The Monarch Graveyard

by James R Nelson

  Phillip stopped. “What? He does?”

  “Yes. Johnny kept asking me about who was funding your movies. Well, not just yours. When I told him I had met Cyrus a few times, he made me introduce him.”

  Phillip shook his head.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That wasn’t a very good idea.”

  Barbara laughed. “What was I supposed to do? Tell Johnny Stampos no? Anyway, I’m sorry I ruined your plans. You could have gone. I’d be okay sitting here by myself.”

  “I couldn’t do that, Barbara.” He stood up. “Try and do me a favor, will you? Just be a little nicer to Cora and Jeanette. They’ll be happy to help you, but sometimes they have other things to do first.”

  She glanced down at the floor. “I will.”

  ###

  On the eighteenth floor of the Howard office building on El Segundo Boulevard in Los Angeles, Johnny Stampos waved a copy of The Hollywood Insider. “Tony, have you seen this shit?”

  Tony Palmeri was bent over lighting a small cigar. He blew out his match and looked up at Johnny. “Seen what?”

  “The Hollywood Insider. Some spaz named Jimmy Knox wrote a bunch of crap about Barbara and me. Nobody writes crap about me. You need to teach him a lesson. A couple of broken fingers should do it. Them creeps need a reminder about who they can write shit about, and who they can’t.”

  Tony coughed and waved a cloud of blue smoke away from his face. “The Insider? I know a guy over there, Max Schmidt. I’m surprised they pulled a stunt like that. Must be a new guy. My contact ain’t that stupid.”

  “While you’re at it, see if you can track down Barbara too. She’s not returning any of my calls.” Johnny tossed the paper at him. “Take a look at this shit.”

  Tony caught it in mid-air. He read the article. “Says here you guys broke up. Is that true?”

  Johnny adjusted his tie. “She said she wanted to have more time for herself. I told her I didn’t think that was such a grand idea. That’s how we left it. Now this rag’s saying that she broke it off with me.” He looked at Tony and laughed. “She’s dumb, but she ain’t that dumb. Nobody disrespects me. Now get out of here, teach that putz of a reporter a lesson. Find Barbara while you’re at it. Bring her back here. We need to have a little talk.”

  Two-and-a half hours later, Tony stood in the shadows and watched the front door of The Hollywood Insider. He looked at his watch. Any minute now.

  The door swung open, and his contact walked out next to another man. Tony smiled. This was going to be easy. The guy was small. He looked like he’d just stepped off a train from Iowa or somewhere. Blue plaid shirt. Crewcut. Pasty skin. So that was what Jimmy Knox looked like.

  The two men turned right and strolled between several large palm trees to the entrance of the Chez Aloha Lounge. He’d give them ten minutes.

  Tony checked his watch again and stepped inside the lounge. He walked over to the booth his contact was sitting in and just stood there, legs spread wide, his arms folded.

  Tony looked at each of the men, knowing full well the answer to the question he was going to ask. “Which of you two schmucks is Jimmy Knox?”

  Jimmy looked at Max and then back at the man. “Schmucks? I’m Mr. Knox. Who wants to know?”

  Tony picked up a heavy glass ashtray and slammed it down on Jimmy’s right hand. Jimmy let out a scream. “Mr. Johnny Stampos does, you little punk. Maybe you should think twice the next time you want to fill that rag of yours full of bullshit.” He stood up from the booth, downed Jimmy’s drink, and calmly exited the lounge.

  Tony got into this car and drove down Santa Monica Boulevard to Fairfax, then headed out Hollywood Boulevard to Laurel Canyon where Barbara Jenkins lived. He pulled up to a row of low bungalows. They were new and expensive. She must be doing good. He was surprised there wasn’t a gate and guard. He walked up to number seven and knocked.

  It didn’t look promising. The place was dark. He knocked again and called out, “Barbara. Ms. Jenkins. Are you in?”

  The door to number six slowly opened and a tall redhead leaned out. “If you’re looking for Barbara, you’re not going to find her. She packed up her bags and left a few days ago.”

  Tony took a moment to take a better look. “She did, did she? Did she say where she was going?”

  The red-head started to answer and then stopped. “Wait a minute. Who are you anyway? Are you one of those crazy fans? Some stalker?”

