As Esther always said, a good deed done by a Cossack was still a good deed.
Nick had begun lifting weights at a gym. After the initial soreness, he was amazed at the resilience his body still possessed. In under two weeks, he could see a difference in the mirror. Or at least he thought he could. His clothes looked good on him. His shoulders were squared, his eyes clear, the fleshy quality starting to disappear from his cheeks. Could it be that easy? Why not? He came from working people. His grandfather had been undaunted by physical labor of any kind and had been ingenious and marvelous with his hands when he’d built his own house and created a thriving vegetable garden amid urban decay. Nick’s father had been a short, wiry shoe repairman, but he could slip on a pair of Everlast gloves and turn a speed bag into a leathery blur. Even Nick’s rotund compulsive mother, who overfed and protected him and sometimes treated him like a human poodle, scrubbed her floors on her hands and knees twice a week, from the gallery to the back stoop. The Dolan family, as they were called in America, stayed in motion.
As Nick looked at his full-length profile in the mirror, sucking in his stomach, his chin up, his arms pleasantly stiff and tinged with pain from curling a sixty-pound bar, he thought, Not bad for Mighty Mouse.
Even though he didn’t like to see blood leaking from every orifice in his portfolio, his finances had a formidable degree of solidity at their core. He still owned the restaurant, a wholesome place that served good food and offered mariachi music, and nobody was going to take it away from him, at least not Josef Sholokoff or Hugo Cistranos. He still had a mortgage on his house in San Antonio, but his weekend home on the Comal in New Braunfels was free and clear, and he was determined for the children’s sake to hold on to it. He and Esther had started out with virtually nothing. For the first five years of their marriage, she’d had to give up attending classes at UNO and work full-time as a cashier at the Pearl while Nick ran Didoni Giacano’s cardroom until five in the morning, fixing drinks and coffee and making sandwiches for Texas oilmen who told Negro and whorehouse and anti-Semitic jokes in his presence as though he were deaf. Then he would swamp out their piss and puke in the bathroom while the sun rose and a greasy exhaust fan roared above his head.
But those days were all behind him. Esther was his Esther again, and his kids were his kids. They were not just a family. They were friends, and more important, they loved one another and loved being with one another. What he owned he had worked for. Screw the world. Screw the IRS. Nick Dolinski, badass at large, had arrived.
It was Saturday evening, and Nick was relaxing on the terrace of his weekend home on the Comal, reading the newspaper, drinking a gin and tonic. Fireflies were lighting in the trees, and the air was fragrant with the smell of flowers, charcoal lighter flaring on a grill, meat smoke pooling among the heavy green shadows on the river.
Esther had taken the kids to deliver a box of her peanut-butter-and-chocolate brownies to a sick friend in a San Antonio suburb; she had said she would be back no later than six-thirty P.M. with a delicatessen cold supper they would eat on the sunporch. He glanced at his watch. It was after seven. But sometimes she decided on impulse to take the children to an afternoon movie. He flipped open his cell phone to check for missed calls, although he was sure it had not rung that afternoon. He put aside his paper and called her cell number. His call was transferred to her voice mail.
“Esther, where are you?” he said. “I’m starting to think alien abduction here.”
He went inside the house and checked the kitchen phone. There were no new calls. He walked in a circle. He went into the living room and walked in another circle. Then he called Esther’s cell phone again. “This isn’t funny. Where are you? This is Nick, the guy who lives with you.”
He tried Jesse’s number and was sent to voice mail. But Jesse was one of those rare teenagers who had little interest in computers, cell phones, or technology in general; he sometimes left his cell phone turned off for days. Regarding his son, the more essential question for Nick was: Did Jesse have an interest in anything? It surely wasn’t girls or sports. The kid had an IQ of 160 and spent his time listening to old Dave Brubeck records or playing lawn darts by himself in the backyard or hanging out with his four-man chess club.
Nick realized he was inventing other forms of worry to keep his mind off Esther’s failure to check in. He went back outside in the twilight and retrieved his gin and tonic from the arm of the redwood chair. He drank it standing up, one hand propped on his hip, crunching the ice on his molars, chewing and swallowing the lime slice, his eyes fixed on the boiling rapids and the whirlpool farther down the river. When he touched his brow, it felt as tight and hard as a washboard.
The phone rang inside. He almost broke a toe on the back step getting to it before the message machine clicked on. “Hello!” he gasped, out of breath.
“Dad?”
“Who’d you expect?” he said, wondering why, of all the times in his life, he chose now to sound impatient and harsh with his son.
“Did Mom call?”
“No. You don’t know where she is?”
“She left us at Barnes and Noble. She was going back for something at the deli. That was an hour ago.”
“Kate and Ruth are with you? Y’all are still in San Antonio?”
“Yeah, but the deli is only three blocks from here. Where would she go?”
“Did she go back to Mrs. Bernstein’s?”
“No, Mrs. Bernstein went to Houston with her daughter. We went all this way to deliver the brownies, and she wasn’t there.”
“Did you see any strange guys around y’all? Like somebody watching or following y’all?”
“No. What strange guys? I thought all that stuff you were worried about was over. Where’s Mom?”
PAM TIBBS AND Hackberry Holland drove in their borrowed cruiser on a winding two-lane road that followed a dry creek bed bordered by cottonwoods that were bending hard in the wind, the torn leaves flying high in the air. To the east they could see irrigated ranchland and a long horizontal limestone formation that resembled a Roman wall traversing the bottom of a hill. The cruiser was shaking in the wind, grit and the needlelike leaves of juniper trees ticking against the windshield. They entered what appeared to be another domain, one that was dry and cluttered with brush and spiked plants and thick tangles of undergrowth, one that seemed abandoned to Darwinian forces, all of it surrounded by huge wire-mesh game fences of the kind one sees along highways in the Canadian Rockies.
“Shit, what was that?” Pam said, her head jerking sideways at something they had just passed.
Hackberry looked through the back window while Pam drove. “I think that’s called an oryx or something like that. I’ve always had a fantasy about these places. What if the patrons were allowed to hunt one another? The fences could be electrified, and the boys could go inside the fences with three-day licenses to blow one another all over the brush. I think there’s a lot of merit to that idea.” He heard her laughing under her breath. “What?” he said.
“God, you’re a case,” she said.
“I’m supposed to be your administrative superior, Pam. Why is it I can’t adequately convey that simple concept to you?”
“Search me, boss.”
He gave up and remained silent as they continued down the road, the cottonwoods and pebble-strewn creek bed gone, the terrain one of twisting arroyos, brush-covered hills, and flat expanses of hardpan where trophy animals as diverse as bison, elk, gazelles, and eland grazed. It was a surreal place sealed off by hills that seemed to suck light into shade, lidded by clouds that were as yellow and coarse as sulfur.