Chapter Two
Lake Tahoe
The sunset over the Sierra Nevada lit the cocktail party through the tall chalet windows, washing out the men’s light sport coats and sparkling the women’s silk skirts. Among the forty-odd people, three middle-aged couples stood out, colorfast and non-combustible in sagging cotton, as if pasted from a yacht-club newsletter.
At the catering bar Gabriel Archer asked for a ginger ale and a bourbon with ice. His friend Walt Wisniewski, the party host, stood by the windows, his untucked pink oxford shirt hazy in the light, his face dark and sour. Gabriel gave Walt the bourbon.
“Thanks. Cheers,” Walt said. Walt was taller than Gabriel and robustly overweight, his shaved head tanned to cork. “You cleaned up well.”
“You might have warned me you were hosting a party,” Gabriel said.
“Most people enjoy parties.” Walt winced at the drink. “Fucking caterers. They never stock bourbon, just Tennessee whiskey and hope you don’t notice. I should have told Laurie.” Laurie was Walt’s current girlfriend, a leggy bottle-blonde whom Gabriel had only met in passing. “It’s her party, of course. I just forgot, to be honest, until the caterers rolled up. It’s not even a party. You’ve noticed the distinction between mosquito and target?”
“The targets are wearing bug spray. Selling real estate?”
“They bought the real estate. Now they need additions and retaining walls, or so we hope to convince them. ‘Meet your new hometown,’ Laurie says. The contractors know the properties and try to size up the owners. They offer Laurie a kickback. Best kickbacks get the work. At least, her staff has cuties. Your car should help with that.”
For the drive from San Francisco, Gabriel had rented a luxurious Italian four-seater GT, six hundred horsepower, long red hood, grinning black grille.
“I only got it for the mountain roads,” Gabriel said.
“Yes. People asked about it, of course. I said something about hedge funds.” Walt rattled his ice at the crowd, at Gabriel. “My shamanic benediction. Go get laid.”
The car, alas, attracted the targets, who took Gabriel as one of their own. Somehow he became a pretend rich person at a pretend party, talking about British and Italian styling, racing clubs, and storage fees. Walt rescued him, inviting Laurie’s staff for phone pictures in the driver’s seat. Many came to egg them on, but few lingered in the chilly night air.
Gabriel went for a rag to clean a spilled daiquiri. When he returned, he found a curvy auburn-haired white woman, her gentle hand on the side mirror.
“Can I see the engine?” She smiled big crooked teeth. “I’m Tammy.”
They spent a half-hour on the car, starting it with the hood up, revving the engine, Tammy kneeling on the cleanup rag to inspect the chassis. “Please can I drive it?” she asked.
“Only sober,” Gabriel said.
“Not tonight then.”
As the caterers packed up, the remaining dozen took over the rear deck. Tammy and Gabriel sat close together by the fire pit, looking over dark woods and a distant sliver of gleaming lake. “Walt said you used to live here?” Tammy asked.
“One season,” Gabriel said. “Worked the chairlifts. Took a year off during college.”
“Clearly it didn’t hurt your career,” she said. “I’m finishing my associate’s. Or I was. I dropped a class. Mom was pissed, but it was the best season in years. My last chance for good snow.” She ashed her cigarette in her empty bottle, reached behind her for a fresh beer. “You should have come up sooner.”
“Better late than never,” he said. Seven months ago, a drunk driver had killed Gabriel’s brother. Walt had invited him many times, but the late-spring storm had finally inspired him to accept. He opened her bottle, a small gallantry for a big smile. He held her hand to look at the Tibetan script on her pinky ring. “Om Mani Peme Hung?” he guessed.
Tammy squeezed his fingers. “Are you a Buddhist?”
“I tried it, for a while. ‘The diamond in the lotus.’ The mantra of compassion.”
She frowned. “If you say it seven times a day, Buddha blesses you?”
