Big Fish

  This book made available by the Internet Archive.

  For Jo

  IS THERE LIFE AFTER DEATH? TRESPASS AND FIND OUT.

  The poster on the fence rail was commercially printed in vermillion ink with a veneer that made it look wet. As Altmeyer glanced beyond it into the shadowy woods, he could see several more nailed to the gray bark of tree trunks, each protected from the weather by a sheet of clear plastic that puckered a bit at the edges. Raymond was a man who took everything into account.

  Altmeyer turned off the van's engine and lit a cigarette, then cocked his head. "Wait where you are. I hear the Hope of Mankind's truck." Rachel watched him step down from the van and walk across the gravel, his cowboy boots leaving the only tracks, then lean against the fence post.

  Flights of tiny brown sparrows retreated with nervous flutters to higher branches of the surrounding trees as the sound of the engine came nearer. Then the black pickup truck bounced around the dog-leg turn, its oversized knob-treaded tires kicking particles of gravel into the weeds beside the road. When the driver saw Altmeyer he stopped fifty feet away, backed the truck over a patch of wild strawberries to turn it

  around, and waited, the covered spotlights on the truck's roof brushing the low-hanging leaves of an oak tree. Altmeyer slowly walked up the road to the driver's side of the truck and looked into the cab.

  Raymond's head was resting against the rear window of the cab. Under the green baseball cap his curly hair stuck out like a frayed wool lining. His eyes squinted at the rearview mirror. "Is that your daughter?"

  "She's nobody. I have a heavy load of guns and a lot to keep track of this trip. She doesn't know what state she's in."

  "Heavy load?" Ray's clear blue eyes swept to Altmeyer's face, suddenly alert. "Somebody around here?"

  Altmeyer blew a cloud of smoke out and watched it move slowly down the road, rising into the calm air, then disperse among the leaves. "I've got your order."

  Raymond reached to the seat beside him and handed Altmeyer an envelope.

  Altmeyer walked back to the van, tossed the envelope in the window, and returned with a canvas bundle tied with twine. He laid the bundle down on the bed of the pickup truck and waited while Raymond walked around to the tailgate before untying the twine and unrolling the canvas. Inside were three short black AR-15 carbines, their barrels and receivers gleaming with a thin coating of oil. Raymond brought one to his shoulder and sighted it into the trees. "Looks all right." He studied the left side of the receiver and flicked the selector with his thumb. "Is it?"

  "It's all there. Genuine M-16 bolt carrier, hammer, trigger, disconnector, and selector. The auto sear was machined privately and it's better than anything out of the factory. All put together like the cat's ass. You want to break it down and take a look? Or you can spend the next couple of hours blasting your livestock into piles of hamburger—they say it's the sport of kings—and I can swing back through here tonight and pick up your written endorsement."

  "No," said Raymond. "They'll do."

  "I'm having a special today on forty-round magazines for

  those. You interested? I can give you six for a hundred and fifty. They're top of the line."

  "Regular army issue?"

  "The army doesn't issue forty-round clips—must figure if you shoot somebody twenty times you've done enough for him. I told you they were top of the line."

  Raymond stared into the distance, then shook his head. "Next time you're around, give me a call."

  Rachel watched Altmeyer walk slowly back to the van, then climb in and start the engine. She said, "There's exactly three thousand. Is that right?"

  He lit another cigarette, smiling. "I forgot to tell you. It's different with these people. They never shortchange you. They're not in the business, they're addicts. That one probably counted the money fifty times while he was saving it up. Perfect customers."

  "What do you mean? That isn't much profit, is it? We've always done better than that."

  "They're steady and predictable. That one just got himself three fully operational automatic military assault rifles. Just possessing a rifle like that is worth five years in Leavenworth, but he's got to have them, and whatever else he can save up the cash for."

  "Why did he want three?"

