Carrion

by Gary Brandner

  “Thank you, Rosalia,” he said. “You may go back to bed now.”

  Chapter 3

  McAllister Fain was definitely a morning man. Oh, he enjoyed it at night well enough, when the darkness outside closed in and made a warm, private space for two people. But sex in the morning had a special kind of urgency and spontaneity that started his juices flowing and set him up for a better-than-average day.

  Jillian Pappas was a little slower than Mac to get into the mood once the sun was up. She liked to awaken gradually, letting the bodily functions find their own pace. However, Mac was a patient, knowledgeable man. He took his time exploring her body and making her aware of his own. By the time they came together, both were wide awake and at a trembling pitch of excitement.

  At such times it was Jillian’s habit to shout whatever came into her head, much to the amusement of Mac’s neighbors.

  “Oh, you wild man!” she cried this morning at the ultimate moment. “Do it to me!” Her enthusiasm was loud enough to drown out the discreet knock at the door.

  As their passion subsided, their bodies wet and cleaved together, the knock came again, more insistent.

  “Who the hell is that?” Fain puffed.

  “Who’s what?” Jillian sighed.

  “At the door. I thought I heard somebody.”

  The knock was repeated. Very authoritative this time.

  Fain raised himself on one elbow to look at the glowing red numbers of the clock radio. “Jesus Christ, it’s not even eight o’clock.”

  “Must be important,” Jillian said.

  “It better be.” Fain disentangled himself from Jillian and from the sheets and pulled on a knee-length velour robe.

  “I’m hungry,” Jillian said.

  “Whose turn is it to make breakfast?”

  “Yours.”

  “You sure?”

  “I made French toast last time.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ll scramble some eggs as soon as I get rid of whoever’s at the door.”

  He padded into the living room and took a peek through the fish-eye viewer. His nerves clenched for a moment at the sight of a uniform but relaxed when he saw it was a nonofficial gray color and there was no badge. He shot the dead-bolt lock and opened the door.

  “Mr. Fain?” The uniform was that of a chauffeur. The man wearing it was broad-shouldered and dark, with a blue-black shadow on his jaw that no blade would quite remove.

  “That’s me,” Mac admitted.

  “My name is Garner. I was sent by Mr. Elliot Kruger.” The man paused as though waiting for a reaction to the name. When he got none, he said, “May I come in?”

  Mac stepped aside, and the man entered the living room. He glanced around, his cool brown eyes dismissing the apartment and its furnishings as being not worthy of inventory. Jillian came in from the bedroom, wearing Fain’s other robe.

  “What can I do for you?” Fain said.

  “Mr. Kruger would like to see you. He instructed me to drive you to his home.”

  “What for? I don’t even know the man.”

  “Is that the Elliot Kruger?” Jillian asked.

  The chauffeur nodded, his eyes flicking over Jillian in quick appraisal. From his expression, she came off better than the furnishings.

  Fain looked at her. “What do you know that I don’t?”

  “Elliot Kruger is big oil,” she said. “Big real estate. Big you-name-it. Mucho dinero. I think he invented some kind of a camera lens that the movie companies bought for a bundle.”

  “That was Mr. Kruger’s father,” the chauffeur said. “He invented the Kruger Multiflex lens in 1916, and a version of it is still used today.”

  “Good for him,” Mac said. “What does he want with me?”

  “A business matter. I’m sure Mr. Kruger would rather talk to you about it himself.”

  Fain looked down at his robe. “We just got up.”

  “Mr. Kruger’s day begins early,” said Garner.

  “Does it? Well, Mr. Fain’s day begins after breakfast, which he hasn’t had yet.”

  “There are hot coffee and sweet rolls available in the car.”

  “You’re kidding,” Fain said. “A car with hot coffee on tap?”

  “And color television with VCR,” Garner said with a touch of pride. “Also two cellular phones, a refrigerator, a small but complete bar, and chemical toilet facilities.”

  “Okay, I’m impressed. Just give me a chance to get dressed. I don’t suppose this wonder car has a shower.”

  “Sorry.” The chauffeur did not smile.

  “Too bad. Keep the coffee hot and we’ll be right with you.”

  “My instructions are to bring only you, Mr. Fain.”

  “Miss Pappas is my valued assistant,” Mac said. “Where I go, she goes.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the chauffeur touched his cap. “As you wish. I’ll be in the car.” He turned smartly on his boot heel and left the apartment.

  “What’s that ‘valued assistant’ flap?” Jillian said when they were alone. “I don’t want to get involved in any of your scams.”

  “Hey, come on. When will you get another chance to ride in a limo with color television?”

  “Who needs it?”

  “And a chemical toilet?”

  “Well, that’s different. Can I have firsts in the shower?”

  “You got it.”

  • • •

  The car was a customized Rolls-Royce. The color was muted silver, the interior mahogany and burgundy leather. The coffee, as promised, was rich and hot. Fain inspected the bar and found an excellent brand of each variety of liquor. He whistled in appreciation.

  Jillian nudged him and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Just looking, love,” he said. “You know I hardly ever indulge before noon. In strong drink, I mean.”

  “I couldn’t care less,” she said coolly. “What you do and when you do it is your own business.”

  “Hey, are you ticked off about something?”

  “Me? Ticked off? Heavens, no. If you want to call me your freeping assistant, why should I care?”

  “Lighten up, Jill. It’s a free ride and free breakfast, and I thought you’d enjoy it.”

