Black Rite

by Allen Caraway

  On April 3, 1947, when Ramiro was seventy-two and retired, Marty Sabatino arrived – uninvited - at Ramiro’s house, walking in on the old man as he performed oral sex on a thirteen year old boy, the kid incapacitated after Ramiro had drugged him with chloral hydrate. Sabatino – shocked and disgusted by what he saw – told Ramiro that he was going straight to the sheriff’s office and drove away. Ramiro panicked. He bound and gagged the boy, locked him in his office and ran out to his car, believing that the boy would remain undiscovered until his return. Ramiro’s wife had died five months earlier, all seven children were married and lived elsewhere and the staff only entered his office suite - situated in a separate building - when given permission.

  That fucking cunt, Ramiro thought as he climbed into his Chrysler Imperial. Barges in without warning, doesn’t even bother to telephone first or even knock on the damn door. No, the sonofabitch just waltzes in like it’s his house. I could kill him. I could fucking kill him!

  He soon caught up with Sabatino’s Packard, surprised by the director’s sedate pace, the surprise increasing when Sabatino did not continue up Route 270 to the Bronson County Sheriff’s station in Kerorso as Ramiro had expected, but instead pulled into North Oak Ranch.

  ‘What are you up to, you sonofabitch?’ Ramiro muttered as he slowed down.

  Perhaps Sabatino was having second thoughts. He knew that Ramiro was a well-respected and powerful man. Accusing him of child abuse was tantamount to asking Ramiro to destroy Sabatino’s reputation, personal life and career, something that Ramiro, with his many well-connected friends, was more than capable of doing. In addition, if Sabatino went to the sheriff’s office, they would greet his accusations with derision. The sheriff and the deputies were on a short leash, Ramiro was certain of it. Further comfort came from the knowledge that no one in town liked Sabatino and they wouldn’t believe his accusations.

  Ramiro turned into North Oak’s long drive and floored the gas pedal, the big heavy car’s rear end fishtailing until the tires found purchase on the rutted gravel surface. He barely noticed.

  ‘Try and stain the fine name of Ramiro Harkinen?’ he said, his voice tremulous and gradually increasing in pitch as his fury grew. ‘Drag it through the mud? Make trouble for a man who single-handedly turned this town around? Changed it from being a scruffy one mule shit hole of a town into a large thriving community where a woman can feel safe walking down the street at night, unlike that cesspit you call home?!’ He slammed his palm against the Imperial’s large steering wheel. ‘NO!’

  The law would be on his side and Sabatino would find himself standing in a deep pit while Ramiro gleefully shoveled shit onto him from a great height.

  He arrived to find Sabatino leaning against his Packard, a frown creasing his smooth tanned forehead as he watched the Imperial’s rapid progress down the driveway.

  Ramiro pulled up behind the Packard, climbed out of his car and got to the point. ‘I wouldn’t mention what you saw to anyone, if I were you.’

  ‘Oh?’ Sabatino said, raising his eyebrows. He looked annoyed by Ramiro’s words but also defiant, as if he considered Ramiro to be about as intimidating as a cockroach.

  Ramiro glared at him. Eight years older than Dashwood, five foot ten and athletic, Sabatino was a good-looking guy who had grown up in a tough Bostonian neighborhood; a proud blue-collar Italian-American who had arrived in Hollywood aged sixteen and worked his way up from runner to award winning director. Ramiro knew that swimming and boxing were among Sabatino’s favorite pastimes, in addition to his other horizontal, and more secretive, athletic pursuits. Despite the difference in their physiques and ages, the director’s athleticism and pugilistic abilities didn’t intimidate Ramiro. If Sabatino put one finger on him, the big idiot would find himself in the local iron bar motel tout de fucking suite.

  ‘Yeah,’ Ramiro said, ‘not unless you want to get yourself into a lot of trouble. You seem to have forgotten who I am.’

  Sabatino’s frown deepened, contempt darkening his face. ‘A child molester is who you are, Harkinen. I’ll see you in jail. Somehow I doubt that poor kid was the first, or will be the last, unless someone puts a stop to it.’

  Ramiro smiled, his countenance mocking Sabatino’s declaration. ‘And that someone is you, is it?’

  ‘Damn right.’

  ‘How about I go home and call your wife? Tell her you’re fucking that young secretary of yours?’

  The contempt on Sabatino’s face briefly changed to surprised alarm. ‘You’re deluded. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘Don’t push me, Harkinen.’