  “Naw. I’m checking on her for a friend. He hasn’t heard from her. He’s worried.”

  “Your suit’s too nice to be a detective.” She smiled. “I know who you are. You’re a pal of Johnny Stampos, aren’t you?”

  Tony smiled. “Maybe I am.”

  She swung the door open. “Why don’t you come in for a drink? I don’t know where Barbara went to, but I’m kind of thirsty. I don’t like to drink alone.” She held out her hand. “They call me Madge.”

  “Nice to meet you.” He stepped into the bungalow and pushed the door shut behind him.

  Madge walked over to the bar. “You certainly are a big one. That is a beautiful suit. Where do you buy your clothes?” She dropped a few ice cubes into two tumblers. “We’re having martinis. Vodka or Gin?”

  ###

  The Marquette State Prison was illuminated in bursts of lightning as a night storm blew in from Canada. Paulie sat on the bottom bunk and listened while his cellmate, a scrawny kid named Curtis Iverson, turned from the barred window. “Wow! You should have seen those bolts. They were all going sideways. Nothing even hit the ground.”

  Paulie didn’t respond.

  Curtis turned to the window again. “Hey, that big bastard, Sergeant Sovey, called me down to his office this afternoon and started asking questions.”

  Paulie used his thumbnail to scrape some dirt out from underneath his fingers. “Oh, yeah. What’d he ask you?”

  Curtis smiled. “He asked me about his wife. I said I thought you had a little crush on her.”

  Paulie sprang from the bed, grabbed him around the neck, and lifted him off the floor. “You said what?”

  Curtis’s feet were kicking against the wall. His face was red. “Aw…naw…ahh.”

  Paulie let go, and he crumpled to the floor. Curtis coughed a few times and rubbed his neck. “Shit, Paulie, I was just jokin’ ya. I told him I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.”

  Paulie stared down at him. “You say one word about Kitty to anyone, and I’ll kill you.”

  Curtis looked up. “Kitty, is it? Not Sergeant Sovey? So, something’s going on.”

  Paulie yanked him up again and slammed him against the wall. “Keep your filthy nose out of my business. You say one word about this to anyone, they’ll be carrying you outta here in a pine box.” He pressed him harder against the wall. “You got that?”

  Curtis nodded. “I got it. I got it.”

  “There ain’t nothin’ going on. She just comes and talks to me sometimes. We got a few things in common, is all.”

  Curtis climbed up to the second bunk. “Believe me, I’ll never mention her name again.” He massaged his neck. “You can count on that.”

  Six

  Everett Poteet kicked sand beneath his feet as streaks of blue and pink colored the clouds that were just above the horizon. It was early in the morning. The ocean was calm. Small waves lapped the shoreline. He turned to Dwayne. “Why’d we have to get out here so damned early?”

  “This is our only chance. We miss this one, and it’s all over. Better to be early than too late.”

  Everett slapped his arm. “Damn no-see-ums is out. Are they getting you?”

  “No. I had sense enough to spray myself before we left. You’ve lived in Florida your whole darned life. Didn’t you learn anything?” He turned to the water. “Now shut up. He could be walking up the beach any time now.”

  Everett stuck his head above the sand dune and looked to the north. “Still don’t see anybody.”

  Dwayne wiped sweat from
his burning eyes and popped another Budweiser. “Amber said he takes a walk every morning. We been here since dawn. You don’t think we missed him, do ya?”

  “She said the wedding was last night. The man probably was up late, had too much to drink, and decided to stay in bed. That’s what I would’a done.” Everett stopped. “Wait. Here comes a guy now. He’s got gray hair. Looks like it could be him.”

  Dwayne scrambled up the dune next to Everett. “Yeah. That’s the guy. Now don’t forget what we practiced yesterday. You walk up to him and ask him if he’s got a match. Make sure you turn so he’s facing the ocean. Then I’ll come up behind and grab him.”

  “Okay. I got it.” Everett felt for the knife in his pocket and made his way across the dune. He walked to the ocean’s edge and waited. A few minutes later, he turned. “Hey, mister. You got a match?”

  Cyrus pulled his cigar from the corner of his lips and reached into his cargo pants pocket. “Yes, hold on a —”

  Dwayne ran up behind him, threw a gunny sack over his head, and pulled it tight. Cyrus yelled, “What the hell,” and fumbled at the scratchy cloth that was rubbing against his face.