“I’m sure he would,” Gabriel said. “There’s a story about it. A guru assigned two disciples to say it, a million times each. The first disciple stayed in the temple, saying it every minute, day after day. The second disciple went out into world to help others. Ten years passed. Word spread that the first disciple was almost finished. So the second disciple climbed a hill to meditate. He thought of all he’d seen and done. He imagined the whole wide world, everyone, everything, filled by compassion, down to the smallest atom. In a moment he was done.”
“Sucks to be the first guy,” Tammy said.
“That’s the point. It has to come from the heart.”
A red flare in Tammy’s eyes. She glanced away and pulled her hand from his. “You’re gonna make my beer warm.”
* * *
The snowpack at the base of the mountain had nearly melted, but higher trails stubbornly held spring snow, crystalline from daily melting and freezing. Gabriel hadn’t skied in years, but after a few runs, he could match Walt’s speed. Together they drew long helixes down the sparkling oatmeal-brown trails. His head floated like a fat cloud, while his thighs sparked like jumper cables. He had forgotten just how good he could feel.
On the canyon lift, Gabriel took off his helmet. “Sun is nice. In Russia, I got so little sunlight I was afraid I’d get rickets.”
“Careful you don’t burn, my pasty friend,” Walt said. He clapped Gabriel’s shoulder. “Good to have you here. Feeling your wasted youth?”
“Feeling more alive than usual, at least.”
“That’s a start. What are you doing now?”
“Market research. It’s lame. First open position I qualified for.”
“I thought you came back early because of—” Walt hesitated. “Of your brother.”
“I was supposed to go back to Moscow after the funeral,” Gabriel said. “But I think they’re corrupt, and they thought I was a stuck-up prick cutting into their good arrangements.”
“And you don’t drink,” Walt said.
“Ha. Our clients thought commodity futures were as dependable as bonds. I told them to save, to restructure, to invest. They complained to my bosses. My bosses made me do accounts. I didn’t even have to try to find the skimming, it was obvious. I filed reports, highlighted issues. My office nickname was Inakomysluchnik. Dissident Archer.”
Walt laughed. “Dissident is not a good word in Russia.”
“It’s not funny. Russia’s a mess. It’s a Potemkin economy, shipping its wealth to London behind branded façades. Meanwhile, I had nightmares. I couldn’t sleep. The directors threw me on pro bono work. That was even worse. Outside the cities, life expectancy is forty. The only people who work are Tajiks, and the white Russians would kill them if they weren’t drunk all the time. In ten years, Russia will be like a nuclear-armed Myanmar.”
“That’s a bold statement,” Walt said.
“When we were kids, women in Kabul wore skirts above the knee. Things change fast. My firm Empyrean Group isn’t helping. At best it’s enabling.” Gabriel felt hot with shame. “So I used Jeremy’s death as my excuse.”
“Smart move,” Walt said. “No value in getting fired. Now, you need to go where your skills are worth something. They speak Russian in Tallinn and Riga and Tbilisi and even Berlin. Don’t just drink chai lattes in Frisco and crunch numbers. You’re what, thirty? Jesus died at thirty-three. Get cracking.” Walt raised the safety bar. “Let’s ride.”
They took a shady trail of big moguls. Walt nimbly hopped between the tops of the bumps, his snowboard shaving icy curls. Gabriel struggled to follow. “Think of them as shortcuts,” Walt coached. “Like warped space. Down in the troughs, that’s the long way.” Walt fell forward lazily, popped two feet high off a bump, yelling with glee as he rode into the trees.
Hard-packed snow paths dotted with needles and broken cones banked around drought-thinned pines. After the trails’ bright light and crisp sounds, the glade’s dim hum unnerved Gabriel. He scraped behind, side-slipping through tight turns, the confidence of his last runs gone. He crouched, hoping for control, but shot over the bank. Hard cruddy snow held his legs but lucky momentum carried him down to another hard path. Too fast. He spun across it, threw himself down to hit a tree with both feet. Pain in his knees as the impact traveled up.
“Not fun!” Gabriel yelled, dry needles raining on him.