  Altmeyer shrugged and stepped on the gas. "Because he couldn't come up with the cash for four? It's hard to say. Probably wants a couple stashed in bunkers around his place in case he's too far from the house when the Russians sail up the Rogue River in submarines or waves of Chinese stream through Grant's Pass to gang-rape his pickup truck. You've got to admit the truck's a little beauty, isn't it? I could hardly control my own lust."

  "Stop leering, Altmeyer. Be serious for a minute. If you want me to learn this business, you've got to tell me what the business is."

  "By themselves none of these survivalist types amounts to much. The year before last Raymond bought a few things.

  Last year I guess he probably spent what he had on dried food or something. Maybe next year somebody will talk him into building a bomb-proof shelter for his outhouse or an electric generator that runs on nuclear fallout, but in the long run I'll get my share of his money. These people wake up in the morning and read the papers and something happens to them."

  Rachel shook her head. "It doesn't seem like a good idea to do this kind of business with people you think are stupid and crazy. When I signed on we were shipping arms to the Afghans, not delivering automatic weapons in twos and threes to a bunch of maniacs."

  Altmeyer sighed. "This isn't much different from what we've always done. You meet a man on a dirt road, take his money, put what was in your truck into his, and get out."

  "The trouble with you is that you try to be worse than you already are, which is about as bad as anyone can be."

  "You're wrong. It's a good time to get out of the war business. We've been lucky to last this long, and gun nuts are a safe, easy way to keep all our suppliers happy. For the next year, we'll sell lots of small arms to solid citizens who can pay idiotic prices for things they don't need. Then we'll quit."

  "We're used to dealing with people who know what they're doing."

  "These people are even better. It's a cash business, because they're more scared than you are of the government figuring out what they spent it on. Tonight Raymond will fire off a burst from each of those AR-15s just to see if I cheated him, then put them away somewhere he thinks nobody will ever find them. He'll never touch them again, except to clean and oil them, until he sees the first Russian in his henhouse."

  "Did you cheat him?" said Rachel.

  Altmeyer laughed, and put his cigarette in the ashtray. "That's one part of the business that never changes. You have to understand your customers, but you have to resist the temptation to sell them shit. Otherwise, one of them is going to come looking for you with a machine gun that only works

  medium-well. The damned things never jam when they're pointed at you."

  "But you're overcharging, aren't you?"

  "They know what they're getting, and they know the price. Ray Minor lives out here in the first place because he's positive that pretty soon something's going to happen that makes money obsolete."

  "Everything about this feels like trouble."

  "Is this the girl who showed no fear when the Russian helicopters in Afghanistan were firing rockets at her?"

  "I thought they were aiming at you."

  SAN FRANCISCO

  ■

  Rachel's eyes were focused on the candle flame, and she seemed about to let herself smile. Altmeyer whispered, "If you're going to slip into an erotic trance, I hope it's anticipation and not just memory."

  Rachel looked up at him. "If we ever have a baby, I'd like to have it be a time like last night. Every
few years we could all drive by that little hotel up north, just to see if it's still there."

  "What's wrong with this hotel?" asked Altmeyer. "We can be pretty confident that the Prince Andrei de San Francisco will make it to the next earthquake." He considered. "In any case, we can count on it for tonight."

  "Altmeyer," she said. "I'm being romantic, and you're just being dirty. I don't think I want to look forward to taking any child to this place."

  "It's the height of elegance. The food is astounding. You can't complain about the clientele—that woman's sable coat would buy that little hotel in Oregon six or seven times over."

  "What she did for it would buy her an even littler place in Leavenworth six or seven times over. If you really hked the Prince Andrei, we'd come here more than just once a year for the annual smugglers' convention."

  *' 'Importers' Trade Conference' is the term."

  "If the authorities had any sense they'd throw a net over this place. Can you see even one person in this restaurant who isn't here to make a deal that's illegal?"

  "I don't know this waiter very well." He lifted his hand in a little wave, and the waiter stepped toward them. "My wife would like to know ... if we could have two more of these brandies."

