Wayfaring Stranger (Holland Family Saga 1)

“Damn straight,” he said. “How about two fingers of Mexican kickapoo juice with a Corona chaser? It’ll set you right. This is my friend Paula. She used to throw the shot put. Right, baby? She can still throw it, too, I’m here to tell you.”

Linda Gail turned around in her chair and smiled at us. She had tinted her hair a darker shade; her curls covered the back of her neck, the way an antebellum girl may have worn them. “I’m going to be in a motion picture,” she said.

“That’s grand,” Rosita said.

“I counted my lines in the script. I have a hundred and two,” she said. “That’s what most actors do, count their lines. I’m just happy to be in the film.”

Fincher remained standing until Rosita and I had sat down. “Linda Gail was starting to tell us about her experience in Hollywood,” he said. “What’s the name of that company?”

“Castle Productions,” she said.

“That’s right,” he said, his eyes unfocused. He sat down unsteadily. “Like moats and drawbridges and that sort of thing.” He looked into space, a bead of light in his eye, a faint smile on his mouth.

“You know them?” she asked.

“Not really. I’m not too up on the film world,” he said. “Truth is, I was never big on movies. How do you like staying at the Menger? Did you know Lillie Langtry and Robert E. Lee stayed there?”

“Are you talking to me?” Linda Gail asked.

“Who else, Hollywood lady?” Fincher said. “Theodore Roosevelt organized the Rough Riders here.”

“Well, I hope they all flushed the toilet before they checked out,” she said.

I had to hand it to her.

Fincher continued to get drunker and louder. His arm was draped over the shoulder of his girlfriend, his armpit dark with perspiration. He had become bored with the conversation. He waved his free hand at the air. “I never told you two guys I was sorry you got left behind at the Ardennes,” he said. “Actually, I thought a bunch of y’all might have hightailed it.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“The woods were swarming with deserters. Everybody made a big deal out of that Slovik kid going before a firing squad. I personally think he had it coming, although I wasn’t unsympathetic with his situation. Considering what those Tigers did, I might have bagged it, too. Our headquarters got the crap knocked out of it. When we retook the area and didn’t find y’all’s bodies, I figured maybe you’d surrendered or headed over the hill for parts unknown.”

“That’s not what happened, though, is it?” I said.

“No, you ended up with the goddamn Silver Star,” Fincher said. “Where’s that waiter?”

“But you’re saying you thought Hershel and I were deserters?”

“No, what I said was the woods were full of them. And I think Eddie Slovik deserved death by a firing squad.” Fincher’s girlfriend was trying to shush him, to no avail. “What did you think I was trying to say?” he said to me.

“I guess I misunderstood you,” I replied.

He hiccupped and let his eyes settle fondly on Linda Gail. “Castle Productions, you say?”

“Yes, sir, that’s the name of the company. You have it absolutely right,” she answered.

He squeezed his girlfriend against him, then looked back at Linda Gail. “Think you can get roles for the likes of us?” he said. “I bet it’s more fun out there than three monkeys trying to hump a football. You never know which way the dice are coming out of the cup, do you?”

He laughed to himself. I had no idea at what.

Chapter

11

HERSHEL AND I signed all the loan documents the following morning, and Fincher’s attorney presented us with a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I tried to forget the events of the previous evening. I told myself that Fincher’s boorish behavior was indicative of his kind and didn’t necessarily mean he served a corrupt enterprise. But one detail would not go away: He seemed intrigued by the name of the production company Linda Gail had signed a contract with, at the same time disclaiming any knowledge about the movie industry or serious interest in it.

He and his girlfriend had taken adjoining rooms down the veranda, and had not checked out yet. I tapped on his door. “I need to talk to you a minute about last night, Lloyd,” I said.

“That business about deserters? I got tongue-tied, that’s all. Too much flak juice.”