  “Tie him!” Dwayne yelled.

  Everett pulled out a thick cord, and tried to pull Cyrus’s arms behind him. Cyrus raised his right leg and kicked backward connecting with Everett’s knee cap. Everett dropped to the sand. “The bastard kicked me!”

  “Then tie his damn feet too,” Dwayne yelled. “You’ve got enough rope. Grab him!”

  Cyrus, unable to see, ran straight into the edge of the dune and fell onto the sand. Dwayne jumped on top of him. “Get the rope. I got him.”

  Everett found the cord half buried in the sand and slowly stood up. His knee was throbbing as he limped over to Dwayne.

  “Don’t just stand there, you idiot. Tie up his hands.”

  Everett grimaced as he knelt down and wrapped the rope tightly around Cyrus’s wrists.

  Cyrus yelled, “Help! Someone help me!”

  “Come on. Let’s get him outta here.” Dwayne grabbed the front of Cyrus’s shirt and pulled him toward a thicket of saw palmettos. They followed a narrow path to where Dwayne had backed the car into an area of sand pines and scrub.

  Everett yanked open the door. Dwayne pushed Cyrus onto the back seat and threw a green army blanket over him. “Let’s go.” He slid behind the wheel.

  “Don’t ya’ll be speeding now,” Everett cautioned. “We don’t need to get pulled over.”

  Cyrus’s cries for help were muffled under the blanket.

  Dwayne turned. “Just shut up. Nobody can hear you.”

  Half an hour later, they pulled up to the house in Palm Bay. It took a few minutes to transfer Cyrus to the rusty Ford Ranchero that had the airboat trailered behind it. “Are we ready?” Everett asked.

  Dwayne checked the trailer hitch. “Yep. Let’s get the hell out of here before Amber gets back.”

  ###

  Elena rolled over in bed and reached for her husband. He wasn’t there. She slowly opened one eye. It was bright. Too bright. Where was he? She eased her throbbing head from the pillow. The bathroom? No, the door was wide open. What time was it? She yawned. It had been after one a.m. when they returned to their room after the reception.

  Oh, how beautiful the bride looked. And Richard. He was so handsome. He looked so happy. Where was Cyrus? Was he walking the beach this early? What time was it? She turned to the clock on the nightstand. Nine o’clock already? She put her head back down on the pillow. Oh, that felt so much better.

  ###

  Dwayne pulled onto Babcock Street and glanced behind his seat. “Everything good back there?”

  Everett’s feet were resting on top of the blanket that covered Cyrus. Everett pulled out a pint of whiskey and took a drink. “I hit him kinda hard with that beer bottle, but I had to shut him up somehow. Hope I didn’t kill him.” He stared at the blanket again. “No. He’s still breathing.”

  Dwayne reached for the bottle. “Damn. I’m glad that’s over with. Went better than I figured.” He took a drink. “Planning’s the ticket. I thought about this ever since Amber told us about that last rich guy that was staying at the B and B. I came up with a few other ideas, tested them out, and redid a few things. When you pull off something like this, you don’t want any surprises.”

  Everett looked out the rear window and gripped the door handle. “Speaking of surprises, we got a cop coming up fast. What’s your speed?”

  Small beads of sweat broke out on Dwayne’s forehead. He glanced down at the speedometer. “I’m only doing forty.” The cop flew by them on the outside lane and continued down Babcock.

  Everett took a deep breath. “Shit. I thought I was going to hurl there for a few seconds.”

  “Don’t even think about pulling a stunt like that in my truck. You think you’re going to puke, you let me know.”

  They drove south on Babcock Street for about twenty miles and then turned east on a narrow dirt road for another four miles.

  Everett looked at Dwayne. “What about the note?”

  “I’ll mail it when I get back from the island.”

  “You made sure to wipe the fingerprints off, right?”

  Dwayne stared at him. “No. I stuck my fingers in a pot of ink and put my prints all over the damned thing. Then I added a few of yours there too, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Very funny. No need for that kind of shit. Just making sure, is all. You don’t have to get all huffy.”

  Dwayne pulled into a dirt parking area next to a small, deserted boat ramp. “I told you nobody’d be at the Stick Marsh this time of year.”

