Thumps was up early the next morning. The cats were waiting for him in the bathroom. Cookie was draped over the side of the bowl, his head in harm’s way. Freeway was stretched out on the floor in front of the sink.
“I have to use the toilet.”
Cookie didn’t move.
“You won’t like it if I pee on your head.”
Actually, Thumps wouldn’t like it. If he did pee on the cat, he would then have to clean him up, and wrestling the big dummy with a washcloth was not appealing.
Nor was picking up the enormous cat and carrying him to the bedroom. Cookie was an armload of wet laundry. Thumps set the cat on the bed, went back to the bathroom.
He had just started to shave when Freeway began to lick his toes.
“Knock it off.”
For a reason known only to cats, both Freeway and Cookie liked feet. They liked to smell feet, sit on feet, lick feet. In particular, they liked to play mole-in-the-hole, a bedtime game that consisted of pouncing on Thumps’s toes and trying to bite them. During the winter months, this wasn’t a problem. The duvet was thick enough to repel the attacks.
But during the summer, on hot nights, when there was just a sheet between the cats and the mole, things would quickly get out of hand.
“Leave the toes alone.”
Thumps took a shuffle step to one side. Freeway shuffled along with him.
Thumps had no idea why dogs’ tongues were smooth and silky and cats’ tongues were sandpaper rasps.
An irony of nature.
A large, snarling, wild-eyed dog, his teeth bared, ears laid back, hair on his neck erect, but with a great floppy tongue, soft as warm butter. As opposed to a sweet-faced cat who cuddles up on your lap, purrs loudly enough to push nails out of a wall, sticks out her little pink tongue and strips the skin off body parts.
Thumps sat on the edge of the bed, his toes a-tingle. He slipped on his socks and contemplated, not for the first time, the simplicity of a life lived alone, being responsible for yourself and nothing else.
And perhaps that’s what Claire sensed in him. A reluctance to participate in the tumble of life. If he couldn’t manage something as simple as a dog or a cat, how could he be expected to cope with another human being? Two human beings? A community?
Or did Claire think that Thumps saw her and Ivory as replacements for Anna and Callie? He could see where it would be an easy assumption to make. Replace the dead with the living. Relive a past. Get it right this time.
THUMPS HAD GOT out of bed that morning with two plans in place. The first was to have breakfast at Al’s. The second was to find Cruz and squeeze the truth out of him.
And then, every so often, plans came together.
When Thumps walked into the café, Cruz was at a middle stool, sitting between Chintak Rawat and Stas Black Weasel.
“You see,” said Rawat. “As I predicted.”
“A late prediction.” Stas checked his watch. “Thirty-two minutes late.”
“Time is fluid,” said Rawat. “Time is a river.”
“This is not Russian time,” said Stas. “Russian time is a countdown.”
Cruz turned on the stool. “They’ve been going on like this since they arrived.”
“Ten, nine, eight, seven, five . . .”
“Six,” said Rawat.
“Yes,” said Stas, “six, five, four, three, two, one . . . boom!”
“This is, of course,” said Rawat, “not the kind of counting we need.”
The big Russian patted Thumps’s arm. It was meant as a friendly gesture, and Thumps was fairly sure that the bruising would be minimal.
“Your friend has been telling us about his derring-do,” said Rawat. “Did you know Mr. Cisco lived in the Kashmir? He speaks Kashmiri and Hindi. Very impressive.”
“And he has lived in Ukraine,” said Stas. “Kyiv. His Russian is ne tak uzh khorosho.”
“It’s better than that,” said Cruz.
“And he has seen Hard Man,” said Stas. “Who is really Soft Bully. Ukraine, so stupid. No one learns from war. No one learns.”
“Mr. Cisco does not tell us this,” said Rawat, “but we believe he has killed people.”
“Gossip,” said Cruz. “And fake news.”
“So, I shall say no more about it.”
“Yes,” said Stas. “I say no more as well.”
Thumps was trying to figure out how to extract Cruz from the communal embrace of the pharmacist from India and the master mechanic from Russia when Al came along with the coffee pot.
“Maybe a little less talking,” she said, “and more ordering.”
“I must get back to the store.” Rawat pushed off the stool.
“And then I shall go to the course for last-minute preparations with Mr. Wutty.”
Stas followed suit. “And I must fix Mr. Cisco’s car.”
