Nobody's Angel by Thomas Mcguane Read Free Book Online Page B

sold the cabin cruiser. We had it in Corpus. It was to go to Padre Island. Padre Island is kind of a redneck Riviera. It has great birds. But Tio kept running aground. Tio has kind of a health problem. So when the Coast Guard said they wouldn’t rescue us anymore, Tio said, ‘That does it. I’ll spend my money in another area. The northern grasslands, for instance.’ ”
    “Has it been a good move?”
    “The jury is still out. Tio’s starved for conversation. Nobody does much oil here, not to mention cattle futures, row crops or running horses.”
    “Did Tio inherit his money?” I’ve had enough of Tio. Why am I asking this?
    “Let’s say he got it somehow. But he’s done right smart with what he got.” It was a hollow advertisement.
    “I see.”
    “And in some ways he’s a very private person. About the only way somebody’d get his telephone number at home is if one of his bird dogs run away and they got it off its collar.”
    Patrick moved upon the pie, ate half of it, swiggedsome coffee and asked (this will get her off balance), “When was the last time you blushed?” He blushed. Sapland.
    “At my wedding.” It didn’t get her off balance.
    “Really.”
    “Oklahoma girls are trained to pull off one of those in their lives. After that, they are never required to do it again.”
    “I blushed at my First Communion.”
    “Are you a Catholic?”
    “I consider myself one.”
    “You mean you aren’t practicing.”
    “That is correct.”
    “Then why do you consider yourself one?”
    “It makes me feel I’m just that much less of a white man.”
    “Aha!”
    Patrick managed to pay for the ice cream and walk Claire to her car. He held the door for her. She ducked in and, talking to him, made a blind reach for the climate control, then the sound system. Four speakers boom in Jamaican: “
Natty don’t work for no CIA.
” She grinned.
    “Amo shuffle on home,” she said. “Babylon by Cadillac.”
    “Can you give me a lift to my truck?”
    “Get on in.”
    The cool interior was wonderful, the simulated-walnut dashboard reassuring in that someone cared to keep up appearances. No high tech here, just plastic that ached for ancient hardwoods.
    “Take your first right.” They cruised up Main and turned. “Sure is nice and cool in here.”
    “I don’t imagine that’s much of a problem in Montana. What in the world do people do in the winter?”
    “Just hang around the salad bars. There’s nothing quite like Green Goddess at thirty below. Take another right.”
    Two more rights and they were back where they started, in front of Patrick’s truck. Patrick opened the door. “Thanks a lot.”
    “Sure enjoyed circling the block with you. And say, the conversation was great.”
    “Same to you goes double.”
    Claire smiled. “I like dragging Main in the heat of the day. Been crazy about it since I don’t know when.”
    “Good-bye.”
    “Good-bye.”
    Patrick thought, This is more horrible than a glint of bayonets in the concertina wire.

11
     
    THE NEXT DAY , PATRICK THOUGHT THAT A GOOD MEAL MIGHT help Mary. His grandfather was bitching about the cuisine as well. So he drove to town for some supplies. He thought first about tea-smoked duck but remembered that all the ducks left in the freezer were green-winged teal—too small, really, for what he wanted. He recalled the advice of the master chef Paul Bocuse: Shop first, then decide what you’re going to make; attend to the seasons—no strawberries for Christmas dinner, no game for Easter.
    He entered the IGA store already primed, then excited once he had the shopping cart. He found black mushrooms, cloud ears and Szechwan peppers without a hitch. He was on a run. He found a fifty-pound bag of beautiful long-grain South Carolina rice effortlessly. The huge-clovedCalifornia garlics and fresh ginger set him on his heels; so that when he found the strong, perfect leeks bound together with paper-wrapped wire, smelled the earth in the darkened