Acting Badly. Michael Scofield

dog.” Ron’s stomach became a fist as he palmed his thighs and stood. “Watch you don’t buy yourself a lawsuit, Max.”

      She threw her hands to her ears. “I didn’t goddamn let any goddamn air out of your goddamn tire and quit harassing me.” Her hands sunk to her skirt. “Maybe it bit into a nail. Though I did see some movement in the moonlight. Raccoon, maybe? Someone or something has it in for you, big boy.”

      “You.”

      “Not goddamn me. How’d you get to the hotel?”

      “Lila’s Mustang.” He gazed at a stinkbug crawling onto the bench’s arm, where it lifted its rear toward Maxine. She flung out her left hand, bearing a diamond-and-emerald engagement ring and platinum wedding ring. The insect tumbled to the flagstones.

      Patting the black cotton candy of her hair, she jumped up. Her smile burst forth like sunrise. Ron stared where she looked toward the stairs curving to the right of the reception desk.

      Down the green-and-red runners pranced a slight man with brushed-back brick-red hair, open-necked white shirt, faded jeans whose belt held a cell phone, and loafers without socks. As he approached, Ron saw blue veins webbing his ankles. He looked no older than forty.

      “Chuck here yet?” he asked, breathless.

      “We don’t know what he looks like, partner.” Ron advanced toward him. “Least I don’t—she may.” He jerked a cracked thumb back toward Maxine. “I’m Ron Kirkpatrick, Los Alamos Mortgage.”

      “Of course, by your cap.” Stretching needle-thin lips into a grin, he shot out a small, freckled hand to squeeze Ron’s paw. “Bret Wilkes.” His fingernails were crescent moons. Ron held the blue-ice irises that lifted to his own until Bret broke Ron’s grip and darted past him. “Hi, there, Mr. Raggedy Andy.” Bret strummed the top of Pixie’s cage. “We going to buy a place this morning?” He clamped Maxine’s shoulders. “Did you and Giordy stay up all night sifting properties?”

      “I didn’t sleep much. I don’t know about my husband.”

      Freckled forehead crinkling like the parchment frown of a nun, Bret turned to Ron. “This town, how I love this town, even more than last spring. And the Valley’ll bounce back, don’t you worry at all. I’m talking to fellows right now hatching DNA encryption systems that’ll bury digital.” He narrowed his eyes at Ron. “But I want a footprint here, you know? Santa Fe Institute, Los Alamos, the informatics boys, down I-twenty-five a ways the huge Intel fab, Sandia Labs, the university incubators, Kirtland Air Force Base. It’s why I asked Mr. Chuck Ridley two years ago to take on some of my tax work. Jake, here he comes.”

      Jake? Ron faced the frescoed columns of the hotel’s entrance. Kneeling maidens ground corn and scrubbed clothes as they supported an arch of mounted conquistadors in peaked helmets brandishing lances. Their silver and bronze dominated the Native American reds, yellows, and greens, which alkali from roof leaks had streaked white.

      Oak doors twice as tall as Chuck hushed behind him as he hurried over the earth-tone-marbled flags. He’d pinned a white-on-black peace symbol to one lapel of his blazer. Though perspiration cooled him, burrs that had lodged in his black socks from taking a shortcut through puncturevine pricked his ankles. His feet hurt from the tasseled loafers he’d bought last weekend while Helen shopped for more good-old-days new-to-you clothes.

      “Sorry,” he breathed to Bret and Maxine, tonguing his lips. He addressed the double-chinned man in the mortgage cap. “I’m Chuck Ridley.”

      “Ron Kirkpatrick.”

      “Growing a beard, Chuck?” Bret asked.

      “Camouflaging worry lines, but it itches.” He scrabbled at his cheek.

      “Let’s go,” blurted Maxine, grabbing the wagon’s handle. “No poop, Pixie, no pee.”

      She led them toward the hotel’s restaurant. Beside its dark iron chandeliers chained to vigas hung strings of red and green chiles. Daylight filtered through smudged skylights to bathe the room. Throughout, firefly lights twinkled on evergreen figs that soared from baskets as large as tumbleweeds.

      “Ronald? Carry him?”

      The dog’s odor of carbolic acid had already overpowered the restaurant’s usual fragrance of beans. Ron swallowed and cradled the wagon in his arms down three steps.

      A goateed maitre d’ dressed in black coat and broad red-and-green necktie, his ponytail swinging, beckoned them to the corner table Maxine had requested. From its center sprang a red-silk hibiscus in a tulip-shaped vase.

      Guests filled half of the circular tables, all of which boasted hibiscus centerpieces. The fan-haired Native American who had passed them in the lobby slouched at a table near the entrance reading yesterday’s Wall Street Journal. Amid the sounds of conversations and the clink of silverware against scalloped platters full of tortillas and eggs, Maxine, Bret, Ron, and Chuck pulled out oak armchairs and scraped them close.

      “Shhhh,” Maxine told Pixie, leaning down to rock the red wagon. From a woven-leather purse she extracted a Baggie bulging with kibble, then slid back the door of the cage. “Here, sweetie.” She crooked her forefinger. “Waitress!”

      A woman in black pantaloons, black crêpe-soled shoes, and a black blouse embroidered in red and green at the neck raised her chin in acknowledgment. Like most of the other waitresses she’d plaited her hair in a braid whose end flopped midway against her back. Balancing a tray of smeared plates and cups, she disappeared into the kitchen through stainless-steel doors.

      Maxine moved her hand to Bret’s forearm. “The help here is Hispanic. The lips are more like ours and the faces are not so fleshy as Native American. You may recall from your earlier visit. Did you rest well?”

      “I could have used another blanket.”

      Chuck caught himself wondering if Bret slept nude or in pajamas. He reached for the napkin peaked like a blue-linen tent, and spread it over his thigh. “We may get snow yet. Walking over I watched the clouds fusing.”

      “War clouds!” Ron exclaimed. “They told the Comanches when to arm.”

      “Really? Jake.”

      “Ron here.”

      “Jake’s an expression,” Bret explained.

      “Ronald never knows what he’s talking about. Where’s that waitress?”

      “Don’t know what I’m talkin’ about?” Ron glared at her over the hibiscus. “I know the sooner we suit up, war clouds or none, the sooner we teach those Iraqi sand niggers some respect.”

      Chuck noticed Ron’s Onward Christian Soldiers. The throbbing returned to his right eye as his mind replayed Helen’s march from the bathroom as he sloped against the footboard, the squashed tomatoes propped in his palms. He twitched, recalling how their juice dribbled down his belly.

      “You with me, Bret? How do they feel in Silicone Valley? This damn dry air.” The crack at the tip of Ron’s thumb began to sting.

      Before Bret could reply, their waitress appeared clutching what looked like a notebook computer. From under her elbow she dealt out menus garlanded in hibiscus blossoms. Her half dozen silver bracelets chimed as Pixie began to bark.

      “Okay if I wait while you choose? We’re filling up.” She skipped back from the Pekingese. Her fragrance of sandalwood, added to Maxine’s Turpentine and the remains of Pixie’s bath, made Chuck blink. Through the mist he stared at the printed options wavering under Breakfast.

      “Start me with a double Bloody Mary, two lime wedges, and a short glass of water for him,” Maxine said. “Pixie, quiet down. Eggs Benedict, Christmas.” She turned her shadowed eyes to Bret. “Christmas means red and green chile mixed—you may remember. See anything tempting?”

      Not you, for sure, Ron fumed.

      “The