The Distant Echo of a Bright Sunny Day Page 13

  “If this succeeds, do I get a medal of some kind?”

  “No medals, Rick. But you do get to keep your asshole off limits to any would-be admirers.”

  The two agents chuckled at what had become a running joke between them—the gut fear aroused by the specter of being a victim of prison yard sexual politics. As a pressure tactic, they applied it often and used it well. It had worked no less effectively on Rick.

  Rick responded with a lame, concessionary smile.

  “Yeah…well,” he said, and his voice drifted off.

  “One more thing, buddy, before we go…” Bill said.

  “What’s that?”

  “What can you tell us about that little caper down around Monmouth a couple of weeks ago?”

  “What little caper?”

  “Don’t you watch television? It was on the newscast. Some guy got his backyard decorated with a bunch of garbage. We know it was your group.”

  “The only television I watch is the cartoon channel. And those people don’t keep me informed about everything they do. Like I said, I’m basically an outsider.”

  “You don’t watch the news? You don’t keep abreast of what’s happening in the world?”

  “The only breasts I worry about are my girlfriend’s. She’s got two nice ones.”

  “That’s what we like about you, Rick. You got a sense of humor. You actually make our job enjoyable.”

  “Yeah, it isn’t every day we get to work with a comedian,” Tom said. “But, seriously, we want information. We’re pretty sure a helicopter was involved, and we wanna know who the pilot was. See what you can come up with. See if you can get this Jody chick to talk about it.”

  “Any extra points involved?”

  “No. But if you keep up the witty patter, we’ll see if we can get you a stand-up gig at Comedy Central.”

  “That a promise?”

  “We’re men of honor, Rick. You can take anything we tell you right to the bank,” Bill said with a grin.

  “But that’s it for today, buddy. Keep us posted—and don’t wait too long. Remember—we’re never very far away, and you’re always in our thoughts.”

  “Yeah.”

  Rick watched the two agents walk down the driveway and get into the black Caprice. He hadn’t decided yet what exactly they were up to. He supposed they wanted to bag a group of domestic terrorists and come out of it with kudos: a job well done and deserving of commendations and even possible promotions. They had at their disposal already the evidence needed to convict not only him but the others as well. They knew the names of everyone who had been with him in Cleveland, and they could have rounded them all up any time. Based on his own testimony, and that of anyone else in the group willing to trade information for leniency or immunity, they were certain to get a conviction. Basically, they had their case, airtight at that, yet they wanted something bigger. He could only wonder how far they might be willing to go to get it.

  The agents backed out of the driveway and pulled off down the street. When they were out of sight, around a corner, Rick turned and went through the garage and into the kitchen. In the kitchen, he dialed a number on the wall phone. With the receiver in one hand and a fresh can of Budweiser in the other, he sat down at the table and waited for it to ring.

  “Hey, babe, we still on for tonight?”

  16

  Rick hadn’t seen Jody since Cleveland. Not that he hadn’t wanted to and not that he hadn’t thought about her. But always, like the memory of a bad dream, the same old bugaboo about class differences reared up. Like it or not, their two worlds—his side of town and her side of town—were too dissimilar for them ever to achieve anything meaningful. Even with the efforts he had made to bridge the gap, the results had always turned out like the scene in Taxi Driver, where Robert De Niro’s character takes his uptown date to a skin flick. He had never taken Jody to anything like that, but he had taken her to Sheckie’s Bar and to Charlie’s Place, and the outcome may as well have been the same. She hadn’t got up and walked out in a huff, but the general din of a loud jukebox, the presence of leather-jacketed bikers and their female consorts, not to mention the occasional eruption of a noisy quarrel that threatened to wax violent, did nothing to put the experience in the memorable date category. On the contrary, the few times they had been out together, in just such circumstances, she had sat stiff and tense, sipping beer from a glass and trying not to stare at a roomful of individuals whose demeanor and comportment must have been intimidating, as well as an affront to her sense of herself. Clearly, though he made no claims to elevated perceptive abilities, he could see she had no tolerance, let alone an affinity, for the rougher side of life.

  By the same token, her world was just as alien to him. He didn’t fit in with her crowd, either. He supposed Carlos, a Hispanic who had once been a construction worker, came as close to anyone to being like himself, but the rest of them—they were too far removed from anything he could relate to. For all the feeling of camaraderie he might experience in their presence, they might as well have been Seventh-Day Adventists handing out religious literature or Mormon missionaries knocking on his door. Compared to the crowd he ran with, and despite their recent venture into what amounted to criminal activity, they were practically innocents. He knew little, really, of the details of their individual lives, but he did know they had all been to college and that none of them had spent time in the military. He also surmised that most of them had been raised in middle-class environments: pampered and cosseted by indulgent parents who, in accordance with the best parenting practices, had shielded them from the harsher realities. He didn’t suppose, at any rate, that any of them had been kicked out of home at the tender age of fifteen, or that beer-fueled, argumentative exchanges between parents having levels of emotional maturity often not exceeding a juvenile’s had shocked their sensibilities. He had no sure footing on any of these counts, but instinct gave pause to contrary assumptions. One thing for certain—anything but a casual affair with the woman would never happen.

