CoverBoys & Curses (30 page)

           
“Who is this man that fathered
me?
 
Your black sheep?” I got up to
leave. For good.

           
His tone of voice, mired by the
ages, sparked with a fresh nervousness, “I’ve given you enough to digest for
one day. We’ll meet again soon. Just know you have more family that loves you
and cares about you. You have good blood in those veins of yours.”

Chapter Eighty-Six

Polished
& Sharpened

VICTOR
ROMERO ALMOST knocked over his prized Mexican beer as he fumbled to answer his
new smart phone.

           
“Damn this thing! Whatever happened
to a fucking phone you just pick up and talk into?”

           
His old friend, Detective Tom Wray,
roared from inside his jiggle-belly.

           
“What do you want? I don’t want to
be crying over my spilt beer because of you.”

           
“Shoot me later,” Wray said. “For
now, I have something you’re
gonna
want to hear.”

           
“I’m listening. And drinking. And
getting ready to light up a fresh Cuban cigar.”

           
“You retired rat. Good thing you
have a friend like me that has a better friend over at VICAP.”

           
“That special agent?”

           
“He put a rush on that flash stick
you came up with. You know the one
your
sorry ass
department couldn’t read?”

           
“Yeah. Yeah. What’d you get?”

           
“That Payton Doukas was smarter than
both of us combined. The stick has everything on it. Nude porno shots of little
boys and a man I know here as Dr. Harlan Coal. Newspaper clippings, quick claim
deeds, false identity documents, plus a dirty Excel spreadsheet file that’s
bigger than my first computer.”

           
“Okay, then. Nail the bastard,”
Romero said. “Hey, one more thing. What about that stolen gun we still have
over here as evidence? ”

           
“Keep that thing locked-up tighter
than your girlfriend’s liberty hole. I don’t have all the pieces but you and I
both know you’re dealing with a murder. Looks like your so-called suicide broad
knew too much for her own good.”

DR.
COAL SLLIPPED onto the farm largely unnoticed, despite his flowing white robes
and dark sunglasses.

           
He reached his sanctuary. Not as
welcoming as his quarters on the compound, of course. But private. Very private.

           
He practiced. He observed his moves
in the one mirror on the farm and listened to his voice. It was not really the
words which were memorized, but his inflection. Perfect inflection.

           
And then, with a couple commands,
his stage was prepared, his audience waited, and he walked on stage.

Also, a
little bit of chemicals were provided with the beverages. Just a little.
Control.

He
appeared before his masses—his ants—from behind the wispy white stage curtains.

“We’re
gathered here to learn together. We want to learn to laugh and cry. Both, we
need. We want to learn tenderness and forgiveness. Both we need.

“I’m not
here to convert your thinking. I’m here to give you permission to begin to
think. For many of you it will be the first time.”

Sixty,
maybe eighty people had gathered across the freshly blanketed lawn. Young
people in their twenties or so. Blue-hairs well into their eighties. Children.
Plenty of children.

“The
world is not what it seems. Our lives certainly aren’t about time-clocks and
paychecks. You are here because you understand this. You understand the true
origins of our world and life itself.”

Coal
positioned himself onto the great chair. He held his arms wide open with the
fabric of the sleeves now billowing with the breezes.

“Let’s
talk about anger. Who are you angry with?” Coals words quickened as he felt he
owned his audience in the palm of his hand.

“Are you
angry with your spouse? Your mother or father? Your child? Are you angry with
yourself? Are you angry with me that I have sent our less learned members into
detention?

“I am
here today to free our young men into your welcome arms. I am here to trust
that you will show them the way. The only way. Take care of the young boys I
entrust back into your care. We will need their youth and spirit as the future
unfolds before us.”

Coal
tossed the keys to the cells into the audience with a final caveat.

“Do not
be fooled by their rhetoric. Do not listen to their delusional stories. You are
only here to heal their souls.

“We
shall all prosper or die in purity and goodness.”

The
chanting began. Drugged, somewhat.

His
people would weep and then they would sleep. No harm done. They would awaken by
dawn and remember the keys to the cells and release all the little bastard
ants. And their guru would be a couple thousand miles away. A new name he
disfavored for its lack of strength. William Clark seemed so egalitarian to
him. But the name and the identity of a dead man cost him only a couple
nickels. And maybe his new boring name would do him well, hidden in the moneyed
communities where no one would think to look.

