Wayfaring Stranger (Holland Family Saga 1)

“In what way?”

I kept my eyes on his. “Maybe he’ll try to mess up Linda Gail and Hershel’s marriage.”

“I hear she’s doing just fine. She’s got a role in a western being filmed in New Mexico. The director says she’s a natural.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I own part of the company that signed her up. I told you I’m in the movie business, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. Do you know Linda Gail very well?”

His cheeks were rosy. He smiled with his eyes, the way a woman would. “What are you asking me, my friend?”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“Don’t let McFey get to you. He’s fun to laugh about, but under it all, he’s an evil man. The oil business is full of low-level operatives like him. If the money is right, they’d kill the president. That’s not hyperbole. See what happens if Truman tries to get rid of the oil depletion allowance. It’s the biggest corporate swindle in the history of American taxation, but nobody dares touch it.”

I wasn’t interested in his politics or his cynical statements about the corrupt empire that he both served and was empowered by. “You’ve got quite a place here,” I said. “It’s enough to make a Bolshevik out of a fellow.”

“I’ve got an extra swimsuit that should fit you. How about it?”

Autumn was on the wind, and the sky had turned a hard blue, like an inverted ceramic bowl. Red and yellow oak leaves tumbled onto the shimmering silklike surface of the pool; even the sun seemed captured by the inviting quality of the water, like a wobbling yellow balloon just beneath the surface. “Why not?” I said.

“That’s the spirit, by God,” he said, slapping me on the thigh.

“Who’s that down there, Roy?” a harsh voice called from the landing at the top of the stairs.

“Mr. Holland dropped by, Clara. Everything is fine,” Wiseheart replied. “We’ll be in the pool.”

“Is he with someone?” she said.

“No, he’s come to talk about a business matter.”

I set my cup quietly in the saucer and rose from the table. “I’d better be going,” I said.

“No, dammit, you will not.” He walked through a hallway to the foot of the stairs. “Go back to bed, Clara. We’ll go to the club for lunch. Do you understand me? Everything is grand.”

“Send Pepe up,” she said.

“What for?”

“I want him to massage my back. My sciatica is particularly bad this morning.”

“Right away, dear,” Wiseheart said.

“Is your wife bothered by the prospect of Rosita being here?” I said.

“No. I give you my word,” he replied. “Clara has convinced herself that Communist agents working for the government are about to turn the IRS loose on us. Come on, be a good fellow and stay with me. The water is fine.”

He was right. Ten minutes later, I was floating facedown on an air mattress in the middle of the pool, my arms trailing in the coolness of the water, my back warm under the sun, the oak limbs rustling overhead, a vague and sleepy erotic sensation spreading through my loins. Was there a sybaritic element in Wiseheart’s environment that made me feel the way I did, the sensations a visitor to the Baths of Caracalla might experience? Wealth buys insularity, and together the two guarantee secret access to all the forbidden pleasures the world can offer. What better example of satiating one’s repressed desires and celebrating the self than the place I was enjoying?

Wiseheart sprang from the diving board and plummeted to the bottom of the pool, as sleek and graceful and hard-bodied as a porpoise. When he surfaced, his face was inches from mine, his breath sweet from a piece of mint on his tongue. “It’s like a bit of the ancient world, isn’t it?” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “It’s not easily given up, either. It’s not unlike the allure of a woman’s thighs.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“We’re in the midst of creating an empire. Our virtues are those of pagans, not Christians. Once you admit that, you’ll be surprised how many of your inner conflicts will leave you.”

“I don’t have inner conflicts.”