Walt stood waving below him, his orange jacket buzzing. As Gabriel made his way down, Walt pointed to the right. “Quickest way out,” he called.
Gabriel went through scrub to find sudden air, over the edge of a steep drop. He landed on two feet, whipped by stripped saplings, but lost balance and rolled out of his bindings.
Walt shot out of the trees below him, stopped hard and dropped to his knees. “Did you take that drop? How did I miss that all season?” He drummed his hands on his helmet. “How high was that?”
“Ten feet?” Gabriel’s eyes stung from sweat-run sunscreen.
“Twelve at least. Fucking bit my tongue.” Walt spat red on the snow. Even the color seemed like bragging.
“Listen,” Walt said. “I didn’t mean to sound unsympathetic. We all get dealt bad hands. Just figure out your head. Feel more alive and do what stokes that feeling.”
Gabriel nodded so as not to speak. In the light and salt and sting and the cold blood smell, he felt impatient, imminent, nearly complete. A formed but still transparent wasp, about to be marked and unleashed. He felt not yet but soon. Not just yet.
* * *
After skiing they went to the Keys for happy hour, en route to meet Laurie and Tammy for dinner. As they drove past the high-rise casinos, Walt made dorky hand-signs at jaywalking tourists ogling the car.
“Bitches,” Walt said. “Keep spending money. That’s why Nevada’s got no income tax.”
“I thought it was a libertarian thing.”
“Libertarians are bad at paving desert roads, yo,” Walt said. “Tourists pay casinos, casinos pay taxes. Bitches want to be players. I want to be the house.”
“But you have to live in Nevada,” Gabriel said.
“At least we don’t have earthquakes. Good luck when Frisco falls into the sea.”
Tahoe Keys was a pricey subdivision on the California side of the lake, with homes in nautical blues and whites. At the oak and brass marina bar, they took a table inlaid with backgammon and played for the bar tab, to five points. Gabriel won in two games.
“You lectured me on business,” Gabriel said, resetting checkers. “Backgammon’s all about business. I can slow you down but I can’t stay still. Russians like chess for strategy, Americans like cards for odds and luck. Both are zero-sum. Backgammon’s tactics, on the fly.”
“I play pool and I golf,” Walt said.
“That’s why you take checkers too quickly and you don’t drop doubles. It’s not just a hunt. You have to bring it home.”
“Interesting. Next match to see who buys dinner?”
“I thought you weren’t a gambler,” Gabriel said.
“I’ll put your ideas into practice. After I pee.”
Gabriel waited, sipping the dregs of his ginger ale. A couple came into the bar, blonde brassy woman, gray man. The woman had a good build under a sad, sun-dried face. The man’s shiny white belly pushed out of his gray jacket like it was his bodyguard. A bitter taste like coffee grounds rose up Gabriel’s throat.
Walt had returned, and stared at him warily. “Do you know those people?” he asked.
“No.” Gabriel took a deep breath. “No. Let’s play.”
* * *
To kill time before the nightclubs opened, Walt staked the women a hundred each on blackjack. Tammy lost hers quickly, too distracted by Gabriel to pay attention. Laurie gave her winnings to Tammy to keep playing until they both lost it all.
“Tammy Tammy wallet whammy.” Walt was lit on free bourbon. “You’re bad luck.”
They retreated to the lounge to read the entertainment calendars. The casino concerts were cover bands and one-hit wonders. Walt suggested a nearby sports bar, really a dive.
“That’s not someplace you go, Walt,” Laurie said. “It’s just someplace you end up.”
“Ha. I’m done gambling,” Walt said. “Clubs aren’t open. Let’s go.”
The dive was a noisy windowless box lit by video poker and sports channels, the bar dividing diner from game room. Sullen men, in sports-team hoodies or plaid shirts, shuffled around the bar and the game tables.
“See?” Walt said. “All the nightclub people come here.”