Yes.
William Clark of Wichita, Kansas.

He could
give a rat’s ass about the farm land and The Centre. He had more than enough hard
cash in his bank account. Or William Clark’s account, that is.

MOON
BLADE KNEW there would be no turning back. But maybe—just maybe—there could be
an end to the madness.

           
Removing the
macarta
knife from its treasured hidden resting place from inside the left leg of the
suit of armor, Moon Blade stationed it on the kitchen counter.

           
Polished, sharpened and ready to
slice and dice. Just the way it should be. One more time.

Chapter Eighty-Seven

Mrs.
Teller Tells

My
tenant on the tenth floor wanted to meet with me. My geriatric doctor tenant
and apparently the friend to my biological grandfather.

           
In less than fifteen minutes he sat
before me. No introductions were necessary, nor were further clarifications needed
as to who he was and why he stubbornly held onto his lease rights in my
building.

           
“I know you have reason not to like
me much, Ms. Visconti, but you can’t argue that I’ve been a good tenant.”

           
I could argue with him. I could use
his floor for expansion. And good or bad, he was a fucking spy.

           
The man twisted and turned in his
chair, like a
dreidel
on a highly polished wood floor and spinning with the same game of chance.

           
“The thing is I’ve stumbled upon
some information I think you might want to know.”

           
Although tolerance was no virtue of
mine I told him I would listen.

           
“I have a good practice. Lots of
patients. Seniors, you know.”

 
He started popping his knuckles. He did a
better job of popping than Orville Redenbacher. I had no idea why he would be
nervous.

           
“Yes, you are a busy doctor.” And
I’m well aware of all your senile patients crawling into my elevators with
their bulky walkers and canes and using my paid security guards as personal
ambulatory attendants, I thought.

           
“I have a patient. Mrs. Teller.
She’s a good woman. She’s been my patient for years and sometimes—most times—I
seem to always feel better after my visit with her more than I think I helped
her.”

           
My new heels were killing me. Should
have cut off my little toes but rather I would take them back to the retailer.
I wanted to confirm an important luncheon date. I wanted to be away from this
new friend of my new family.

           
“Ms. Visconti, are you listening to
me?”

           
“Go on.”

           
“Well the thing is Mrs. Teller is
just a part-time resident. She spends most of her time on her family ranch in
Kansas.”

           
Good god, I thought. Who is
screening my appointments?

           
“Mrs. Teller is still active in her
community. She struggles with her speech but she’s as sound of mind as they
come. And she has good friends. Reliable connections. People in the know about
sales of properties and such.

           
“I know that you know that I’m a friend
of your grandfather, like it or not. I just wanted to make sure you were okay
in any way I could. Staying out of your way, too. But this lady, this patient,
she brought his name up!”

           
“Who?”
           
“That Coal. Dr. Harlan Coal.”

           
I rolled my taught fingers through
my hair and away from my face. I wanted to see the old man. I wished I had the
habit of popping knuckles.

           
“Seems he’s managed to get himself
on the title to a large ranch just outside of Wichita. A very large ranch. Over
a thousand acres, Mrs. Teller says. And the scary thing, well—this is
conjecture—but one young man owned the whole shebang. No one seems to know what
happened to him, not that I’m any alarmist. Just seems odd, though. I’m out of
the loop these days with all these new therapies, I suppose, but I know this
name. I guess you know that. Judd. Then Coal.
 
I know he’s doing very well in town.
 
Seemed odd enough that this man would pull up
stakes in L.A. and want to go to Kansas, but then he went and quickly quit
claimed the deed over to some other fellow. Some man named Clark.

           
I had that same Etch-A-Sketch
feeling. Shaken down to nothing but a blank screen.

           
The geriatric doctor reached for his
wallet and pulled out his business card. He told me to call him if I ever needed
anything, and he said it with genuine concern, his eyes penetrating mine as if
roots had intertwined the two of us.

           
The door closed and I sat back down
at my desk. Palming his card, something called to me. Plain black raised
lettering. Nothing fancy on a doctor’s card, of course. Name. Address. Phone
number. And his specialty. Geriatric Psychiatrist.

