The sound made Tarissa and Dan jump. She lowered her eyes, while Dan looked at her covertly. Tarissa felt the blood rise into her cheeks.
What am I feeling so ashamed for? she wondered. I was only doing what I
thought I had to do.
Jordan turned, but didn't make eye contact with them. He held up his hands and said, "You know what? I've gotta go."
"No!" Tarissa said. "You don't have to leave, Jordan."
"Yes. I do." He started out of the kitchen and turned at the door to look at them.
He held up his hand. "And you know why? It's because my family"—he looked into Tarissa's worried eyes—"the only people in the world I trusted, have withheld vital information about the murder of my brother for six years!"
"Jordan," Tarissa said, rising.
"Oh, no, don't get up," he said, waving a hand at her. "I'll show myself out."
"Uncle Jordie!" Dan said, springing up. "Please… don't go."
Jordan looked at him and his nephew stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide, his mouth open. For a moment anger flashed in Jordan's eyes and Tarissa straightened in alarm. His eyes flashed to meet hers and he swallowed, hard.
"I have to go," he repeated, his voice choked.
Tarissa and Dan watched him go down the hallway, snatch up his suitcase, and leave without another word. After a moment, Dan looked up at his mother.
"What do you think will happen now?" he asked.
Tarissa put her arm around her son and gave his shoulders a squeeze. "I don't
know, honey. I honestly don't."
ON THE ROAD TO STARBURST: THE PRESENT
"We're leaving the eco-fair in Baltimore to attend a New Age event in Virginia,"
Peter Ziedman said into the camera his buddy Tony had trained on him. "We're traveling in Labane's specially equipped van. Labane describes it as more of a heartland kind of vehicle because it's partially solar-powered. Which, of course, works better in the sunny center of the nation."
"The United States," Ronald said from the driver's seat. "Say the center of the U.
S. or the Canadians will be offended." His remark was greeted by puzzled silence. "In case you want to submit this to the Toronto Film Festival."
"Yeah! "Tony said.
"Good thinkin'," Peter agreed.
Ron rolled his eyes, which at least briefly blocked the endless tackiness of the strip mall and Wal-Mart outside. These guys were hopeless. But they were paying all the expenses and he was beginning to get some forward momentum.
People were actually coming to hear him speak at an event. And Peter's message machine was getting more and more invitations for speaking engagements.
Ron had begun charging a speaking fee and the fees were increasing. But there was no point telling the boys that. He had them convinced that he was a genius at bargaining or exchanging labor for the posters and flyers they were helping him put up and pass out.
Eventually he would dump the kids by telling them: "I have a message to spread and you two have careers to jump-start. You stay here and work on the film." It was what they wanted to do anyway, so there would hardly be howls of protest when he suggested it.
Actually he'd seen some of their finished footage and he was both pleased and impressed. Peter and Tony might be dumb and easily manipulated, but they definitely had talent. It was a shame that their persistent naiveté' would cost them any chance they had of making it.
"Funny, isn't it," Ron said, "that most of these eco-fairs we're going to are held in cities?"
"There's a lot of pollution in cities," Peter said.
"There's a lot in rural areas, too," Labane told him. "For instance, there are farmers who use so much pesticide and weed killer that they won't eat what they grow. They've got separate gardens for their own families, but your kids are chowing down on stuff they wouldn't touch. And then there's those factory farms for pork and chicken."
Tony shifted so that he could film Ron as he talked. It had been a little difficult to talk them into traveling in the van with him. But he'd convinced them that it would lend a certain cachet to their documentary. Which was true: there was nothing the Hollywood types liked more than tales of hardship endured for art's sake.
"Do you know there are actual lakes of pig feces?" Labane asked. "It must be a nightmare living within a few miles of someplace like that. But worse than the
smell is the fact that the runoff gets into streams and the bacteria get into the water supply. And as you know," he tossed over his shoulder, "diseases pass quite easily between pigs and humans."
He'd leave it at that. Let people make of that what they would. Half the battle was getting people to just listen. So sometimes you just gave them these really vivid suggestions and let them process it through the back of their minds.
Eventually there would be enough frightening little tidbits back there to get 'em really pissed off.
Ron had some ideas for some really nasty tricks that could be played on the politicians who had allowed those places to be built and who refused to make the owners clean up their mess. Inside he smiled. Oh, yes, the day will come.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IVSUNCION. PARAGUAY: THE PRESENT
Marco Cassetti turned up the collar of his trench coat, then flicked his cigarette into the gutter in a world-weary gesture of disgust. There was really no need for him to turn up the collar of his coat, or even for the trench coat at all—the weather was sunny and dry, if a little cool by tropical standards. Neither was there any particular reason for him to be disgusted. He'd found out quite a lot in just an hour, all of it positive.
Still, a PI has a certain air to maintain. World-weary cynicism was part of the image, and Cassetti cultivated the image with the devotion of a religious fanatic.
He was a private eye, and he would be a perfect one if it killed him. So when he walked these mean streets he projected attitude.
These streets weren't as mean as those of Chicago or L.A., he knew, but there were parts of Asuncion that were extremely nasty; a little farther north, down in the viviendas temporaries on the floodplain of the river, for instance. Not here by the government buildings, of course. But in places.
Constant practice, that was the ticket. Improving and upgrading the image and building on the advantages that he already had. He liked his name, for example.
Marco Cassetti. It was a really good name for a private dick; it sounded tough and manly. Having an Italian name was a bit of a problem since so many villains were Italian. But there were a lot of Italian names that would be worse.
Buttafucco, for instance.
And finding the right kind of trench coat had been almost impossible. A Burberry would have been perfect, but who the hell could afford one? Haunting the thrift shops had eventually paid off, though, when a motherly Argentinean-Italian lady had held on to a vintage raincoat for him. He'd been ecstatic and had brought her a bouquet the next day to show his appreciation. Now he didn't dare go back. It seemed she had a single niece.
So now he looked just right. He had a Panama hat with the brim trained down over his eyes, his wonderful rumpled trench coat, and very thin shoe leather—
which was uncomfortable, but authentic. And he smoked—despite what his mother thought.
His mother was furious with him about it, but it was expected; part of the image.
Still, to please her, he tried not to inhale too often. He'd even learned to strike a match with his thumbnail, practicing in front of a mirror until he could do it without checking his hands. It looked fantastic.