  Not that he minded a casual affair.

  They had agreed to meet somewhere less conspicuously a typical hangout for the biker crowd that composed his social milieu: a coffee shop on Hawthorne Avenue, tucked between a comic book and sports card boutique and a New Age bookstore. On his own, he had also made a concession to her sartorial sensitivities by dressing the part. Instead of a leather biker jacket and heavy-soled boots, he wore a denim sports jacket, a maroon sports shirt, tailored jeans, and a pair of black cowboy boots etched with fancy designs. His normally unruly mass of black hair had been brushed back from his forehead into a tight pigtail; he had even shaved off the stubble he had taken to sporting while spending time camping in the desert, and had gone back to his mustache. Without much effort, he managed to look almost like a writer, an artist, or even a hip lawyer. If nothing else, he looked respectable.

  He had picked a table at the rear of the shop, partially hidden by a pillar and guaranteed to afford a certain intimacy of sorts. A handful of other patrons sat at tables, working on laptops, or in one of the plush easy chairs, reading a newspaper or a book. No one more than glanced up when he came in, and he carried his cup and saucer to the back.

  Jody arrived a few minutes after Rick did. When she came in the door, he looked up and gave her a small wave.

  She bought coffee, and joined him.

  “You got here okay, huh?” he said.

  “This is much nicer than one of your beer halls.”

  “It’ll do, huh?”

  She sat down across from him. “You look nice, Rick. This must be a special occasion?”

  “Seeing you again is special.”

  She smiled. Sipping her coffee, she said, “So, how have you been, Rick? No one’s seen or heard anything from you. We thought maybe you decided to skip out on us.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that you haven’t been around. We thought you might at least call and let us kn
ow where you were.”

  “I told you, I was going to Arizona.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah…for a couple of months.”

  “And now you’re back?”

  “In the flesh. What have you guys been up to, anyway? Anything exciting?”

  They had met two years earlier at a car-wash event to raise money for a homeless family that had been robbed of all their possessions. He had been impressed with her then and was no less so now. She was first of all a strong, healthy woman, with the broad shoulders of a swimmer, a well-developed bust that went nicely with the sweaters she wore, and solid hips and legs, as evidenced by snug-fitting Levi’s that accentuated her natural curves. Her face, marked more by character and intelligence than by a conventional prettiness, was nevertheless pleasant and comely, and the shortcoming was softened around the edges when she smiled or laughed. Her carriage and demeanor suggested the self-assurance and maturity one might associate with a successful business executive or a female military officer with the rank of major or colonel. In spite of his usual preference for the more tawdry, flirtatious type of woman who hung out in bars and taverns, he had to admit to an attraction, albeit of the “opposites” sort: the hardscrabble kid intrigued by the opportunity to associate with a female whose upbringing represented everything he could only wish he had had.

  She told him about the helicopter raid at Mobley’s farmhouse.

  “I couldn’t make it myself,” she said. “But I helped with the planning and coordination. Everything went off just as we hoped it would. We even had television coverage afterwards.”

  “You actually bombed this guy’s house with garbage? I would love to have seen that. I’ll bet he was really pissed.”

  “That was a little offset by the realization that he was being televised,” she said with a laugh. “But you’re absolutely right—he was not a real happy camper.”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “But if you came around more often, Rick, you could get involved in some of these things yourself. I mean, what you did in Cleveland was great, but it doesn’t have to stop there.”

  “You guys are into it. I’m just an onlooker. Besides, the security guard showing up when he did spooked me. I’ve wanted to lay low since then…just to let it all wash out of my system.”

  “But nothing came of it, Rick. Right?”

  “Maybe not. But that’s not the point. It was a close call…I don’t need close calls.”

  “So that means we can’t rely on you to help us anymore?”

  “I don’t know. That depends. What else are you gonna do? Dynamite logging trucks? Or demolish a research lab?”

  “There’s other ways you can help…”

  “Yeah, like how?”

  “I don’t know. But you’re handy in the ways that a lot of us aren’t. You know a lot about practical things…”

  “I can fix a running toilet, if that’s what you mean.”

  She laughed again, as easily as before, and he knew that it was another thing he liked about her: her tolerance for the unrefined, irreverent attitude that he brought with him from his working-class background.

  “That’s not exactly what I had in mind. But if I ever need a plumber, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Do that. In the meantime, maybe you can help me with a little problem I’ve got.”

  “What’s that?”

  He told her about Peewee.

  “Ever since he saw this newscast about the guy shooting a bunch of wolves, he’s wanted to go back there and teach him a lesson. And I’m afraid he might actually do it.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, for one thing,” Rick said, leaning forward confidentially, “he’s an ex-Marine sniper with fifteen kills to his credit, and he misses that kind of action. Whenever he gets drunk, which is fairly often, he’s apt to get out his sniper rifle and zero in on people. He’ll go up to Washington Park, where it overlooks Canyon Road, and hunker down in the underbrush. He likes to take aim at semis coming up the hill. I think he envisions taking out one or two truckers and causing a massive pileup. He hasn’t actually done anything like that yet, but it’s probably just a matter of time.”

