The Edge
Page 32
"Did you have to ask his permission to move back out here from Pennsylvania?"
"As a matter of fact, he helped me come back," Paul said, all cool and formal. "No secret there. He's invested in my current project. He sold Jilly and me our house."
"Ah," I said. So that's how he and Jilly were surviving. But that beautiful house and Jilly's Porsche were far above the survival line. "This is the fountain of youth formula?"
"Good try," Paul said, slamming his door. "Jesus, Mac, I'm so relieved that Jilly lost control of the Porsche. If she'd tried to kill herself, I don't know what I would have done."
"Me either."
One of the young valets dashed up, out of breath, gave Paul a big purple ticket, and drove the Explorer away. "Some house, huh?"
"Incredible," I said, climbing up the deep half-dozen front steps. Lights and mellow chamber music poured out of the house. When we walked into the huge vestibule, I paused a moment, just breathing in the incredible smell of the house. It smelled like standing in the middle of a deep forest with a sliver of sunlight on your face-a hint of flowers, of water-drenched moss, of trees and light, pure air. I inhaled deeply as I turned to see a tall, hawk-nosed man walk toward us. It was, I had no doubt, Alyssum Tarcher, the patriarch of Edgerton, Oregon.
I am six feet, two inches tall, one hundred eighty-five pounds before the car bombing. He was at least two inches taller than me but not any heavier. He was probably around sixty years old, his hair thick, mixed black and white. He was a strong, vigorous man, no paunch, no softness on him. He looked potent. His son, Cotter, was standing behind him-thick-necked and dark, he looked like a thug. It was quite a contrast. He'd probably just shaved, but there was a hint of dark growth on his cheeks. He cracked his knuckles, his eyes studying my face.
"Ford MacDougal?"
Alyssum Tarcher's voice was as deep and rich as the smoothest Kentucky bourbon.
"Yes, sir," I said. He stuck out his hand and I shook it. An artist's hands, I thought, slender, narrow, long-fingered. Too smooth.
"You and Jilly don't look a thing like each other," Alyssum Tarcher said, looking through to my molecules, I thought. This was a dangerous man. Far more dangerous than his bully of a son.
"No," I said. "We don't."
"Of course you're both fine-looking young people and your general coloring's the same. You've met my son, Cotter?"
I shook Cotter's hand and smiled down at him, content to wait to let him begin the pissing contest, which he did, quickly. I managed to twist my hand slightly so that I had better leverage than him. I looked him straight in the eye and proceeded to crush his fingers. I let his hand go when I saw the strain around his mouth. I think Paul was the only one who noticed the locker-room behavior. As for Cotter, oddly enough, he looked both homicidally furious and curiously absorbed. He slowly rubbed his hand, staring at me. It was as if he was trying to get inside my head, trying to see how he could best go about smashing me. I knew I'd made an enemy, didn't really care, but I did wonder what he was thinking now. I hadn't met up with a verifiable sociopath in at least six months.
Cotter never looked away from me. I turned when I heard Alyssum Tarcher say, "Well, Paul, now that Jilly's back with us, you can get to work again. I understand all this has been hard on you, but now, finally, everything will be all right."
"Yes," Paul said. "Jilly wanted to come tonight, but she couldn't walk more than a few steps. Mac and I left her nearly asleep and disappointed. She wants me to assure everyone that she didn't go over that cliff on purpose. She lost control of the Porsche. She also swears that she won't go a hundred miles an hour around any more curves as long as she lives. She sends her love."
"That's a relief," Alyssum Tarcher said. He picked up two flutes of champagne from a waiter's tray and handed one to me and one to Paul. Then he picked up one for himself, raised it, and said, "To the future. May our project succeed beyond our wildest imaginings."
"I'll drink to that," Paul said.
Neither Cotter nor I said anything, merely sipped the champagne, nasty stuff, I'd always thought, remembering fondly the Bud Light Midge had brought me in the middle of the night. Her husband, Doug, was a lucky man. I placed the flute back on the waiter's tray. Alyssum had a dark brow raised, but I didn't give a shit.
Paul said, "It's a real tragedy about Charlie Duck getting killed. Not something you'd expect to have happen in a great town like Edgerton."
