disappeared. Why did you stay?”
“Oh,” she said with comprehension. “I get you. I stayed here in case they turned up.”
“Don’t you think that’s kind of eerie, Martin?” I asked that night, as he put away the leftovers and I washed the dishes.
“Eerie? Sentimental, maybe. They’re obviously not going to turn up alive, after all these years.”
I recalled the saccharine pictures in the apartment, the figurine. All very sentimental. “Maybe so,” I conceded reluctantly.
“Did you see that Angel and I had rearranged the living room?” I asked after a moment. I squeezed out my sponge and pulled the plug. The sink water drained out with a big gurgle, like a dragon drinking water.
“It looks good. I think the gallery table Jane left you needs some work, though. One of the legs is loose.”
“I think maybe you’d better tell me about the Young-bloods, Martin.”
“I told you, Shelby needed a job . . .”
I gathered my courage. “No, Martin, tell me really.”
He was hanging up the dishtowel on a rack mounted beside the sink. He got it exactly straight.
“I wondered when you were going to ask,” he said finally.
“I wondered when you were going to tell.”
He turned to face me and leaned against the counter. I leaned against the one at right angles to him. I crossed my arms across my chest. His sleeves were rolled up and his tie was loosened. He crossed his arms across his chest, too. I wondered what a body-language expert would make of this.
“Are the Youngbloods my jailers? Are they here to keep an eye on me?” I thought I’d lead off with the most obvious question.
Martin swallowed. My heart was pounding as if I’d been running.
“I knew Shelby in Vietnam,” he began. “He helped me get through it.”
I nodded, just to show I was registering this information.
“After the war . . . after our part of the war ... I’d met some intelligence people in Vietnam. I spoke some Spanish already, and so did Shelby. We had some Hispanic guys in our unit and we spoke Spanish with them, got a lot better. It was something to do.”
Martin’s knuckles were white as he gripped his crossed arms.
“So, after we left Nam, we left the Army but we signed on with another company that was really the government.”
“You were asked?”
“Yes.” His eyes met mine for the first time, the pale brown eyes edged with black lashes and brows that were Martin’s most immediately striking feature. “We were asked. And in our—
working with us, was Jimmy Dell Dunn, a swamp boy from Florida who’d grown up next to some exiled Cubans. His Spanish was even better than ours.” Martin half-smiled and shook his head at some fleeting memory of a time and place I couldn’t even imagine.
“What we did was,” he resumed, “sell guns. Really, we were giving them away. But it was supposed to seem like we were an independent company selling them. What can I say, Roe? I thought, at least at the beginning, that I was doing something good for my country. I never made any personal profit. But it’s become harder and harder to know who the good guys are.” He was looking out the window into the night. I wondered if the Youngbloods could look outside the side window of their apartment and down into our kitchen. I could not move to draw the curtain.
And Martin had his own private view of darkness.
Guns. Guns were better than drugs. Right? Of course with all Martin’s trips to South America, I had been worried Martin’s pirate side had led him into the dangerous and lucrative drug trade, though Martin had often expressed profound contempt for those who used drugs and those who sold them. Guns were better.
“And we delivered them, in some very remote places, to right- wing groups. Some of these people were okay, some were crazy. They were all very tough. A few were just— bandits.”
I pulled my glasses off and rubbed my eyes with my hand. I had a headache. I put them back on and pushed them up on my
“Oh,” she said with comprehension. “I get you. I stayed here in case they turned up.”
“Don’t you think that’s kind of eerie, Martin?” I asked that night, as he put away the leftovers and I washed the dishes.
“Eerie? Sentimental, maybe. They’re obviously not going to turn up alive, after all these years.”
I recalled the saccharine pictures in the apartment, the figurine. All very sentimental. “Maybe so,” I conceded reluctantly.
“Did you see that Angel and I had rearranged the living room?” I asked after a moment. I squeezed out my sponge and pulled the plug. The sink water drained out with a big gurgle, like a dragon drinking water.
“It looks good. I think the gallery table Jane left you needs some work, though. One of the legs is loose.”
“I think maybe you’d better tell me about the Young-bloods, Martin.”
“I told you, Shelby needed a job . . .”
I gathered my courage. “No, Martin, tell me really.”
He was hanging up the dishtowel on a rack mounted beside the sink. He got it exactly straight.
“I wondered when you were going to ask,” he said finally.
“I wondered when you were going to tell.”
He turned to face me and leaned against the counter. I leaned against the one at right angles to him. I crossed my arms across my chest. His sleeves were rolled up and his tie was loosened. He crossed his arms across his chest, too. I wondered what a body-language expert would make of this.
“Are the Youngbloods my jailers? Are they here to keep an eye on me?” I thought I’d lead off with the most obvious question.
Martin swallowed. My heart was pounding as if I’d been running.
“I knew Shelby in Vietnam,” he began. “He helped me get through it.”
I nodded, just to show I was registering this information.
“After the war . . . after our part of the war ... I’d met some intelligence people in Vietnam. I spoke some Spanish already, and so did Shelby. We had some Hispanic guys in our unit and we spoke Spanish with them, got a lot better. It was something to do.”
Martin’s knuckles were white as he gripped his crossed arms.
“So, after we left Nam, we left the Army but we signed on with another company that was really the government.”
“You were asked?”
“Yes.” His eyes met mine for the first time, the pale brown eyes edged with black lashes and brows that were Martin’s most immediately striking feature. “We were asked. And in our—
working with us, was Jimmy Dell Dunn, a swamp boy from Florida who’d grown up next to some exiled Cubans. His Spanish was even better than ours.” Martin half-smiled and shook his head at some fleeting memory of a time and place I couldn’t even imagine.
“What we did was,” he resumed, “sell guns. Really, we were giving them away. But it was supposed to seem like we were an independent company selling them. What can I say, Roe? I thought, at least at the beginning, that I was doing something good for my country. I never made any personal profit. But it’s become harder and harder to know who the good guys are.” He was looking out the window into the night. I wondered if the Youngbloods could look outside the side window of their apartment and down into our kitchen. I could not move to draw the curtain.
And Martin had his own private view of darkness.
Guns. Guns were better than drugs. Right? Of course with all Martin’s trips to South America, I had been worried Martin’s pirate side had led him into the dangerous and lucrative drug trade, though Martin had often expressed profound contempt for those who used drugs and those who sold them. Guns were better.
“And we delivered them, in some very remote places, to right- wing groups. Some of these people were okay, some were crazy. They were all very tough. A few were just— bandits.”
I pulled my glasses off and rubbed my eyes with my hand. I had a headache. I put them back on and pushed them up on my
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