           
I kicked off my too-tight heels and
ran to the old-fashioned box that housed my collection of business cards. And
there it was. Dr. Coal’s raised black ink.

The Centre

Dr. Harlan Coal

Therapist

Therapist

The

The rapist

I
left the information on Detective Wray’s voicemail.

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Thin
to Win

WHILE
ONLY A simple dinner invitation, Gabri’s voice sounded both sad and tired. And
urgent for company. I felt obliged.

           
I crossed the moat that declared the
entrance into Gabriella
Criscione’s
fortress. After
both ringing the bell and knocking, I turned the unlocked doorknob.

           
She’s immersed in her culinary
skills, I thought.

           
I hadn’t seen her for some time.
Rumor had it she was having problems with her legs. A complication from
diabetes. Fact had it that she didn’t attend the memorial services of both
Oliver Falls and Carly Posh. Both, two huge clients of hers. She was
conspicuous by her absence.

           
“Gabri? I’m following the aroma of
your cooking. I hope it’s okay,” I said.

           
Her gourmet kitchen boasted the
finest of every appointment, and yet every time I saw it I failed to see
anything, so overcome with the tantalizing aromas of a caramelized onions,
sautéed garlic, and always—ripe tomatoes. This occasion was no different.

           
“It smells divine, my friend,” I
said as I walked in.

           
“
Costolette
di
Vitello
and
Fava
al
Guanciale
.
Veal cutlets and
fava
beans with bacon.”

           
And then I finally saw her, less
about forty pounds.

           
“My god, Gabri. You look terrific!”

           
“I’ve always been strong as a rabid
pit bull on steroids, but only my upper body. Diabetes came knocking at my door
so I took some drastic measures. The kind you get on a doctor’s table, but
still, it’s working. You
gotta
be thin to win in this
world.”

           
She stirred the inside of a giant
stock pot and offered me a glass of Chianti.

           
Only when I sat down did I notice
the large painting hanging above the archway. The hideous painting of her fat
former self, unveiled at that fateful dinner party.

           
She caught my stare. My uneasiness.
“Darling, don’t worry. I’ve come to find it quite humorous. We all need to quit
taking ourselves so seriously.”

           
“Indeed,” I managed with surprise.

“Actually,
I’ve learned to like that painting. It encouraged me to lose the weight more
than the diabetes scared me into it. And I think he’s a rather talented artist,
don’t you?”

She said
he
. “Do you still think Brock
Townsend painted that?”

“Oh,
heaven’s no. I was too quick to judge. I just think the painter meant no real
harm and ended up helping me in the long run.”

           
Gabri changed the conversation. She
wanted to know all about the final goodbyes to both Oliver Falls and Carly. She
regretted personal matters prevented her attendance.

           
“So much death,” she surmised. “It’s
like it’s the devil himself.”

           
My reactions slowed to the beat of a
dried up turnip. Nothing. I had nothing. My emotions grew slight.

           
“You still worry you’ve done
something wrong, don’t you, dear? “

           
I didn’t remember ever telling Gabri
about any of my personal affairs, although there had been plenty of press on
the
CoverBoy
articles and the
subsequent deaths.

BROCK
TURNED UP AT Falls & Falls, and he wasn’t buying jewelry.

           
“Where the hell is Lauren? She’s not
answering her cell, her home phone, and she’s not at work.”

           
“I haven’t heard from her. Did you
check in with Sukie or Geoff? Sometimes she takes off with them.”

           
“Geoff was with her last night. She
asked him for more of that voodoo potion crap. Damned if I know what that means
but he hasn’t seen her since. Sukie is on assignment in Toledo of all places.
Nothing makes sense anymore.”

           
Brock called Detective Wray.

           
“Technically she’s not missing. My
hands are tied,” Wray said.

           
“Sonuva bitch,” Brock screamed.
“Give me something!”

           
Wray let out an audible sigh. “Is
there any chance she might be with Gabriella Criscione? Maybe shopping for a
new home, income property—something?”

           
“What’s that supposed to mean? What
aren’t you telling me?”

           
“Calm down. I’m just curious,” Wray
said.