"As a matter of fact, he helped me come back," Paul said, all cool and formal. "No secret there. He's invested in my current project. He sold Jilly and me our house."
"Ah," I said. So that's how he and Jilly were surviving. But that beautiful house and Jilly's Porsche were far above the survival line. "This is the fountain of youth formula?"
"Good try," Paul said, slamming his door. "Jesus, Mac, I'm so relieved that Jilly lost control of the Porsche. If she'd tried to kill herself, I don't know what I would have done."
"Me either."
One of the young valets dashed up, out of breath, gave Paul a big purple ticket, and drove the Explorer away. "Some house, huh?"
"Incredible," I said, climbing up the deep half-dozen front steps. Lights and mellow chamber music poured out of the house. When we walked into the huge vestibule, I paused a moment, just breathing in the incredible smell of the house. It smelled like standing in the middle of a deep forest with a sliver of sunlight on your face-a hint of flowers, of water-drenched moss, of trees and light, pure air. I inhaled deeply as I turned to see a tall, hawk-nosed man walk toward us. It was, I had no doubt, Alyssum Tarcher, the patriarch of Edgerton, Oregon.
I am six feet, two inches tall, one hundred eighty-five pounds before the car bombing. He was at least two inches taller than me but not any heavier. He was probably around sixty years old, his hair thick, mixed black and white. He was a strong, vigorous man, no paunch, no softness on him. He looked potent. His son, Cotter, was standing behind him-thick-necked and dark, he looked like a thug. It was quite a contrast. He'd probably just shaved, but there was a hint of dark growth on his cheeks. He cracked his knuckles, his eyes studying my face.
"Ford MacDougal?"
Alyssum Tarcher's voice was as deep and rich as the smoothest Kentucky bourbon.
"Yes, sir," I said. He stuck out his hand and I shook it. An artist's hands, I thought, slender, narrow, long-fingered. Too smooth.
"You and Jilly don't look a thing like each other," Alyssum Tarcher said, looking through to my molecules, I thought. This was a dangerous man. Far more dangerous than his bully of a son.
"No," I said. "We don't."
"Of course you're both fine-looking young people and your general coloring's the same. You've met my son, Cotter?"
I shook Cotter's hand and smiled down at him, content to wait to let him begin the pissing contest, which he did, quickly. I managed to twist my hand slightly so that I had better leverage than him. I looked him straight in the eye and proceeded to crush his fingers. I let his hand go when I saw the strain around his mouth. I think Paul was the only one who noticed the locker-room behavior. As for Cotter, oddly enough, he looked both homicidally furious and curiously absorbed. He slowly rubbed his hand, staring at me. It was as if he was trying to get inside my head, trying to see how he could best go about smashing me. I knew I'd made an enemy, didn't really care, but I did wonder what he was thinking now. I hadn't met up with a verifiable sociopath in at least six months.
Cotter never looked away from me. I turned when I heard Alyssum Tarcher say, "Well, Paul, now that Jilly's back with us, you can get to work again. I understand all this has been hard on you, but now, finally, everything will be all right."
"Yes," Paul said. "Jilly wanted to come tonight, but she couldn't walk more than a few steps. Mac and I left her nearly asleep and disappointed. She wants me to assure everyone that she didn't go over that cliff on purpose. She lost control of the Porsche. She also swears that she won't go a hundred miles an hour around any more curves as long as she lives. She sends her love."
"That's a relief," Alyssum Tarcher said. He picked up two flutes of champagne from a waiter's tray and handed one to me and one to Paul. Then he picked up one for himself, raised it, and said, "To the future. May our project succeed beyond our wildest imaginings."
"I'll drink to that," Paul said.
Neither Cotter nor I said anything, merely sipped the champagne, nasty stuff, I'd always thought, remembering fondly the Bud Light Midge had brought me in the middle of the night. Her husband, Doug, was a lucky man. I placed the flute back on the waiter's tray. Alyssum had a dark brow raised, but I didn't give a shit.
Paul said, "It's a real tragedy about Charlie Duck getting killed. Not something you'd expect to have happen in a great town like Edgerton."