The women drank cocktails at the bar while Walt and Gabriel threw miniature free-throws. Gabriel smelled a sharp gas, like from a dumpster in the heat. At the bar, Tammy talked with a sandy-blond white man in sagging clothes, his face spiteful.
“Problem?” Gabriel asked.
“I believe that is Tammy’s ex,” Walt said. “Nate something. Loser.”
“Should we go over?” Gabriel said, coughing.
“We’ll just raise the temperature,” Walt said. “Last game?”
“Fine.” Gabriel coughed again. “What is that smell?”
“What smell?” Walt put coins in the machine.
“The really bad smell?” Gabriel’s ball bounced off the rim. The women had left. “Walt?”
Walt looked around. “By the door.”
On the other side of the bar, the smell was worse, like shit from a street drunk. At the door, Laurie faced down Tammy.
“Tammy, don’t go outside,” Laurie said. “Talk to him here.”
“She can come outside,” Nate said, loud and lisping. “I’m all right.”
“I don’t want a scene.” Tammy looked sad and stupid, a clown in makeup. “A minute.”
“Don’t go outside,” Laurie said, grabbing her arm.
“Let go of her,” Nate rumbled. “She can come if she wants.”
Gabriel’s eyes watered. Smells now, all foul: shit and rot and hot and thwarted. He stumbled forward, caught himself on Walt’s shoulder.
The sight of the men angered Nate. “Who the fuck are you?” Nate said. “Fuck off!”
“He just wants to talk,” Tammy said.
“No he doesn’t,” Gabriel growled. He felt gleefully angry, ready to burst.
Nate sneered. “This your new man? Or is he paying you?”
Gabriel’s head jerked sideways. Hot salt in his mouth. Nate had hit him. It was funny.
Nate swung again, comically slow. Gabriel blocked the punch, twisted Nate’s arm high behind his back. Nate lowed like a slaughterhouse cow, tried to kick out. Gabriel pinned him against a video poker table, bashed his greasy head down. Again, again, again, again, a silver shiver in his arm, a smell of blood. A chant in his head, exult excise excite exult excise excite.
A long blink. He stood outside the car, shivering. The others were running after him.
Walt grabbed the key from Gabriel’s hand and unlocked the doors. “Laurie, ride shotgun. Let’s go,” he said, getting behind the wheel.
“I need to throw up,” Gabriel said.
“Do it in California. Cops are coming, Gabriel,” Walt said. “Get the fuck in the car.”
Another long blink. They were on the Al Tahoe beach road, a few miles from the casinos. Walt pulled over. Gabriel got out, walked a few paces, and threw up.
Walt came out and gave him a handkerchief. “You all right?”
“I could use some water.” When had he eaten? He didn’t remember. The smell made him feel sick again. They walked back to the car. “How are the women?”
“Laurie’s worried about her business. As if the bar will call the Chamber of Commerce. Tammy’s weirded out. Hell, I’m weirded out. You were someone else back there.”
“I don’t know. I—” He remembered an odd tingle, like a happy sore tooth, small in his dark head. In the cold wind from the lake, smells of lake weeds and pine resin. His stomach turned again. He held his breath until the feeling passed.
“Go home to San Francisco,” Walt said. “Nate’s a piss-ant. No one will get involved.”
“You think he’ll bother Tammy again?”
“Be a while before he can, I know that. Get going. We’ll call a cab.”
The women got out. Laurie marched up the road without a second look.
Tammy’s soft touch stung his face. “Sorry,” she said. “Thanks for sticking up for me.” She hugged him awkwardly, and kissed his other cheek. She shivered. He held her tighter but she squirmed away. “I’ll see you around.”
Walt clasped Gabriel’s shoulder. “You should have done some of that in Russia. Ladybug, ladybug. Fly away home.” Walt jogged after the women.
Gabriel spat. He looked at the red car in the bright night. Fly away home. He wanted to drive, not to flee but to move. Speed, endless acceleration, a way to never stand still again.
He had missed fighting even more than skiing.
He should never have come back to Tahoe.