  ‘It’s in your eyes, sonny. I can see the guilt. I know that you’ve been polishing your dick outside the marital bed and I know that she’s staying here.’

  ‘How the hell could you possibly know that?!’

  ‘Let’s just say that I’m tuned in to what’s going on around here.’

  ‘You’re deluded.’

  ‘I’m right and I know that you know I’m right. I’m aware of a lot of things that go on here, Marty ol’ pal. You might want to consider that.’

  ‘So what if she is and so what if I have? It’s none of your goddamn business, anyway.’

  ‘Everything in Bronson County is my business.’

  ‘No it isn’t, so get your big fucking nose outta mine, or I’m taking you down.’

  ‘You seem to forget that I could bury you. With the friends and contacts I have, I could put you in Alcatraz for the rest of your pathetic little life.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Oh it’s not bullshit, Marty. Try me and find out. But first, how about I ruin your marriage, then leak to the press that you’ve been unfaithful to the English Rose, as I believe Hedda Hopper calls her? Hmm?’

  Sabatino first looked incredulous then his expression changed to anger. He spoke quietly, the threat in his tone unmistakable. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Yes I would.’

  Sabatino stared at Ramiro for a moment, evaluating him. He was all too aware of the old man’s power and soon after leaving Ramiro’s house, Sabatino had discarded his intention of driving to the station in Kerorso in favor of phoning Sheriff Young in Bronson. A minute after reaching that decision, he changed his mind again. Would Young believe him? He doubted it. However, if he called Gene Di Pietro – a friend of his for over ten years and currently the district attorney of Los Angeles County – and asked him to act on his behalf, then he was sure that Di Pietro could persuade Young to take the accusations seriously. At first, that idea felt right. Yet as he drove, it slowly unraveled and now, as he looked at Harkinen, Sabatino began to doubt that even Di Pietro could persuade Young to act. This left him with one option.

  ‘Have you heard of Jack Dragna?’ Sabatino said.

  Ramiro looked surprised. ‘The mafia boss?’

  Sabatino nodded.

  ‘Yeah, I have. So what?’

  ‘He’s a good friend of mine. So is Frank Bompensiero, who’s very good at killing people. One phone call to Jack and Frank could be here in less than five hours. He’d take great pleasure in cutting off your balls, especially after I tell him what you did.’

  Ramiro stared at him, wondering if Sabatino was telling the truth. He had heard rumors that Sabatino was chummy with Gene Di Pietro and that both men were mobbed up, but he had never bothered to check if it was true. He could certainly do so now, but Ramiro had no idea how long it would take and time wasn’t exactly on his side. If Sabatino was telling the truth, then he held the upper hand. While Ramiro could certainly destroy him, it would take time and he didn’t know any dubious Italian gentlemen who could stand in his corner at such short notice. He studied Sabatino’s face and saw the same confidence in his ability to destroy Ramiro that Sabatino had seen in his face a moment before. For the first time since his childhood, Ramiro felt afraid.

  ‘I’ll give you five hundred dollars,’ he said.

&
nbsp; Sabatino looked astonished. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard. Five hundred dollars. You didn’t see anything and I’ll agree to keep my mouth shut.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘No I’m not kidding. Do I look like I’m kidding?’

  ‘You think you can buy me for five hundred measly bucks? Christ, that’s not even half the price of a new Ford.’

  ‘Five hundred and you keep quiet, or I’ll have a chat with Hedda Hopper.’

  Sabatino shook his head in exasperation as if he was conversing with a retarded five year old. ‘You seem to have it all mixed up, Harkinen. Telling me that I should take five hundred greenbacks to keep my mouth shut, or you’ll call Hedda Hopper? Fucking hysterical. Some blackmailer you are. You can’t even do that right!’ He began to laugh. ‘Jesus fucking Christ! What an asshole! If you’re threatening to tell about Norma and me, then it should be me who gives you five hundred bucks. Man oh man.’

  Ramiro glared at him, feeling bemused and infuriated as he watched the man’s wide frame shake with laughter. Despite an I.Q. of 185, Ramiro had somehow acted like a complete moron and he couldn’t understand how it had happened.