  “Right, boss.” She gave him a mock salute.

  He worked a hand under her buttock and squeezed. “Be nice to me and I can get you a raise, if you know what I mean, heh-heh.”

  “Hands off,” she said, keeping a stern expression. “What you are doing is known these days as sexual harassment.”

  Fain shook his head. “Ah, for the good old days, when it was known as copping a feel.”

  The chauffeur tooled silently northwest on long, ever-changing Sunset Boulevard. The traffic lights seemed magically to turn green as the Rolls approached, as though they, too, responded to the aura of wealth.

  • • •

  Mac and Jillian settled back in the calfskin leather seats to watch the outer world pass through the smoked glass of the side windows. They drove silently through the multiethnic districts of Echo Park and Silver Lake. There the boulevard was lined with taco stands, herb shops, used-furniture stores, and beer joints with names like Sombrero Negro. The exposed walls were covered with amateurish murals and graffiti in the angular script of the street gangs.

  As they entered the loosely bounded noncity called Hollywood, the boulevard angled toward the sea. They passed several motels — “Water Beds, Adult Video” — credit dentists’ offices, a theater-turned-furniture store, a costume rental company, and assorted fast-food places. At the fabled intersection of Sunset and Vine, the artdeco studios of CBS and NBC in the radio days were long gone, as was Music City, with the revolving record atop its roof. Now high-rise office buildings stood guard on both sides, gleaming and clean and devoid of personality.

  On they drove, past Hollywood High and the stretch of sidewalk known as Hookers’ Highway. Into the curving Sunset Strip of trendy restaurants and rock clubs dominated by billboards featuring the huge
faces of tomorrow’s superstars. Or nobodies.

  At the end of the Strip the conditioned air inside the limo seemed to change subtly as they eased into Beverly Hills. Money had its own distinctive smell. Sunset Boulevard widened and grew a median strip with well-tended shrubbery. Commercial buildings disappeared. Everyone on the sidewalks wore designer jeans, and everyone on the streets drove a Mercedes. Mac Fain felt the tingle he always got in the area of his shoulder blades when he was in the proximity of riches.

  The very street names began to sound like money. Hillcrest Drive, Doheny, Rexford, Rodeo, Roxbury. How could a poor person live on a street called Roxbury Drive?

  The Rolls turned off into a hilly section where the streets bore no names. Or if they did, they were so discreetly displayed that Mac Fain could not find them. The homes and estates were screened from the eyes of idle passersby by high walls and dense foliage.

  They pulled in at a tall iron gate that opened obediently for the Rolls. A winding drive took them through the trees and up to a side entrance of a mansion that might have been on a Spanish travel poster.

  The chauffeur got out and held open the rear door. Off to their right was a garage that had space for six cars. Inside was another Rolls, two Mercedeses, and a Porsche 928. In the driveway stood a three-year-old Buick, looking embarrassed.

  A man of fifty or so with a face as smooth as an egg came out to meet them.

  “This is Mr. Fain,” the chauffeur announced, “and his assistant, Miss …”

  “Pappas,” Jillian supplied, shooting Mac a quick scowl.

  “Come this way, please,” said the egg-faced man. “Mr. Kruger is waiting for you.”

  They entered the house. Inside it was cool, and there were shadows in the corners. The air was musty and still, but there was a hint of saucy perfume that seemed to linger from some departed guest. Mac and Jillian were led through a maze of rooms and corridors. The furnishings were old, authentic, and obviously expensive.

  They came at last to a high-ceilinged room with tall French windows and a walk-in fireplace. The walls were hung with elaborate tapestries that showed the conquistadores civilizing the Indians. A lean, white-haired man in a loosely knit cardigan sat slumped in a high-backed chair. Beside him stood a portly middle-aged man in a three-piece suit that was too tight for him. The portly man frowned at them through gold-rimmed bifocals.

  “Mr. Fain and Miss Pappas,” announced their guide.

  The white-haired man peered up at them through pale, rheumy eyes. He did not offer to rise but held out a bony, liver-spotted hand.

  “I’m Elliot Kruger.”

  Fain took the hand gingerly. The brittle bones felt as though they might snap if he applied any pressure.

  “This is my son, Richard,” Kruger said, indicating the man in the suit.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Fain said.

  Richard Kruger sniffed, ignoring the outstretched hand.

  “I expected you to come alone,” Kruger said, talking to Fain but looking at Jillian.

  “Miss Pappas is a valuable, er, associate,” said Fain. “We always work together.”

  “I see. Well, sit down and I’ll tell you why I asked you here.”

  Mac and Jillian sat together on a plush maroon love seat. Elliot Kruger spoke in a subdued monotone for the next twenty minutes while his son stood by, looking alternately embarrassed and hostile. The old man told with suppressed emotion of the death of his wife, the freezing of her body in the cryogenic tank, and his subsequent attempts, medical and spiritual, to bring her back to life. With an effort, McAllister Fain kept his expression noncommittal. However, from time to time he glanced at Jillian and saw her growing look of horror.

  When Kruger had finished, Fain coughed politely and said, “Sir, I’m afraid you misread my ad. I do tarot readings, ESP, find lost objects — that sort of thing. Bringing back the dead is not in my line.”

  “How could I misread …” Kruger pulled the L.A. Insider from a brass magazine rack beside his chair. He read from the page to which it was folded. “… ