Heirs of Cain (9 page)

“How come you know so much about a man like that?”

“I’ve known a thousand men like him.”

“You haven’t always been a teacher, have you?”

“No.”

“What were you before you became a teacher?”

“What do you think I was?”

Kate took a drink, leaned back, and sized him up. “A business executive … a salesman of some sort.”

“Now, that’s a nasty assessment.”

“Okay, what were you, then?”

“An infamous mass murderer.”

“So, I’m dating Jeffrey Dahmer?”

“Just call me J.D.”

“Be serious.”

“Seriously, I’ve always been a teacher. Different subject; that’s all.”

Pete broke through a crowd of dancers, spotted Collins and Kate, and walked quickly to their booth. A mile-wide smile crossed his face.

“Just the fella I’ve been looking for,” Pete said.

“How’s the wound?” Collins asked, pointing to the bandage covering most of Pete’s left forearm.

“Few stitches, but otherwise it’s fine. No permanent damage, praise the Lord. But you know what? That bastard is threatening to file suit against both of us. Some beady-eyed shyster was in here two days ago talkin’ it up pretty good. I took about three minutes of his jabberin’ then ran his ass outta here. I told him to do what he had to do; just get outta my face or I’d give him a reason to file his own damn suit.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him, Pete. He doesn’t have a case. Too many witnesses saw what happened.”

“That scumbag don’t worry me none.” Pete nodded to Kate. “Little lady, you’re runnin’ with a questionable character, hangin’ around with the likes of Michael James Collins.”

Kate shifted her eyes to Collins. “He’s all bluff, Pete. A piece of cake.”

“Mind if I join you for a few seconds?” He squeezed into the booth next to Kate. “I need to take a load off. Old Arthur has about got the best of these knees.”

Collins spied his old redheaded friend standing in front of a table, talking with two men. The conversation, whatever the subject, didn’t appear to be cordial. She was spitting fire at the younger man sitting to her left.

“Amy looks pretty upset, doesn’t she?” Pete asked. “Not to worry; it’s all an act. That’s her standard M.O. She acts real ticked off at some guy, makes him feel like shit, then turns it all around and takes the guy for a ride. Hell, before the night’s over, that bum will be eating out of her palm. She’s some worker, that Amy.”

Kate looked over her shoulder. “A hooker?”

“Hooker, schmooker,” Pete said. “No, I wouldn’t classify Amy as a hooker. A hooker takes the offer. Amy offers the take. That make any sense?”

“None.”

“Ah, hell, you’re too young to know about such things.”

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Kate said.

“Good for you.” Pete shifted his attention to Collins. “By the way, Professor Cake. About the other night—how long you been doin’ that stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“That chink stuff. You know … judo, karate, whatever you call it.”

“Since I was about five.”

“Who’d you learn it from?”

“You really interested?”

Pete nodded his head eagerly. “Damn straight. Hell, man, I was impressed. I mean, I’ve seen that shit on TV and in the movies, but that’s the first time I’ve actually seen it for real.”

“I learned it from a man named Chin.”

“A chink. Figures.”

“He was only half Oriental. His mother was an American, the daughter of a Marine colonel.”

“You get a black belt?”

Collins laughed. “Yeah, Pete, I got a black belt.”

“Well, after what you did to the poor bum, I can believe it.”

Pete struggled out of the booth and hitched up his pants. “Well, better get back to the wars. Plenty of drachmas to be taken in tonight.” He put a hand on Collins’s shoulder. “God, how I love to make a buck.”

Kate watched Pete shuffle back to the bar. “What’s he talking about? Were you involved in a fight?”

“Not really. Some drunk cut Pete with a knife. I helped break it up. No big deal.”

“Knife? That sounds serious.”

“It wasn’t.”

She took another drink. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Go for it.”

“It’s kinda personal.”

“Is there any other kind?”

“You’ve never been married, right?” she finally said.

“Right.”

“How come?”

“That’s two questions.”

“Sorry.”

Collins ran his hand through his hair. “It simply wasn’t in the cards, I guess. Anyway, it wouldn’t have worked out.” He looked away. “My work wasn’t conducive to married life.”

Kate started to ask another question, caught herself in mid-sentence, let it go unfinished. Something in his eyes said she had intruded into territory best left uncharted.

Those eyes—

“Well, if you ever change your mind, I know an excellent prospect.”

She smiled.

He didn’t.

An hour later, after dropping Kate off at her apartment and making a quick stop at a 24-hour grocery store, Collins walked into his house. He stood motionless in the darkness, letting several minutes pass before turning on a light.

This time there were no tricky shadows, no plans and contingencies. No Lucas White.

But he wasn’t alone. Ever. The ghosts were forever with him.

Waiting. Always.

He sat on the couch and reached for the brown folder marked “Eyes Only.” In it was a history of his prize pupil, his oldest adversary.

Seneca.

The breeze was soft, the sun blazing like the fires of hell.
Perfect
, Hannah Buckman thought, as she loosened the bikini strap and removed the top. Her breasts, free from their confines, seemed to defy gravity. She liked her breasts. Always had. The best thing about her body. Large but not too large, firm, round, and, most important, created by Mother Nature herself, with brown nipples forever erect. Men continually raved about her Hollywood looks or her long, toned legs or her firm butt or her thick, pouty lips. But to Hannah, her breasts were the only part of her anatomy that rated a ten.

