dreams.”
“Cool.”
He swiveled in his chair to look up at me. “So what do You want to
ride-the Sunday-night surf rolling out of Tahiti or the tsunami
pipeline of death rolling out of Wyvern?”
“Both.”
“Kamikaze,” he said scornfully.
“Duck,” I called him, with a smile-which is the same as saying buoy,
meaning one who sits in the lineup and never has the guts to take a
wave.
Orson turned his head from one of us to the other, back and forth, as
if watching a tennis match.
“Geek,” Bobby said.
“Decoy,” I said, which is the same as saying duck.
“Asshole,” he said, which has identical definitions in surfer lingo and
standard English.
“I take it You’re not with me on this.”
Getting up from the chair, he said, “You can’t go to the cops.
You can’t go to the FBI. They’re all paid by the other side. What can
You possibly hope to learn about some way-secret project at Wyvern?”
“I’ve already uncovered a little.”
“Yeah, and the next thing You learn is the thing that’ll get You
killed.
Listen, Chris, You aren’t Sherlock Holmes or James Bond.
At best, You’re Nancy Drew.”
“Nancy Drew had an unreal rate of case closure,” I reminded him. “She
nailed one hundred percent of the bastards she went after. I’d be
honored to be considered the equal of a kick-ass crime fighter like Ms.
Nancy Drew.”
“Kamikaze.”
“Duck.
“Geek.
“Decoy.”
Laughing softly, shaking his head, scratching his beard stubble, Bobby
said, “You make me sick.”
“Likewise.”
The telephone rang, and Bobby answered it. “Hey, gorgeous, I totally
get off on the new format-all Chris Isaak, all the time. Play ‘Dancin”
for me, okay?” He passed the handset to me. “It’s for You, Nancy.”
I like Sasha’s disc-jockey voice. It’s only subtly different from her
real-world voice, marginally deeper and softer and silkier, but the
effect is profound. When I hear Sasha the deejay, I want to curl up in
bed with her. I want to curl up in bed with her anyway, as often as
possible, but when she’s using her radio voice, I want to curl up in
bed with her urgently. The voice comes over her from the moment she
enters the studio, and it’s with her even when she is off-mike, until
she leaves work.
“This tune ends in about a minute, I’ve got to do some patter between
cuts,” she told me, “so I’ll be quick. Somebody came around here at
the station a little while ago, trying to get in touch with You. Says
it’s life or death.”
“NA/ho?”
“I can’t use the name on the phone. Promised I wouldn’t.
When I said You were probably at Bobby’s . . . this person didn’t want
to call You there or come there to see You.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why exactly. But . . . this person was really nervous,
Chris. ‘I have been one acquainted with the night.” Do You know who I
mean?”
I have been one acquainted with the night.
It was a line from a poem by Robert Frost.
My dad had instilled in me his passion for poetry. I had infected
Sasha.
“Yes,” I said. “I think I know who You mean.”
“Wants to see You as soon as possible. Says it’s life or death.
What’s going on, Chris?”
“Big surf coming in Sunday afternoon,” I said.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know. Tell You the rest later.”
“Big surf. Can I handle it?”
“Twelve-footers.”
“I think I’ll just Gidget-out and beach party.”
“Love your voice,” I said.
“Smooth as the bay.”
She hung up, and so did I.
Although he had only heard my half of the conversation, Bobby relied on
his uncanny intuition to figure out the tone and intent of Sasha’s
call.
“What’re You walking into?”
“Just Nancy stuff,” I said. “You wouldn’t be interested.”
As Bobby and I led a still-uneasy Orson onto the front porch, the radio
in the kitchen began to swing with “Dancin’ ” by Chris Isaak.
“Sasha is an awesome woman,” Bobby said.
‘Unreal,” I agreed.
“You can’t be with her if You’re dead. She’s not that kinky.”
“Point taken.”
“You have your sunglasses?”