Chapter 38

Hugo’s out getting yet another bushel of tomatoes to take up to the market. He’s so damn proud of what he makes selling all the stuff he grew. I told him he was digging the garden too big, and I think he was pretty shocked at the yield he got, but he’s sure been delighted at being able to sell it.

The other night he even broached the idea of making his living as a farmer. I had to be careful about discouraging him; he’s so happy that I can’t bring myself to tell him how little he’s getting in the grand scheme of things. Even subsistence farming isn’t really possible for one man alone, not even one as strong and industrious as Hugo.

I’m in the kitchen brewing up some tomato sauce for the freezer—I’ll be damned if we’ll sell all of it—when I hear somebody drive up. I’ve been doing just about everything but food shopping on-line so we get a lot of deliveries, but I don’t recall ordering anything lately. I turn down the burner and walk out to see who it is.

Oh, shit, shit, shit, it’s Irving! Oh, goddammit. What the hell is Irving doing here? He’ll see Hugo, and I’ll have to introduce them, and he’ll stay to chat, and Hugo’s not nearly ready, and—

Well, nothing to do but put the best face on it I can. Tremaine, I remember. James Tremaine. I hope to hell Hugo remembers. I walk out on the porch and wave as Irving gets out of the car.

“Irving, what on Earth are you doing here?” I ask, making sure to smile broadly as I say it.

“Well, I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by,” he tells me smoothly. In the neighborhood? The office is five hundred miles away. His home is five hundred miles away.

I guess he sees the surprise in my expression. “I’m vacating, Linda,” he says. “On vacation. Lawyers do take vacations, you know. Well, partners do, it seems that associates take sabbaticals.”

My laughter’s a little weak—hell, my knees are weak—but I manage it. He’s looking around, and his eyes, dammit, go right to where Hugo’s working.

“And would that be the very important Mr. Tremaine?” he asks. All I can do is gape at him.

“You left footprints, Linda,” he explains. “Not that hard to track if one tries. And one sort of felt it obligatory to try, given the rather odd circumstances. I wanted to be sure you weren’t in some sort of trouble.”

“Irving, you snoop!” I say. I keep my voice light, but inside I’m getting more worried by the minute. “You just couldn’t bear being left in the dark!”

“Well, I do confess to curiosity,” he says with a twinkle. There’s that little boy inside taking another peek around and reminding me how much I like Irving. “But it was a legitimate inquiry. The firm needs to know what its associates are up to, and the mystery was a little greater than we were comfortable with.”

“And now you know.”

“And now we know,” he repeats.

“Look, I can explain... ,” I begin. But how the hell can I? Oh, Christ, there goes my future.

But Irving’s holding up his hand palm outward. “No explanation needed,” he says. “Linda, I think this is one of the most selfless, most admirable things I’ve ever seen.”

Huh?

“I have no idea what obligation you may feel toward James Tremaine,” he goes on. “James? Jim?”

I shake my head. “Whatever. Either.”

“Or perhaps it was toward his poor late mother. But taking on drug rehabilitation single-handedly is a daunting prospect, and yet you were willing to put your future at risk to do so.”

This is beyond surreal, I can’t even speak. I just stand there staring at him.

“Yes, I know about his history,” Irving’s going on. “There were no convictions, but several arrests; it was just a question of time before he’d wind up incarcerated. He was on a downward spiral. But of course you knew that.”

“Uh... ,” I begin before I realize that I have absolutely no idea what to say.

“And from the look of things your progress has been remarkable,” he says, looking out at Hugo again. “For a city boy who’s never lived in the country he certainly appears to have adapted well to your program. Yes, remarkable.” Just then Hugo straightens up; he’s got the basket full, I can see tomatoes brimming at the top. Effortlessly he lifts it, rests it on his shoulder and begins to walk back.

Irving’s eyes get big. “Truly remarkable,” he says.

“Well,” I say, “Hu— uh, Jim’s worked really hard. He’s come a long way.” It’s pretty feeble, but it’s all I can come up with.

Then it gets worse. I see Hugo stop and very slowly lower the basket to the ground. Still moving slowly he reaches into his pocket.

I know what’s coming, but I can’t think how to stop it. Rabbits started getting into the garden early on, and Hugo decided they were better on the menu than eating it; he’s been nailing them with his sling. He says it helps keep him in practice, too. I was kind of appalled at the idea at first, but actually rabbit tastes pretty good and lately I’ve been encouraging him.

There’s that same unbelievably quick move and it’s done. He doesn’t need the second stone I know he has in his palm, which is the only blessing; if Irving saw that ... but this is bad enough. What kind of city kid learns how to use a sling? Hell, what American kid anywhere?

