he landed."
"He landed in trouble," Dave said. "The worst kind. Why did you want to use your plane ticket? This is a big place. Did you have to trip over him?"
"I didn't," the boy said sourly. "Trudy did. Sickening. A Texas redneck." He creased a square forehead above thick black brows. "What have they got, for God sake? I mean, they're dominating the stupid culture, all of a sudden. Seriously —everything's country western now. Have you noticed? Even politics. Washington's wall-to-wall fatback and collard greens. That nauseating down-home twang. Even reporters. It's like all the TV sets were made in Amarillo, or something. His old man worked in the oil fields, could barely write his name. He bragged about it."
"You wouldn't be jealous?" Dave asked.
He narrowed his eyes, flared his nostrils, showed his teeth. " 'Brown eyes,' " he hissed, " 'say, love me, or I keel you.' " He dropped the act. "No. I told her what he was. A hustler. Taking her uncle for all he could get. Didn't faze her. She felt sorry for him."
From somewhere beyond wooden bulkheads she called, "Mr. Brandstetter?" Dave took steps, craned to see. She stood by a distant doorway, Vermeer light pouring over her. "Excuse me," he said and went there. The boy came after him, bare heels thumping.
The light came through a tall gap in the wall above the door. The room beyond the door held a high hospital bed but it was meant for an office, a workroom. Drafting table. T squares, straightedges, triangles. Plywood bins out of which poked rolled blueprints, floor plans, elevations. Half-empty shelving. Tall stools from an unfinished-furniture shop, price tags still hanging off rungs. Roof windows funneled down north light. Low in a corner, a window framed surf breaking on jagged rocks. The tunnel you looked out into was the sun-ribbed shadow of the deck above.
Tom Owens lay in the bed. About thirty-five, long-boned, with long pale-red hair, long pale-red mustache. Yellow wasn't the accurate word for his eyes. Tawny would probably do it. A bolted framework on the bed foot was strung with weights and pulleys to keep his legs raised. The legs were in bulky plaster casts. The bed was strewn with magazines, paperback books. A man stood at its far side. Chinos, T-shirt, thin red windbreaker jacket —boyish, all new. He was laughing. But sad was the impression he gave. He could have been younger than Owens but life had used him harder. Owens had been smiling at whatever he'd said. Then he turned his head on the pillows, saw Dave and lost the smile. But he held out his hand.
"Dave Brandstetter. After your call yesterday, I remembered you."
Dave shook the hand. "We met at Madge Dunstan's."
"How is Madge?" Owens picked up a cigarette pack from a folded newspaper. The Los Santos Tide, rites for murdered tavern owner. "You've met my niece, Trudy?" He lit a cigarette. "And Mark Dimond? Her" —he blinked amused bafflement at her—"do they still say 'fiance'?"
Trudy shook her head. " 'Lover,' " she said.
" 'Old man,' " Mark Dimond said.
"Right!" Trudy laughed and kissed his nose. She looked at her uncle. "Are you okay? Can I get you anything? I don't know why Mother's not back. We want to go tape sea gulls and waves and like that."
"Go." Owens smiled. "I'm fine."
They went. "We'll take the dogs," Trudy called back, and Mark Dimond groaned.
Dave said, "Madge is all right but what happened to you?"
"I leaned on the rail of the deck." He jerked his head up to show which deck he meant. "It wasn't bolted in place. Temporary nails holding it. A detail Elmo Sands overlooked. My contractor. I wouldn't have believed it. He doesn't forget anything. Ever. But —the rail gave and I landed on those rocks. Not gracefully."
Dave winced and the man on the far side of the bed said, "Listen, Tommy, I better split." He looked at Dave with soft, long-lashed child eyes. "You've got more important things to do."
"Vern" —Owens reached out, gave the man's arm a squeeze—"it's been
"He landed in trouble," Dave said. "The worst kind. Why did you want to use your plane ticket? This is a big place. Did you have to trip over him?"
"I didn't," the boy said sourly. "Trudy did. Sickening. A Texas redneck." He creased a square forehead above thick black brows. "What have they got, for God sake? I mean, they're dominating the stupid culture, all of a sudden. Seriously —everything's country western now. Have you noticed? Even politics. Washington's wall-to-wall fatback and collard greens. That nauseating down-home twang. Even reporters. It's like all the TV sets were made in Amarillo, or something. His old man worked in the oil fields, could barely write his name. He bragged about it."
"You wouldn't be jealous?" Dave asked.
He narrowed his eyes, flared his nostrils, showed his teeth. " 'Brown eyes,' " he hissed, " 'say, love me, or I keel you.' " He dropped the act. "No. I told her what he was. A hustler. Taking her uncle for all he could get. Didn't faze her. She felt sorry for him."
From somewhere beyond wooden bulkheads she called, "Mr. Brandstetter?" Dave took steps, craned to see. She stood by a distant doorway, Vermeer light pouring over her. "Excuse me," he said and went there. The boy came after him, bare heels thumping.
The light came through a tall gap in the wall above the door. The room beyond the door held a high hospital bed but it was meant for an office, a workroom. Drafting table. T squares, straightedges, triangles. Plywood bins out of which poked rolled blueprints, floor plans, elevations. Half-empty shelving. Tall stools from an unfinished-furniture shop, price tags still hanging off rungs. Roof windows funneled down north light. Low in a corner, a window framed surf breaking on jagged rocks. The tunnel you looked out into was the sun-ribbed shadow of the deck above.
Tom Owens lay in the bed. About thirty-five, long-boned, with long pale-red hair, long pale-red mustache. Yellow wasn't the accurate word for his eyes. Tawny would probably do it. A bolted framework on the bed foot was strung with weights and pulleys to keep his legs raised. The legs were in bulky plaster casts. The bed was strewn with magazines, paperback books. A man stood at its far side. Chinos, T-shirt, thin red windbreaker jacket —boyish, all new. He was laughing. But sad was the impression he gave. He could have been younger than Owens but life had used him harder. Owens had been smiling at whatever he'd said. Then he turned his head on the pillows, saw Dave and lost the smile. But he held out his hand.
"Dave Brandstetter. After your call yesterday, I remembered you."
Dave shook the hand. "We met at Madge Dunstan's."
"How is Madge?" Owens picked up a cigarette pack from a folded newspaper. The Los Santos Tide, rites for murdered tavern owner. "You've met my niece, Trudy?" He lit a cigarette. "And Mark Dimond? Her" —he blinked amused bafflement at her—"do they still say 'fiance'?"
Trudy shook her head. " 'Lover,' " she said.
" 'Old man,' " Mark Dimond said.
"Right!" Trudy laughed and kissed his nose. She looked at her uncle. "Are you okay? Can I get you anything? I don't know why Mother's not back. We want to go tape sea gulls and waves and like that."
"Go." Owens smiled. "I'm fine."
They went. "We'll take the dogs," Trudy called back, and Mark Dimond groaned.
Dave said, "Madge is all right but what happened to you?"
"I leaned on the rail of the deck." He jerked his head up to show which deck he meant. "It wasn't bolted in place. Temporary nails holding it. A detail Elmo Sands overlooked. My contractor. I wouldn't have believed it. He doesn't forget anything. Ever. But —the rail gave and I landed on those rocks. Not gracefully."
Dave winced and the man on the far side of the bed said, "Listen, Tommy, I better split." He looked at Dave with soft, long-lashed child eyes. "You've got more important things to do."
"Vern" —Owens reached out, gave the man's arm a squeeze—"it's been
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