After five minutes of carefully applying sunscreen, she lay down on the lounge chair, lowered her sunglasses, and began reading the latest Danielle Steele novel. She had concluded by the end of the second chapter that this wasn’t one of Danielle’s better efforts. About a B minus up to now. But with five chapters remaining, who knew? Maybe it would improve. It was getting more interesting, no doubt about that.

Hannah made a mental note to keep an eye on the time and not forget to turn over. Her breasts were easy prey to a quick sunburn. Ten minutes at a time were about all they could handle, sunscreen or not. Any longer and they would be cooked. That had happened a couple of times before, and it was damn painful.

Hannah finished a chapter, the best one thus far, when she felt her breasts begin to sizzle. Time for more lotion. As she sat up and reached for the bottle, she saw the two men who were about to board the yacht. They were an odd-looking couple, the medium-built dark-skinned man wearing shades and the mammoth, round-faced black man walking on unsteady legs. She lowered her glasses and peered over the top. The man with the shades was so strikingly handsome she had to get a better look at him. As they approached, she realized he was an American Indian. She also realized her uncovered nipples were fully erect and it wasn’t from the sun.

“Hello, I’m Hannah Buckman,” she said, offering a well-manicured hand. “I assume you’re here to see Simon.”

“That’s correct,” the Indian said.

“He’s below, in the cabin.”

The Indian squeezed her hand, gently. She couldn’t see his eyes through the dark lenses, but she knew he was staring at her breasts. The black man, clearly embarrassed, looked away.

“Simon’s expecting you,” she said. “And he’s not a man who likes to be kept waiting.”

The Indian released her hand and grinned. She followed him with her eyes until he and the black man disappeared down the steps. When they were out of sight, she sighed and went back to reading Danielle.

Below, Simon Buckman lay sprawled on an oversized couch, his face covered by a sailor’s cap. He was sixtyish, bald, and not nearly tall enough to accommodate his weight, which long ago had surpassed three hundred pounds. Simon was a man suffocating in the quicksand of his own flesh, a man whose every breath was labored, whose every movement was a struggle. Even the task of lifting himself to a sitting position to meet his two guests was accomplished only by using a cane to hoist himself up.

“Come in, come in,” he said. His accent was clearly old South. Alabama, maybe Mississippi. The words escaped through a reptilian slit barely visible within the mounds of fat. “Did you meet Hannah?”

“Yes,” the black man said. “Your daughter is very beautiful, very … uninhibited.”

Simon convulsed in laughter, his flesh shaking like a vat of Jell-O.

“What’s so funny?” the black man asked.

Pounding the cane on the floor, Simon bellowed, “She’s not my daughter; she’s my wife.”

“Your wife?”

“Pretty amazing, isn’t it?” Simon said. “It just goes to show you: if you’ve got money, you can marry anything you want. Women are drawn to money like my old grandpappy to a Klan rally.” He looked at the two men, his eyes gleaming. “I know what you’re thinking: how does a fat SOB like him service a young kitten like that? Hell, I don’t. It’d kill me if I tried. But it’s goddamned impressive to walk into someplace with her hanging on my arm. Makes me the envy of every young hard dick in the room.”

With great effort, Simon struggled to his feet and moved closer to the two men. He paused, then walked behind the black man. “That’s some scar you have there,” he remarked. “How’d you get it? One of them police dogs in Selma get a little too close?”

The black man, his right hand touching the scar on his cheek, glared hard at Simon. “Car crash, when I was a kid.”

“You know, you’re the first black person—I mean, Afro-American—who’s ever been on this vessel,” Simon said. “Except, of course, for the servants.”

“I’m honored,” the big black man said.

Simon circled the two men again, slowly, finally stopping in front of the Indian. “You must be Seneca. I’ve heard a lot about you. Why, there are those of my acquaintance who speak of you in almost reverential tones. They say you’re the best, that no one comes close. That true, or is it only a lot of talk from your fork-tongued redskin brothers?”

“He’s the best, make no mistake about that,” the black man said, turning toward Simon.

“I don’t recollect asking for your opinion, spade. I asked the man himself. Well, how about it, Cochise? You as good as they say?”

The Indian flashed a quick grin. “Better,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. Just as quickly, the smile vanished and his right hand shot out and grabbed Simon’s testicles. “And the name isn’t Cochise, fatman. It’s Seneca. Got it?”

He increased the pressure. “Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, I got it,” Simon belched. “Take your fuckin’ mitts off my balls.”

More pressure.

“What’s the name, fatman?”

“Seneca, goddammit … fuckin’ Seneca.”

“That’s better.”

The Indian released his grip and pushed Simon back against the bar. Simon’s face was bathed in fear. He grabbed a napkin and wiped sweat from his forehead.

“I didn’t come here to listen to your redneck bullshit,” the Indian added. “I’m here to find out where Karl wants to meet. Tell me that, and I’m gone.”

Before Simon could answer, Hannah walked into the cabin, looked around at the three men, and smiled. “Sounds like you boys are getting a little rowdy down here.”

Simon coughed. “Get enough sun, Kitten?”

“Don’t I look tan and lovely?” she answered, turning toward the Indian. “Simon, why don’t you introduce me to your friends?”

“The one in front …”

“Seneca,” the Indian said, cocking his head in the direction of the black man. “That’s Deke.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Deke said, relieved to see her fully clothed.

Simon coughed again, louder this time. “Honey, I have important business to discuss with these gentlemen. Why don’t you take a shower? Freshen up a bit before dinner.”