The Laughing Falcon by William Deverell Page B

Maggie had merrily told him her tale of being swindled; Walker had pulled several hundred dollars from his wallet and pressed them on her, refusing to hear her protests. She accepted the money, but only as a loan to be repaid with appropriate interest. But still she felt vaguely compromised.
    A champagne celebration was scheduled for after lunch: this was anniversary day. “No fancy folderol,” Chuck said, “that’s an order; we’re just having a casual glass of cheer with friends.”
    The dining room was deserted except for the AP reporter, Ed Creeley. Maggie poured herself a coffee and joined him, determined to endure his cynicism.
    “Got any idea why we’re here, Schneider? Guy’s seeking the Republican nomination; what’s he doing in this shithole, trying to tie up the monkey vote?”
    “Maybe it’s the female vote he’s after.”
    “That why they brought you in? To write about his romantic escape to paradise?”
    Despite Maggie’s repeated assurance that she was not Walker’s secret hireling, retained weeks ago, Creeley insistedshe was not here coincidentally: the scenario satisfied his need to find evil machinations everywhere.
    “Guy’s a lightweight. He got in by a fluky few thousand votes. He’s a senator for one measly year and suddenly he sees himself as leader of the free world? Chuck’s got as much chance getting past the primaries as a frog in a flushing toilet. Especially with that albatross around his neck.”
    That seemed an awkward metaphor to describe Gloria-May but the reporter could be right: despite her beauty and her buoyant openness (or because of it), her tart tongue seemed a political liability.
    “Thank God,” Creeley said, “because imagine his itchy fucking finger on the trigger.”
    Maggie was not particularly starchy about the occasional blunt Anglo-Saxon word, but with Creeley she endured a surfeit. He picked up on her reproving expression, lit a cigarette, and wandered out to the veranda.
    As she was tucking into her half-melon, Orvil Schumenbacker, the campaign manager, came in with a lazy pudgy smile and passed Maggie a typewritten sheet. “Here are some questions you might want to ask the senator this afternoon.”
    “Thank you very much.”
    With elaborate carelessness, she stuck his notes unread in her bag, letting him know her art was not to be choreographed. She could not believe Walker was as boring as made out by the pamphlets and speech reprints that had been showered on her: a man with a “mission,” bent on “restoring America’s greatness.” To give Walker credit, he seemed truly patriotic, though of firm, even rigid beliefs, and he was no coward; he had won the Medal of Honor for his bravery in Vietnam.
    Schumenbacker excused himself as Glo slid into the chair next to her. “I have jungleitis. The next canopy I see better be hanging over a bed. After these crackers take off tomorrow, what do y’all say we scoot on down to the beach? Find ourselves a big old fancy hotel with a damn pool.”
    Maggie eagerly agreed: the body and the broomstick go to the beach. Maybe they could even take a kayak tour with the grumpy giant.
    “Chester’s sulking about me hanging around Manuel Antonio beach. I might get in a widdle twubble. I am going to have a holiday if it kills me.” She turned to the waiter. “Miguel, you be a sweetie now, and put the champagne on to chill.” The young man looked long and solemnly at her, uncomprehending. “El vino de bubbly. On ice.”
    Miguel finally trotted off after Glo mimed popping a cork and fizz coming from her glass, then returned with a glass of champagne with a cube of ice in it. “That’s not … Oh, forget it.” Glo accepted the glass and waved him away.
    “Okay, Glo, what lies do you want to tell me for my article?” Maggie brought out her notepad, and asked her how she had met her husband. The setting had been a show in Vegas, which he had attended with some fellow officers. Glo had recognized Colonel Walker