Jimmy and Jeannie watched his dad shamble toward the building. A crack of light appeared; someone was opening the door for him. Jimmy couldn't see who. His dad went inside. His dad. His mind was still reeling from that initial shock. But why the elaborate ruse, and where the hell had the old man been for the past dozen or so years? Jimmy had been sixteen years old when his father was (supposedly, he now knew) gunned down. Had his mother known he was alive? She'd had close to two months to tell him when she was languishing in that bed in the hospice.
"You okay?" Jeannie squeezed his hand and let go.
"I'm tired. I'm really tired."
"I don't know whether I'm tired because I'm cold or cold because I'm tired." Jeannie was shivering. She wore a little jacket but the sleeves came just past her elbows.
"Then let's go back inside that van to wait for them. At least there we'll be out of this wind."
It was windy, he realized. Really windy, blowing fast across the flat terrain. And cold. No humidity to trap the sun's warmth. He'd been too numb and tired, his nerves too frazzled to notice. Even Jeannie's presence was throwing him off, never mind learning his dad was alive. Maybe he'd popped into some parallel universe like in those old science fiction novels he used to read. Back when he was a kid. He barely read nowadays. He barely did anything but work and mope.
They went back into the back of the van where they could lie down and stretch out. Jimmy used a softer-looking plastic bag full of soil as a pillow. He felt as though he'd scarcely laid down his head when he was aware of the vehicle stopping. He couldn't remember anyone coming in or starting it up. Jeannie was up in the front passenger seat. She leaned around to say, "They've given us the all clear to go inside now."
"Who is 'they'?" he asked, blinking sleep out of his eyes, trying to remember where he was again.
His dad shut off the engine. "I'm a turncoat, Jimmy. Eddie and Robbie vamoosed to Europe because they had an inkling of what was coming—what with these other gangs moving in—Mexicans, Russians, Chinese, you name it—our days were numbered. This old Irish-Italian, yours truly, had had enough. Even Frank had no idea what went down back then. Only ... Rebecca."
In unison, Jeannie and Jimmy said incredulously, "Rebecca."
He jerked his head toward the building's side entrance. The door was open a crack and all Jimmy could see was someone's foot jutting out and part of their outstretched leg. The person was obviously leaning forward to someone inside. The sun had risen by now, enough to bathe the surroundings in assorted lavenders and purples, but had yet to peek above the mountains.
"Come on, I'll make the introductions."
Fifteen years' worth of repressed emotions boiled up inside of Jimmy. He braced himself on the hard metal floor of the van, his arms taught. Where had all this anger suddenly come from? Jeannie had already climbed out. He stayed put. "I want an explanation first."
The old man sighed. "That'll take all day, son."
"Then give me the cliff notes version."
He hunched his shoulders. "I'm an FBI informant. The picture that made it into the newspapers was me in case you were wondering. I did receive a bullet to the back of my head. Long story short, I survived but if I left that operating room under my own name I was a dead man. Rebecca—who I was having an affair with at the time—" He caught that Jimmy had flinched and shrugged unapologetically. "This was long before Frank and only well after I'd caught her with ... never mind. Doesn't matter now. She'd only been seeing me with the goal of hauling my sorry ass into jail anyway. So I was given the choice: cooperate with the Feds and spend the rest of my days in a witness protection program with no contact with anyone who knew me when I was alive, or wait for my enemies to take another shot at me. If you think jail could have stopped them ..." He gazed off and let out a deep sigh.
Maybe his momma was right when she trash talked him, Jimmy thought, calming down again. He lacked the energy to sustain any intense emotion for more than a few seconds. A couple of questions had been answered at any rate. She probably had no idea. He gazed at an unfamiliar, but friendly-looking round face that came out of the warehouse and approached them. Jimmy's dad said, "This is the boss man Rebecca reports to, Artie Hermann."
Jimmy came out of the van to shake hands with him. Rebecca emerged from the warehouse, a sheepish look on her face. She'd changed from her red silk dress into an elegant black pantsuit. In the dawn gloaming Jimmy could see her thick vest and the badge of some police-type agency he'd never heard of before. Not FBI or CIA, which was about all he was familiar with.
Jeannie snorted. "I knew something was up with you! Half the time you told me you were on shift there was no sign of you! But really, it was those field operations guides sitting along the bottom of your bookshelf that gave you away. You don't have a brother and your dad's been retired for at least twenty years from whatever he was doing."
"Air force," Rebecca reminded her. That much everyone knew already. Her dad had worked at some of those secret projects up in Groome Lake, or what conspiracy theorists referred to as Area 51. He assured them no alien technology was involved. Rebecca slung her arm around Jeannie's shoulder and herded her inside, mumbling praise about her sewing skills and something about one of her bosses taking notice.
The door stayed open and a steady murmur echoed out. Jimmy stayed put, stunned. His dad and Mr. Hermann had sidled away to discuss some private matter or other. There was too much for his brain to digest. Le Bon emerged from that same hangar door into the morning sunlight. "Mind if I smoke?"
"Only if I can have one too," Jimmy said, patting his pockets. If it weren't for his dreamlike, immersed-in-a-movie state of consciousness he probably would have waited to be offered one. He hadn't been raised entirely without manners. Le Bon held the lighter out. The end crackled and Jimmy took a long, refreshing haul. The smoke tasted only somewhat different than his Marlboros. A little lighter, but not much.
"This is agent Le Bon," Mr. Hermann said, "of the British SIS."
Bon, James Bon, Jimmy was tempted to say aloud. The man did seem to have that sort of humor; he was less sure how his dad or anyone within earshot would react. He bristled at the sound of one particularly unwelcome familiar voice drifting toward them. What the hell was Steve doing here?