  When Sabatino had stopped laughing, he said, ‘Tell you what, here’s how it’s gonna be: I don’t give a rat’s ass about my marriage. It’s over. Has been for weeks. Maybe even months. I’m gonna tell Lizzy it’s over as soon as I get back to L.A. In fact-’ He raised a forefinger and adopted a thoughtful expression. ‘-I might call her as soon as I get inside. Then I’ll call Louella Parsons and tell her, which’ll piss off Hedda Fucking Hopper. Always a good thing. And then I’ll call my buddies and ask them to come over and measure you up for a nice, comfy concrete overcoat. How’s that grab ya, you fuckin’ perverted old faggot?’

  ‘But ... but ...’ Ramiro stammered, unable to believe how he had so rapidly, so completely lost control of the situation. ‘You can’t! ... You couldn’t! I’m Ramiro Harkinen for Christ’s sake! I was Bronson County’s magistrate judge!’ He held up three fingers. ‘I served for three terms! Three goddamn terms!’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Sabatino said, unimpressed. ‘I know. And yes I can and oh yes I will. You may know some powerful people, but like I said, so do I and my pals are far more influential, or perhaps I should say, persuasive. And another thing, you’re standing on my property and I’m thirty years younger, bigger, stronger and faster. I’ll grab you before you can move an inch and keep you tied up in the basement until my buddies arrive. No one will hear you if you scream for help. We’re out in the boonies, Harkinen. You know it. I know it. Then they’ll go over to your house and free that poor kid, who I bet is now tied up and gagged.’

  Ramiro’s eyes widened in surprise. Sabatino was smarter than he’d thought.

  ‘Yeah I thought so,’ Sabatino said. ‘That kid will tell everyone and before you can say “Oh man I’m fucked” the entire county will know what a pile of shit you really are. Then you’ll “disappear.”’ Sabatino made quotation marks with his fingers. ‘No one will miss you. They’ll probably think you did a runner. Only the cops will go looking for you and I can guarantee they’ll never find you.’

  Sabatino crossed his arms. ‘However, I’m a reasonable man. I might be persuaded to refrain from asking my friends to chuck you into San Francisco Bay if you made a generous donation towards a project I’ve been trying to get off the ground for years. Say ... ten thousand dollars?’

  ‘What?!’ Ramiro’s voice was close to a scream. ‘No way! I could buy a new house for two thirds of that!’

  ‘Better calm down, Harkinen, or I’ll make it twenty thousand. A sort of “Being an Asshole Tax.” Oh, and while we’re talking about tax, I want it in cash. Don’t want the good ol’ IRS to know, now do we?’

  ‘This is outrageous!’

  ‘Well, shit happens. Your stupid fault for fiddling around with children, eh?’

  ‘I can’t give you ten thousand dollars! I don’t have that kind of money just ... just ... hanging around!’

  Sabatino frowned. ‘Bullshit. You’re a multi-millionaire. Ten grand is pocket change to you. Pocket change to me too, actually, but an extra ten large would come in handy. Perhaps you should stop being an ungrateful little faggot, shut the fuck up and realize that I’m being extremely generous. Ten measly grand to save your neck. That’s all. Jeez.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘I’ll give you to the count of five. One, two, three-’

  Ramiro held up his hands, palms facing Sabatino; a gesture of defeat. ‘Okay okay. I’ll give you the money. But only if you promise that you’ll be true to your word.’

  ‘Of course I will.’ Sabatino smiled, exposing the handiwork of a talented dentist. It was like staring into the mouth of a well-heeled shark who believed that having perfect teeth and a winning smile would make it easier to catch unsuspecting fish.

  ‘It’ll take me a while to raise the money. I’ll have to cash in some bonds. I only have seven hundred bucks in my safe and two grand in the bank.’

  ‘Really?’ Sabatino said, not believing a word. ‘You have exactly forty-eight hours, or I’ll call Dragna.’

  ‘Forty-eight hours?! Are you crazy?! I can’t raise ten thousand dollars in two days!’

  Sabatino was beginning to enjoy himself. Today was turning out to be a total gas. He adopted an expression of mock sympathy and said, ‘Well, looks like you’ll have to, Harkie ol’ pal, otherwise I’ll be meeting Frankie’s plane at Kerorso Airport.’

  ‘All right all right,’ Ramiro said. His chest hurt and he was feeling lightheaded. He needed to get away from this jackoff right now. Go home and lie down for a while. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes and get you your ten thousand dollars within the next two days.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be waiting. Call when you have it. Now fuck off, I have things to do.’