I think Irving doesn’t really understand what he’s seen until Hugo goes over to retrieve the rabbit. He reaches down and I know he’s wringing its neck, the stones don’t usually kill clean—thank God Irving doesn’t see that part—and then he holds it up proudly; “dinner!” he shouts to me.

Irving turns to me with amazement all over his face. “Did he just kill that?” he asks.

“Y-yes,” I stammer. I can’t exactly deny it, Irving watched him do it.

“How?“

“Well ... with a sling.”

“A sling? A slingshot? But that’s—”

I’m shaking my head. “A sling,” I say. “It’s different. Like David and Goliath, you know.” But my mind is whirling out of control, this is going way badly and I haven’t even introduced them yet.

“And how the hell does Jim Tremaine from downtown—” he names the city “—learn to use a sling? Like that?“

“It’s, well, it’s part of the rehab,” I say. “He wanted to learn, so I thought it would help, and then he got good at it.” What else is there to say? I try a little distraction. “We eat them, you know,” I say, hoping it’ll gross him out. “Stewed. Rabbit’s pretty tasty. Kind of like chicken.”

Irving makes a face at me, so at least it worked a little. And now Hugo’s coming up to us.

“Hello,” Hugo begins, holding out his hand to Irving. “I am—”

I cut him off quickly. “Irving, this is Jim Tremaine,” I say firmly. “Jim, this is Irving Thallberg, my boss back at the office.”

Hugo picks up the cue immediately, thank God; even as sharp as I know he is, I keep underestimating him. “Yes, Jim,” he says. “It is very good to meet you, Irving.”

That’s a bit of a glitch, the real Jim Tremaine wouldn’t use Irving’s first name, but I’m still underestimating. “You do not mind that I call you Irving?” he continues. “Linda speaks of you often and well, so I think of you that way.”

“By all means,” says Irving politely. “And I’m pleased to meet you.”

My shoulders sag with relief; maybe it’ll be all right after all. I invite Irving in—hell, I can’t really tell him to get lost—and they chat about the garden on the way. Hugo’s inflections are still a little unusual, but he’s got so good with English that I don’t think it’s all that noticeable.

I’m in the kitchen putting the rabbit in a plastic bag—butchering is Hugo’s job—when I hear Irving ask to see the sling. Well, that’s modern, no problem. Hugo shows it to him, and shows him how it works.

“And you can hit a rabbit with it?” Irving asks. He sounds casual. “That’s quite a feat. How long have you been using it?”

Oh, shit, too casual. He’s one of the best criminal lawyers in the whole damn country.

“Since I am here,” says Hugo, surprising me again. I give a little sigh of relief. It’s true, too, so far as that sling goes.

“Are you enjoying it here?” Irving goes on in the same tone. I’ve heard that damn tone before, it’s the one he uses to spring traps on witnesses. I set the rabbit down and walk back in quickly where they’re sitting. “It must feel good to be out in the country after all those years of city life.”

Hugo looks at him and doesn’t speak at all for a moment. My God, he knows what’s going on, I think; I have no idea how, but he knows he’s being tested. “Yes,” he says slowly. “It does feel good.”

Irving looks over at me, and then turns back to Hugo. Very gently he reaches out to take Hugo’s wrist and turn it over so the inside of the forearm is exposed. Exactly where, oh ­Jesus, you’d find the needle tracks on a druggie.

I see Irving nod. He looks into Hugo’s eyes.

“Would you tell me your name, please?” he says in that same easy, casual tone.

“Irving, he’s Jim Tremaine!” I cry out. “Look, he’s even got an ID card, Hu— uh, Jim, go get—”

“I know he has an ID, Linda,” Irving interrupts. His voice has suddenly gone very cold. “I also know, now, that it was obtained under false pretenses.” The irrelevant thought flashes through my mind that this, like so much legalese, is a stupid way to say it; whoever heard of true pretenses?

But I focus on the present. “You want a birth certificate, then?” I demand. “I can show you that, too.”

Irving sighs. “Linda, I can get a photo. The real Jim Tremaine had a driver’s license back home. Do I need to do that?”

“Dammit, Irving—” I start, but this time it’s Hugo who stops me.

“No, Linda,” he says. “I think this day will come. I hope not, and I hope not so soon, but it has come. This man will not be deceived, I cannot be someone I am not.” He turns back to Irving. “I am Ougo of the Calvalli,” he says formally. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him say it that way. “Linda say Hugo, and here I will be Hugo, you may speak to me by that name.”

“Very well, Hugo,” says Irving. His voice is still as cold as ice. “Now, which of you wishes to tell me the reason for this charade?” His gaze shifts back and forth between Hugo and me. “This highly illegal charade?”

Well, that’s that. “Shit,” I say. “I will, Irving.” Or I’ll try; but if I know Irving it’s going to be hopeless.