the parents of a bright student like Todd Bowden?
Frown lines appeared on Ed French's normally smooth forehead.
It doesn't matter much now. That was nothing but the truth. Todd's high school work had been exemplary; there was no way in the world you could fake a 94 average. The boy was going on to Berkeley, the newspaper article had said, and Ed supposed his folks were damned proud - as they had every right to be. More and more it seemed to Ed that there was a vicious downside to American life, a greased skid of opportunism, cut corners, easy drugs, easy sex, a morality that grew cloudier each year. When your kid got through in standout style, parents had a right to be proud.
It doesn't matter now . . . but who was his frigging grandfather?
That kept sticking into him. Who, indeed? Had Todd Bowden gone to the local branch office of the Screen Actors" Guild and hung a notice on the bulletin board? YOUNG MAN IN GRADES TROUBLE NEEDS OLDER MAN, PREF. 70-80 YRS, TO GIVE BOFFO PERFORMANCE AS GRANDFATHER, WILL PAY UNION SCALE? Uh-uh. No way, Jose. And just what sort of adult would have fallen in with such a crazy conspiracy, and for what reason?
Ed French, aka Pucker, aka Rubber Ed, just didn't know. And because it didn't really matter, he stubbed out his Cheroot and went to his workshop. But his attention kept wandering.
The next day he drove over to Ridge Lane and had a long talk with Victor Bowden. They discussed grapes; they discussed the retail grocery business and how the big chain stores were pushing the little guys out; they discussed the hostage situation in Iran (that summer everyone discussed the hostage situation in Iran); they discussed the political climate in southern California. Mr Bowden offered Ed a glass of wine. Ed accepted with pleasure. He felt that he needed a glass of wine, even if it was only 10.40 in the morning. Victor Bowden looked as much like Peter Wimsey as a machine gun looks like a shillelagh. Victor Bowden had no trace of the faint accent Ed remembered, and he was quite fat The man who had purported to be Todd's grandfather had been whip-thin.
Before leaving, Ed told him: "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention any of this to Mr or Mrs Bowden. There may be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of it . . . and even if there isn't, it's all in the past."
"Sometimes," Bowden said, holding his glass of wine up to the sun and admiring its rich dark colour, "the past don't rest so easy. Why else do people study history?"
Ed smiled uneasily and said nothing.
"But don't you worry. I never meddle in Richard's affairs. And Todd is a good boy. Salutatorian of his class . . . he must be a good boy. Am I right?'
'As rain," Ed French said heartily, and then asked for another glass of wine.
Chapter 23
Dussander's sleep was uneasy; he lay in a trench of bad dreams.
They were breaking down the fence. Thousands, perhaps millions of them. They ran out of the Jungle and threw themselves against the electrified barbed wire and now it was beginning to lean ominously inward. Some of the strands had given way and now coiled uneasily on the packed earth of the parade ground, squirting blue sparks. And still there was no end to them, no end. The Fuehrer was as mad as Rommel had claimed If he thought now -jf he had ever thought - there could be a final solution to this problem. There were billions of them; they filled the universe; and they were all after him.
"Old man. Wake up, old man. Dussander. Wake up, old man, wake up."
At first he thought this was the voice of the dream.
Spoken in German; it had to be part of the dream. That was why the voice was so terrifying, of course. If he awoke he would escape it, so he swam upwards . . .
The man was sitting by his bed on a chair that had been turned around backwards ~ a real man. "Wake up, old man," this visitor was saying. He was young - no more than thirty. His eyes were dark and studious behind plain steel-framed glasses. His brown hair was longish, collar-length, and for a confused moment Dussander thought it was the boy in a disguise. But this was not the boy, wearing a rather old-fashioned blue suit much too hot