  He put the truck into reverse and slowly backed the trailer into the water. Everett unhitched the airboat while Dwayne parked the truck. When he returned, they both dragged Cyrus, whose head was still covered, onto the airboat. Everett pushed him down behind the seats. There was just enough space in front of the cage that covered the big propeller.

  Dwayne started the huge engine.

  Cyrus jumped. “What in the hell was that?” Nobody heard him as the airboat skimmed over the water.

  ###

  Back at Atlantic Shores, Elena was fuming. She’d gone downstairs and had breakfast with some people from the wedding party. Everyone was in a hurry to leave. If one more person asked where Cyrus was, she might have a complete melt down right there at the table.

  She glanced at her watch again. Where could he be? That man was the most inconsiderate person on the face of the earth. He was doing this for spite. She knew he was. He hadn’t wanted to attend the wedding in the first place. Then, when he learned that good old Phillip Kahle wasn’t going to show, his attitude got even worse. This was his little way of saying “screw you.”

  Oh, no. Elena glanced down at the table. If she looked preoccupied, maybe Agnes Brentwood would walk right by.

  “There you are,” Agnes said. “I’m saying my goodbyes.” She looked around. “Where’s Cyrus? I’m headed back to England. I wanted to thank him, well thank you both, for coming, before I head out. I’ve left my Yorkies with my neighbor, and I can’t wait to see the little darlings.” She scanned the room again. “Where is that dear husband of yours?”

  Elena gritted her teeth. “I’m not sure. You know he enjoys walking on the beach every morning. He just delights in talking with all those scruffy old fishermen. Don’t ask me why. He’s never once held a fishing pole in his manicured hands.”

  “Some sort of primitive male bonding, I’m sure,” Agnes said. “Well, I’m afraid I need to get going. My car service will be here shortly.”

  Elena rose and took Agnes’s hands. “It was a lovely wedding. Your daughter was ravishing, and I’ve never seen Richard happier. He was positively beaming when Caroline walked down the aisle.”

  Agnes smiled. “I know. Wasn’t it wonderful? I’m so disappointed Phillip couldn’t join us. If it weren’t for him, they would have never met. Caroline’s dying to know what movie Phillip’s plannin
g next. She just adores him, you know.”

  “The feeling must be mutual. He’s put her in so many of his films.”

  Agnes pulled her hands free. “Oh, it is. Please say goodbye to your husband for me, but I’m afraid I must be going.”

  After Agnes had departed, Elena realized she had a death grip on her napkin. It was all balled up in her left hand. She tossed it on the table and returned to her room. Cyrus must be back by now. She tried the door. It didn’t budge. She pulled out her key and stepped inside. There was no sign of her husband.

  After two hours of wondering where he could be, Elena changed into her bathing suit and slipped her feet into a pair of sandals. She was worried. Cyrus had never been gone this long on one of his beach walks. Had he suffered from heat exhaustion and passed out? Maybe dehydration from all the martinis he’d consumed the night before?

  She left the room, walked down the narrow path across the dune, and stopped at the ocean’s edge. Which way? Right or left? From their veranda, she had watched Cyrus turn right on the previous two walks. There were a few houses to the left, but endless coastal scrub the other way. She turned right.

  She spotted a fisherman about a block away and hurried her pace. “Excuse me, but did you notice a man in his early sixties with white hair walk by here this morning?”

  “No, ma’am. Sorry. I saw a young couple with an Irish setter come by a while ago, but that’s about it.”

  She thanked him and continued her search. After going almost two miles along the shoreline, Elena stopped. How far would he have gone? She was hot. She had to go back. She looked over at the dune. Maybe she’d see signs of him up there. She climbed the three-foot cliff where the waves had eroded the sand and walked halfway back to where they were staying. She slowed her pace. There was an area in front of her where the sand had been disturbed. She stopped. What was that? A cigar? Elena bent down. Was it the kind her husband favored?

  The sand had clearly been rearranged. What happened here? A narrow path wove over the dune, through the scrub to A1A. Head bent low, she slowly followed the trail. As she neared the two-lane blacktopped road, she stopped. There were tire prints in the sand. Elena froze. Cyrus’s hat lay next to the tracks. Had someone grabbed him? Kidnapped him?