Loudon Rhodes, the ex-Reagan bodyguard, was living in L.A., running a private security firm, making millions in retirement. His agents guarded stars and hot directors, fending off stalker fans, paparazzi, aspiring screenwriters, and divorce attorneys. He called Tashmo from his hot tub or his boat, from Aspen, Sundance, and Cannes, just to chew the fat and talk about old times. He was always telling Tashmo that he ought to hang it up, retire, join the real world.
Shirl ate the sloppy joe. “He kept saying, ‘The crow is flying.’ He said you’d understand. He said it twice, the crow. I said, ‘Loudon, is that you?’”
Shirl had the local callback number on a scrap of paper. She gave it to her husband. She asked, “How is Sue-Bee?”
Tashmo said, “They’re pretty much divorced. Loudon moved to Malibu. He’s dating Malibu Barbie.”
Shirl said, “I never liked that man, even when I did. What happened to Kobe?”
“Cokehead,” Tashmo said. “He was working for his dad, hanging out with stars, and they got him into the cocaine. Poor Loudon had to shell out for two rehabs.”
Tashmo poured another tea and sat across from Shirl, trying to come up with a way to say that he wasn’t going north to bang other women, without admitting that he ever had.
He said, “Can I get you something while I’m gone?”
“Like what?” she said, still eating.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Something special, something nice, something you’ve been wanting for a long time, something they only have in New Hampshire.”
“Just don’t bring back the flu.”
“I don’t control that, Shirl. I work the crowds, people sneeze. It goes with the territory.”
“Remember how sick I was the last time? I was stuffed up for a month. I missed two book club meetings. They were good books too.”
Jeanette emerged from the bathroom, changed her icepack ice from the freezer trays. Jeanette was a sophomore at Martha Custis College in the Shenandoah. Her sweatshirt said CUSTIS. She closed the fridge and headed for the den, holding the icepack to the right side of her face.
Tashmo stopped her with his arm. “Let’s see.”
Jeanette paused, slouching. He looked up at her eye, which was puffy and purple-yellow.
He whistled. “It’s a beaut.”
She said, “Daddy,” and went into the den.
Jeanette had rushed a southern belle sorority called Rho Rho Rho, and had come back from pledge weekend (or Hell Fest as they called it at Custis) with a fat black eye and minor kidney damage.
“God I’m proud,” said Tashmo after Jeanette had left.
Shirl rinsed her plate and scraped the skillet, and slowly they returned to the business of the cars.
“If it starts,” she said, “and if it doesn’t crash from having no brakes, how am I supposed to get home from Generoso’s? Any bright ideas?”
“I never said it had no brakes. I only said there was an aaagh.”
“I can’t walk home.”
“I’d never let you drive a truck that had no brakes.”
“You’re a sweetie.”
Was she always this sarcastic? He said, “It’s simple, Shirl. You drive my truck, Jeanette follows in your car, and the two of you come home together.”
Shirl said that Jeanette had class on Monday morning, and wasn’t that what they were paying Custis for, class?
Tashmo said, “Call Mandy then. She can meet you at Generoso’s.”
“Who’ll watch the twins?”
“There’s always Nigel,” Tashmo said.
Nigel was Mandy’s husband. He taught comp lit at UMaryland. They were going through a trial separation.
Shirl said, “You’d trust the twins with Nigel?”
“He’s their father,” Tashmo said.
“He’d probably abduct them off to London and then we’d have to extradite them back. That could take years and hefty legal bills.”
“The twins can ride with Mandy. They love the car. It reminds them of the womb.”
“But Nigel has their car.”
“You can drive my truck. Mandy can drive your car with the twins in back.”
“What about the car seats?”
“What about the car seats?”
“The seats are in the car and Nigel has the car.”
“I’ll call Nigel and tell him to drop the car seats off at Mandy’s. You can drive over to Mandy’s tomorrow, early, put the car seats in your car, then you, Mandy, and the twins can drive back here, pick up the truck, and Mandy and the twins can follow you to Generoso’s.”
Shirl said, “It upsets the twins to see Nigel.”
“He can come when they’re asleep.”
“They’re never both asleep unless they’re in the car.”
“He can drop the car seats here.”
“I don’t want him here.”
“You could pick them up at his place.”
“What are we, his servants?”
Tashmo went into the bedroom. He started undressing.
Shirl cornered him. “And what about Jeanette?”
Tashmo sat on the bed and took his pants off, leg by leg. “I’m not worried about Jeanette. She’s a winner — the way she took that whipping from those fancy southern belles, and told the dean of hazing compliance to stick it up his pity pot. The girl’s got moxie — she’ll never be a failure or a cokehead. I worry about Mandy, not Jeannette. Jeanette’s a winner. She’ll do just fine in life.”
“Yes, but how is she supposed to get back to Custis? She can’t walk there, Tash.”
“Can’t she get a ride with Shane Gould?”
Shane was Bo Gould’s daughter and Jeanette’s roommate at Custis. Shane had her own wheels, a puce Isuzu Trooper.
Shirl flicked the lights on. “Don’t undress in the dark. I don’t like the image of you undressing in some dark room. Shane isn’t going back to Custis this semester — I’ve told you this five times. She interning at the State Department, working on the Balkan tragedy.”
“What does Shane know about the Balkans?”
“She knows they’re Balkanized. The question is, what next?”
Tashmo started shaving in the mirror. “Jeanette should stay home until her eye clears up.”
Shirl said, “That’s inane.”
“No daughter of mine is going to school with a fat black eye. It doesn’t look right, Shirl.”
“It’s not school, it’s college, Tash. Your daughter is a woman now.”
“I’m aware of this.”
“Shhh,” said Shirl. She looked at the wall. “Keep your voice down, Tash. Jeanette is finally sleeping.”
“How in hell do you know?”
“Listen—” she said. “The channels aren’t changing.”
Tashmo drove his truck whenever he was home both because he liked the truck (sporty, sexy, tough — he liked to see himself in windows driving by) and because he wanted to show Shirl that it was a useful, sensible addition to their household way of life. He liked to drive the truck, but when he had to get somewhere in a hurry and didn’t feel like dealing with potential starter trouble, he took Shirl’s Nissan Sentra, which was more reliable. He drove the Sentra now, coming into Washington, rolling through the parking lot of a crappy public golf course. He parked between a silver van with Virginia rental plates and a second van, black, with Maryland tags and a Hertz sticker on the bumper.
Tashmo hiked up the cart road to the first tee, where Loudon Rhodes was waiting with the others from the Reagan teams of long ago, Gus Dmitri and Julius Panepinto, blowing on their hands, dressed to golf in winter, bundled up but wearing the pastels. They stood with a young man with shaggy blond hair. The young man wore a red down vest and a faded denim jacket.