I couldn't reach him. I packed and left early this morning."

  I was getting increasingly nervous. Calling Mary hadn't been such a good idea. Why didn't I listen to my instincts? All I knew was that Brady was a safe bet; I happened to know that he was down in Bimini, fishing the bonefish flats. Lucky stiff. It was only a white lie. I just didn't want her to worry unnecessarily.

  "Charlie."

  "Yes?"

  "Charrr-lie?"

  "What is it, love? I don't think we should talk much longer. I need my sleep."

  "Give me the number of the fishing lodge where you and Brady are staying, okay?"

  "Uh, I can't. It's out in the bike."

  "Oh, well as soon as you- Did you say out in the bike?"

  "Huh? Course not.
Why would I say that?" Dammit!

  "Yes you did. You said, ‘Out in the bike.' I heard you."

  "Naw. Bad connection. I said it wasn't where I like. "

  "Bullshit. You said bike."

  “Uh-uh. Like."

  "Bike."

  So we went on with that for a while, then said a civil good-bye and hung up. I could tell she suspected. The one thing about Mary is this: she always finds out. Always.

  I drew up the covers and studied the map. I was a day and a half away from Robbinsville, North Carolina, reputed home of one William L. Royce, former USAF commando. The phone rang.

  "Charlie."

  "Hiya hon. What's new?"

  "Cut the crap, Charlie. You lied to me. I called Brady Coyne's office and guess what?"

  "It was closed, that's what."

  "Uh-huh. But his tape machine was working just fine. His message said he was in Bimini."

  "Oh."

  "Yeah. And guess what? I called the Burkes, too. I knew you'd ask Jim to feed the dogs while you were gone."

  "Yep. I didn't want them to starve."

  "I asked him to take a stroll over to our house and look in the garage."

  A chill went up my spine.

  "He reported to me that both the Scout and the Audi are in the garage. Your motorcycle's gone. So you did say bike."

  "I am a responsible adult, Mary. I can do as I please."

  "Hah! You're a six-year-old—ask any of our friends. And how can you expect me to be happy, or respect you, when you lie to me and carry on and —"

  "Mary —"

  "No! Now I order you to tum right around tomorrow and head straight back to our house before you get yourself killed. I know where you're headed, pal: you're headed for that little town in the mountains where that wacko mercenary lives, aren't you?"

  "Can't we just discuss —"

  "No!” She was crying now. "You come right back . . . before I. . . before —"

  Then she broke down and hung up. Damn.

  I tried to call her back, but the line was busy. Then the phone rang again. I picked it up.