  Ramiro scowled at him and then climbed into his Imperial. He was on the road and heading back to his own ranch less than three minutes later. Hunched over the wheel, face contorted to such an extent by his rage that a neighbor passing in a Nash Ambassador didn’t recognize him at first.

  ‘I’ll get that mother fucking gorilla turd,’ Ramiro said. ‘Goat humping bastard will regret the day he chose to fuck with me, the fucking shithead! I bet he fucks his dog, too. “Come here, Fluffy, let’s get it on.” Cunt like that is just a walking nut sack. Can’t keep it in his pants. Pussy, that’s all he thinks about. Doubt he cares what species it is as long as he can get his tiny little pecker in there. Probably fucks his mother, sisters and cousins as well. Son-of-a-bitch!’ He slammed his left hand against the wheel. ‘Fuck!’

  The Imperial swerved into the opposite lane, Ramiro absently steering the car back to the right as he continued to curse Sabatino.

  ‘Cunt!’ he screamed, releasing the word with such force, a fine spray of saliva landed on the steering wheel, dashboard and windshield. He didn’t notice, was so utterly possessed by rage, he barely even saw the road. ‘MOTHER FUCKING CUNT FACED SHITTER!’

  As he vented, the pain in Ramiro’s chest and the lightheadedness left him and his self-confidence and sense of his place in society returned, bringing with them an ever-increasing determination to ignore Sabatino’s demand and instead give him something else. Something that would ensure Sabatino’s silence without Ramiro losing a dime.

  ‘I served three fucking terms as magistrate judge! I’m a high priest in the Order of Aritenkhede for Christ’s sake! You fucked with the wrong guy, Sabatino! The wrong fucking guy!’

  Ramiro continued in this vein until he pulled up in front of his house. He got out of his car, slammed the door and strode over to his office. Took off his pants and underwear, then raped the still heavily sedated boy. Two minutes later, he felt much better. Head clearer, calmer. Ramiro cleaned the boy up, dressed him, lay him on the chaise lounge underneath the window, then sat behind his desk and thought over his problem.

  He wanted to return to North Oak and shoot
the bastard. But that was too risky. In a small town like Harkinen where everyone knew each other’s business, he’d be seen – Murphy’s Law practically guaranteed it - and if he was seen then not even his long list of influential friends could keep him out of the gas chamber.

  Sighing, Ramiro stood up, went to the window and stared across his vast lawn. He needed to pray to Aritenkhede. Ask Him for guidance.

  Twenty minutes later, he had his answer.

  Lizzie.

  ~

  Early the next morning, Ramiro announced to his staff that he was still finding it difficult to cope with the death of his beloved wife and that he needed some time alone and gave them the weekend off. He then called a firm in Wickham and hired a black Cadillac Series 62 convertible, after which Ramiro looked through his collection of women’s clothes (he had been an enthusiastic and secretive cross-dresser since his late teens), chose an outfit as near to Dashwood’s chic Hollywood style as it was possible to get and lay them on his chaise lounge with a matching pair of shoes and a blonde wig. Dashwood couldn’t navigate her way around Harkinen undetected. The townsfolk always noted her comings and goings with great interest, and if someone saw a blonde driving a black Caddy enter or leave North Oak Ranch, or speeding up Route 270, they would assume it was Dashwood. He also knew that Beau would stay on the barn roof until he had finished. Once the kid had started a job, he didn’t like to stop until it was complete, not even to say hello to Dashwood, so the chance of him seeing his dear old great-granddaddy dressed like a broad was remote. Ramiro would be in and out of the house in less than two minutes anyway. He then perused his extensive firearms collection and chose a Smith & Wesson .45, illegally obtained a year earlier and made untraceable by his supplier. He put it on the desk with a box of cartridges, wondered if he had forgotten anything, decided he hadn’t, then called a cab.

  At 2.35 p.m., Ramiro hid his rented Caddy near the entrance to North Oak Ranch and waited for Dashwood to arrive and discover her husband’s infidelity. Ideally, she’d find them in bed, but at the very least she would discover that Johnson was staying in the main house and Dashwood – who was quite smart for an actress, Ramiro thought – would figure out what was going on pretty damn quick. When he saw her turn into the driveway just after 3.30 and leave a few minutes later, hurtling down the drive and then lurching onto Route 270, Ramiro knew that she had caught them in flagrante delicto. He waited for an hour and a half in case Dashwood came back, then put on his outfit and wig, drove to the house and shot Sabatino and Johnson.