Thumps stopped what he was doing. “You only work on European cars.”
“Yes,” said Stas, “this is true. But Mr. Cisco has been shot, so he is honourable Russian.”
“Honorary,” said Rawat.
“So, I am duty bound to fix car. Repair bullet holes. In this, I have much practice.”
“Tournament is tomorrow,” said Rawat. “Don’t forget.”
Stas followed Rawat out the door. “Must wash team shirt, practise cheer.”
Cruz waited for the café to return to quiet. “Nice guys.”
“That they are,” said Thumps. “Can’t believe you talked him into fixing your car.”
“Showed him my bullet wounds,” said Cruz. “Man appreciates gratuitous violence.”
Al leaned against the counter, set the pot down on the Formica.
Hard. “I’m hoping to hear the sound of an order about now.”
“Breakfast,” said Thumps. “The usual.”
“And your bullet-riddled buddy?”
“I’ll have what the sheriff is having,” said Cruz.
“He’s temporary,” said Al. “You know that, right?”
Cruz pushed his cup forward, smiled. “Aren’t we all.”
FOR THE NEXT little while, Al fiddled with a mound of potatoes on the grill. Cruz fiddled with his cellphone. Thumps fiddled with his coffee cup. Until he was tired of fiddling.
“So, where’d you stay last night?”
Cruz held up a finger, fiddled some more with the phone, slipped it back in his pocket. “What was the question?”
“Shadow Ranch?”
“Compromised.”
“The Tucker?”
Cruz sneered. “You know how much they want for a room?”
“Okay. So where?”
“What does it matter,” said Cruz. “I’m here now. New day. New start.”
Al arrived with breakfast. “I gave the ninja whatever some of your potatoes so you don’t go all diabetic-high on me.”
“Potatoes are a vegetable,” said Thumps.
“Don’t make me call Beth.” Al filled both cups, went back to the grill.
Thumps waited while Cruz lavished pepper on his eggs.
“New day, new start. So how about a new Cruz? The Cruz who shares with the rest of the children. The Cruz who tells the truth, in spite of himself.”
Cruz tried to look hurt. “You know everything I know.”
“For instance, are you really from Pie Town, New Mexico? Do you have a mother?”
“Cabrón, everyone has a mother.”
“Nora Gage, Sorin Dalca, Porter Kincaide, Stan Greeley, yourself, of course. Who am I missing?”
“If Kincaide is involved,” said Cruz, “he won’t get anywhere near the action himself. He’d send in a team.”
“Great,” said Thumps. “Now I’m looking for a snatch-and-grab team as well?”
“Going to be hard to spot,” said Cruz. “If I were Kincaide, I’d use the golf tournament as cover.”
“So, you want to go to Shadow Ranch? Look around?” Thumps loaded egg onto his toast, took a bite. “If there is a crew in play, they’re not going to be wearing T-shirts that say ‘Para Bellum Snatch Team.’ ”
Cruz took a forkful of potatoes. “You think Al uses Yukon Golds for her hash browns?”
“How many?”
“Minimum of two,” said Cruz. “Maximum of four. If I were planning a grab, I’d go for four. Two to make the actual snatch, two to act as backup in case something goes wrong.”
“So, the options are one, Gage is kidnapped by Sorin Dalca and is being held at a secure location until he can sell her to Para Bellum. Two, she’s grabbed by Kincaide’s men, who take her to a secure location and interrogate her. Or three, Gage sees the danger ahead of time and disappears before either Dalca or Para Bellum can find her.”
Cruz held up a forkful of hash browns. “Russets aren’t as firm and full-bodied as Yukon Gold.”
“And whether it’s option one, two, or three, here you sit having breakfast.”
“Most important meal of the day,” said Cruz. “Dalca’s not going to kill her. No upside. And Para Bellum isn’t going to kill her, at least not until they get the information they want.”
“And when Kincaide discovers that she doesn’t know anything?”
“Probably let her go.”
“Because they’re really good guys at heart?” Thumps waggled his hand. “Or because killing her would create an unwanted and unnecessary stink.”
“Course they could kill her,” said Cruz, “dispose of the body where it would never be found.”
“Charming.” Thumps mopped up the last of the eggs. “Do you really speak Hindi and Russian?”
“Only when I have to.” Cruz pushed his plate to the edge of the counter. “Can we use your car? The leg is still killing me.”