  As the waiter swept away from the table, Rachel smiled. "I love you."

  Altmeyer touched her hand. "I love you, too. We'll be on our way early in the morning so you won't miss Bucky's party, if that's what's worrying you. I just figured that since we were in the area, I'd see who's got what this year."

  Rachel's green eyes were veiled by her long, brown hair. "Maybe we should stop scrambling around like door-to-door salesmen collecting money for Altmeyer's Last Deal and face our future."

  "Retirement?"

  "Maybe. What will you do, Altmeyer? Get fat and pickle yourself in alcohol?" Rachel tried to pinch his side just above his belt, but couldn't find any spare flesh.

  "I thought I'd keep in training by entering sexual marathons."

  "Marathons?"

  "You know, this isn't something a man my age should just leap into without training for it. I happen to know there's another nice little hotel about a hundred miles from here that—"

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "That's very interesting. You old-timers certainly do know the terrain, don't you? And your mind is still clear, even at your age."

  "A simple yes would have warmed my old bones, and perhaps guarded against future heart problems."

  A blond man suddenly appeared beside their table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. "I've got a gun you can see." He

  was wearing a charcoal suit, and had one hand in his coat pocket. He was in his thirties, and his chest and shoulders strained against the fabric of his coat as though he were compressed to an unnatural density.

  "No, thank you," said Rachel. "I'm sure that lady over there would be titillated by anything you care to show her." She pointed to the woman carefully moving her white shoulder into more attractive proximity to the black sable draped on the back of her chair.

  "Fm serious," said the man.

  The waiter returned with the two glasses of brandy on a small silver tray, and placed them on the table. As Rachel took hers, the waiter asked the blond man, "Can I get you anything, sir?"

  "No, thank you," he said. "We're about ready for the check."

  Altmeyer said quietly, "You were telling us you're serious. That's a good quality. Get up now and go to a table where people will appreciate it."

  "You don't understand. I know you're here for the convention."

  Rachel lit a cigarette, and shifted closer to the man. "We're not here to look at guns this year. We're just passing through, and we'd hke to be alone."

  The man's broad face seemed to brighten with confidence. "Oh, this won't take long. You've got either lots of merchandise or lots of money somewhere, probably in your car. You take me to it, and then I go away."

  Very slowly, Altmeyer smiled. He turned to Rachel and said, "I get it, Sandra. This man knows we're selling stolen perfume, and would like to rob us. That's the purpose of the gun."

  Rachel was still leaning close to the man, and didn't pull back.

  The man nodded and said, "I take what you've got, and we all go away. You won't make trouble or call the police

  even after I'm gone, because they'd like to have you more than me."

  As the man was speaking, Rachel seemed to move even closer. Her glass of brandy had disappeared under the tablecloth. Finally, she set the empty glass on the table and stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray with impatience. She said to the man, "You know, dear, you really should have picked someone else. Any table in this room would have been better for you."

  The man said, "Here's the check." The waiter misunderstood and set it down in front of him, then retired.

  Altmeyer tossed some money on the tiny tray and looked at the man almost sympathetically. "Sandra's right. You're really not ready for us."

  Rachel picked up the lighter and lit another cigarette in a smooth motion that brought the lighter down beside the man's coat.

  The man began to speak calmly. "I'm . . ." Then there was a soft poof as his brandy-soaked coat ignited. He jumped to his feet and shrieked, "I'm perfectly happy." The coat tails and left side glowed with a bluish aura of burning brandy, and bright yellow flames flickered up toward the man's face. He was flapping both arms now, frantically trying to put out the fire, but in his right hand was a Smith and Wesson police special with a thick, checkered grip.

  People at surrounding tables stood up, their mouths open in little circles, and a murmur of voices filled the room. The crystal chandelier over the center table began to tinkle softly with the vibration. Altmeyer yanked the man's coat downward as though he were trying to get it off him, but the sleeves held the man's arms down at his sides and wouldn't go over the gun in his hand, which was now entangled in the burning coat.