  Jody sat back in her chair and looked at him incredulously.

  “You hang out with some nice people, Rick.”

  Rick shrugged.

  “Yeah, well, sometimes you have to take the friends you can get. Social circumstances and all that, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I got my hands full with this guy right now. He’s trying to get together a crew to go with him. It’s suddenly an obsession, and I’m trying to talk him out of it. Ever try to talk somebody out of an obsession?”

  “Not lately. But what’s he going to do again?”

  “The guy’s a cattle rancher…Peewee’s gonna shoot some of his cattle. Can you believe that? He’s gonna do an Indian-style sneakumup on the guy’s ranch and level some of the critters with a few well-placed shots from three or four hundred yards out. I tell you, he practically salivates just talking about it. Besides teaching the guy a lesson, he says it’ll be a helluva kick. He’s really excited.”

  “He’s actually going to drive all the way to Montana just to shoot some cattle?”

  “We went all the way to Cleveland, didn’t we, just to blow up a smokestack?”

  “But we had a valid reason.”

  “He thinks he’s got a valid reason. And when he gets drunk and starts talking about it, he sounds pretty damn serious, every bit as serious as you guys were. Which is what worries me—that he might actually do it.”

  “Doing something like that for political reasons makes sense,” Jody said, shaking her head. “But just for kicks? That’s perverse, even pathological.”

  “There ya go—that’s my Peewee—one crazy motherfucker,” Rick said, shrugging. “But, regardless, I gotta look out for him.”

  “What about you, Rick? Would you do something like that…just for kicks?”

  “Would it make a difference to you?”

  “It might.”

  “I thought you loved me for myself.”

  She smiled. “I’d be disappointed,” she said.

  “I’ll settle for that. But, honestly, I’d have to have a good reason first. It’d almost have to be something personal. But, even then, I’m not sure I’d drive all the way to Montana.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that. I know you’ve done some crazy things, but I’d hate to see you charge into something like that.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me, babe. Ol’ Rick is smarter than that.” And, reaching across the table, he pulled her in closer and kissed her on the mouth. “Whatta you say we go to my place? I’ll put some music on and we can do the ol’ one-two shuffle?”

  “The ol’ one-two shuffle? What’s that?”

  “Well, you know…that’s where we dance real up close and personal. Where we let ourselves get carried away by the music. It’s great for the inhibitions.”

  Her eyes twinkling, Jody laughed a soft, throaty laugh. “Are you inhibited?”

  “Why don’t we find out?” And, standing up, Rick took hold of her hand and pulled her up to him. He kissed her on the mouth again, then, still holding her hand, led her away.

  17

  Mitch began reading the pink sheet of paper Heidi handed to him. By the time he got to the end of the short paragraph, he was frowning. “This is crazy,” he said. “It’ll never work.”

  “Sure it’ll work, Mitch.”

  The four of them—Mitch, Jody, Heidi, and Mike—were standing on a street corner not far from the entrance to the Portland Art Museum. Across the street, in the Park Blocks, a noontime gaggle of office workers and students from Portland State sat on park benches near an equestrian statue, eating lunch or just enjoying the sunshine. A young mother, wearing jeans and sandals, sat on a blanket watching her two children cavort on the grass or chase an occasional pigeon.

  “It’s not intended to have a big impact
,” Jody explained. “It’s just one way to get the message out.”

  Again looking at the sheet of paper, Mitch read out loud: “For driving an oversized vehicle that consumes an inordinate amount of energy, you hereby stand accused of violating the natural balance of forces needed to maintain a healthy environment. By your preference for such a vehicle, you have branded yourself an irresponsible citizen of the planet and are now held in contempt by all the friends and protectors of Mother Earth. Have a nice day.”

  He looked up. “One more time, this is intended to do what?”

  “It’s a moment of shame, Mitch. Even if they wad it up and throw it away, which most of them will, we’ve planted a seed. For most of them, the seed will never take root. But it just might for one or two.”

  “Okay. But how do we know? We certainly can’t expect letters of appreciation from anyone, thanking us for helping them realize how misguided they’ve been. In effect, we’re attacking their values, and that can only make them defensive.”

  “That’s being cynical, Mitch,” Jody told him. “Besides, we don’t have to know one way or the other. It’s enough to know we’re doing something for the sake of the environment.”

  “Yeah, Mitch,” Mike said, joining in, “it’s like the Chinese poet who writes a poem and sends it downriver on a block of wood. The point is to release it into the wind, so to speak, and hope the right person finds it. Same idea.”

  Heidi picked up the theme: “And if the right person does find it, who knows what will happen? That person may talk it up to such an extent that others become involved. Pretty soon, the message takes on a life of its own…continues to grow until it achieves a snowball effect, and all because of a single piece of paper.”

  Mitch regarded the sheet of paper dubiously, but handed it back to Heidi. “A pebble in the pond, in other words, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So…we just stick it on the windshield?”

  “Just like a parking ticket.”

  “What if someone wants to know what we’re doing?”

  “Suddenly we’ve got an audience, and we tell them.”