The Removers

Chapter Five

NEITHER of us said anything. He came forward slowly and put his glass on the bar. He was a pro; he hadn't spilled a drop. Well, neither had I. He picked up the camera idly.

"Wetzlar, Germany," he read, and looked up. "Can't say I'm terribly fond of the Germans, but they do make fine optical equipment, what?"

"Right," I said.

There was a kind of sadness in his face. He was clearly wondering if he should try to explain himself to me and ask for my understanding, not knowing that he already had it. I understood him, all right. I'd retired from violence once myself, right after the war. I'd been a respectable, reasonably prosperous citizen, with a nice home and family, only something had happened and it hadn't worked out. Something was happening to him, or he wouldn't be carrying the gun again.

Oh, it would be the same gun, the one from his old, bold, smoky days. He would have kept it, we all do, telling ourselves it's just a memento now, a souvenir of a life we've left behind, an old retainer pensioned after years of faithful service. I'd had a gun in a locked drawer for close to fifteen years after the war; then one day I'd had to take it out again. I'd used it and lost it, and now I had a soulless, new, issue-.38 in my boot, and one day, no doubt, I'd try putting that away in a drawer with all the memories that would have attached themselves to it by that time-but I'd still put it away loaded and ready.

He would have put the key in the lock and opened the drawer and buckled on the leather gear and slipped the gun into place, doing it reluctantly, for some compelling reason I still didn't know about-but he might just possibly have felt the cold breath of an old excitement touch him lightly in the moment he held the weapon in his hand. I had. Of course, he was older. Maybe he had forgotten. Some men did, or said they did.

I understood him perfectly. I even sympathized with him in a way. That didn't mean I was going to give him any help, or that I wouldn't take away from him anything that wasn't nailed down-and I didn't have the feeling Beth was nailed down very tightly.

I said, "There was something you wanted to tell me."

"Ah, yes," he said. He took a sip from his glass, looked into it briefly, and looked up again. "My wife wrote you a letter," he said.

"Yes."

"Afterwards," he said, "not certain that it had been the right thing to do, she told me, don't you know?"

"I see."

He hesitated, and spoke bluntly: "I do not need any help in taking care of my family, Mr. Helm."

"Right," I said.

"I hate to seem inhospitable," he said, "but you don't look like a chap who'll suffer greatly from one delayed meal. You can buy a good dinner when you get back to Reno. In the future, if you wish to see your children at reasonable intervals-I'll make no objections to that, of course-let me know and I'll arrange for them to meet you away from here. Do I make myself clear?"

"Quite," I said.

He smiled. "It's an easy accent to mimic, isn't it? I do it myself to a certain extent. It is part of the camouflage, shall we say? I think you know what I mean. I intend to maintain it, just as I intend to maintain the other aspects of my life here, free from disturbance."

I said, "It's nice work if you can get it. I couldn't."

"I know," he said. "As I said earlier, I've heard much about you and, shall we say, guessed more? I intend to profit by your errors. You did make some, you know."

"Everyone does," I said.

"Perhaps," he said. "But one can try to make as few as possible, don't you know? An error I don't intend to make is to let you stay here. It is too bad. From what I've heard and seen, you're a man I might like. I wish we could go hunting together, for instance. It would be an interesting experience, at least. And of course it would be highly civilized of both of us. But in some cases, civilization can be overdone. Please don't think I like being rude. You are the first person who has ever been turned away from this house hungry. But at least you did get a drink." He smiled at me in a thin sort of way. It wasn't a very nice smile. It hinted that this man could be an ugly customer when he wanted to. "I'd settle for that, old chap," he murmured. "I really would."

When I got outside again, the sun was low above the mountains to the west. I hadn't bothered to bring an exposure meter-the light out there is fairly predictable

– so I just made an estimate and set the camera accordingly. As I did so, the voice of young Peter Logan reached me from around the corner.

"If you were in Guadalajara, you should have stopped by Lake Chapala to see us."

"I didn't know you'd be there. Anyway, I didn't feel much like seeing people." After a little, the girl said, "Did I tell you I've got a new car? Kind of a consolation prize. I guess, but who's going to complain about a Mercedes 19OSL? Real leather upholstery and fitted luggage, no less. Choice!"

The boy laughed. "What's with this choice?"

"Hadn't you heard? Nothing's cool any more. Everything's choice. Keep current, man!"

The dialogue made me feel older than the Sierras. I moved away from it, rounded up the kids, and posed them for a group picture in front of the house. Then I moved in for a few individuals, starting with the boys, since I didn't intend to spend much time on them. One snapshot of a little boy does about as well in your wallet as another. With a little girl, though, you want to make sure you get her looking pretty.

Betsy got restive, waiting, and ran off to play with the monkey-dog, as she called it-and it did look kind of like a great gray monkey, with its long tail and fur-framed face. It was lying peacefully beneath the hitching rack to which it had been tied. I figured the child was safe enough there, and turned back to the boys. The next thing I knew, Betsy was screaming and the dog was rearing wildly. Apparently she'd startled it out of a sound sleep, causing it to jump up and away. The leash, pulling tight, had knocked her over; and the animal, towering above her in panic, had frightened her further.

The dog was crying, too, fighting the choke collar and wailing like a lost soul. The girl in the bright green pants came running around the corner of the house. I started forward, putting the camera away, not hurrying too much. I hadn't been an acting papa for some time, but I could still tell the difference between a hurt child and one that was merely scared and indignant.

The girl snatched the leash loose and led the prancing dog off a little ways, trying to talk it in to a landing. It was all over her, still hovering on its hind legs, but she didn't seem concerned about a little dust on her fancy costume. On the other hand she wasn't taking her weird pet's troubles too seriously, either.

I heard her laughing tolerantly at the animal's antics as I bent over Betsy; then somebody shoved me violently aside. Beth was there, snatching up the child and hugging her tightly, and swinging around to look at the girl.

"Get out of here" Beth gasped. "Get out and take that that beast with you!"

The girl's laughter died. "But, Mrs. Logan, Sheik didn't mean-"

"Get out!" Beth cried. "We don't want you here, can't you understand? Not you or anybody else named Fredericks!"

It actually took me a little while, say a full second, to remember where I'd heard the name before.