  Altmeyer shouted in an officious tone, "Don't be alarmed about the gun. This man is a police officer."

  Four waiters threw the man to the floor and wrapped him in tablecloths as Rachel and Altmeyer slipped into the throng of diners who were making their way to the door. A man in a

  cashmere suit held a menu up as though to shield his face from the photographers that commotion seemed always to summon from nowhere.

  Rachel stopped in the doorway and said, "It's all right. He says he's perfectly happy."

  LOS ANGELES

  I

  'A:

  Itmeyer!" The fat man's stiff little legs jerked him forward across the circular mosaic set into the lawn. "And the lovely Rachel." He shielded his eyes with the hand that held his glass, spilling a few drops of liquid onto the shoulder of his dark blue blazer. "That is the lovely Rachel, isn't it?"

  "You know it is, Bucky," said Rachel. "I keep telling you that Altmeyer just plays hard. He doesn't cheat."

  "Good. Hate to begin the evening with another classic humiUation." He stood on tiptoes to kiss her cheek. "You look better, if possible." He turned to Altmeyer. "Better than I remembered. I'll give you forty thousand for her, as is."

  "No thanks. I'd have to give her a percentage."

  "Stop trying to jack up the price. God, I hate businessmen," Bucky sighed. Then he grasped Rachel's arm with his chubby hand and leaned toward her. "Seriously, I'll bet I could get you a commercial in two weeks. Just today I placed a girl who looks exactly like a beagle. Dump this loser now. You've been discovered by Bucky Carmichael, more than a mere agent—a way of life."

  "Not until his youth and beauty are gone."

  "Suit yourself. But always remember that Bucky lusts after you and that he gives good parties. Come on. Let's get

  you both drinks and then launch into the introductions. You can think of them as a memory test."

  Across the swimming pool they could see the crowds of people on the patio, some sitting at round tables and others milling about in small groups. At the bar, a tall, thin, white-haired man in a blac
k velvet coat leaned on his elbows and watched the bartender pouring ingredients into a cocktail shaker.

  Bucky tapped the man on the shoulder and he moved only his head, turning it slowly and with little interest. When he spoke, his voice was deep and resonant. ''Bucky, get out of here. This gentleman is trving to demonstrate how to make a decent martini, and if I have to order many more—"

  Bucky ignored him. "Arthur, these are my neighbors, the Altmeyers." He turned to Altmeyer and Rachel. "And this is The Great Arthur Paston."

  "Pleased to meet you," said Altmeyer.

  "Yes," said Paston. "How many martinis would you like?" He didn't wait for an answer, but said to the bartender, "Give those to these nice Altmeyers here, and start over again, slowly. These old eyes aren't what they were when I got here tonight."

  The bartender, shrugging his shoulders, handed Altmeyer and Rachel a pair of sixteen-ounce tumblers, then started to mix another round under Arthur Paston's squinting gaze.

  "Who is the great Arthur Paston?" whispered Rachel.

  Bucky smirked. "One of the biggest directors ever. The Killers. Cellhlock Nineteen. He did musicals when there were musicals, westerns when there were westerns. He's older than he looks—probably helped Benjamin Franklin with his homework. I know for sure he directed Garbo, and that's about the same thing."

  "And now he's directing the bartender," said Altmeyer. "An industry giant at play."

  "Don't laugh," said Bucky. *That man is the secret of my success as an agent. Actors come and go so fast I hardly have time to learn their names, but Arthur Paston is forever. I have

  offers lined up for him that he wouldn't finish if he were his own great-grandson." Bucky's alert little eyes focused on a distant point. "Hey, can you two be trusted to mingle for a few minutes?"

  "We'll manage," said Rachel.

  "Thanks. I see my good friend and fellow agent Billy Bittmeister arriving, and if I don't shepherd him around he'll talk to somebody." He started to jog off, but held his drink in the air, spilling some more on his coat. "Don't get lost, though. I want to see you."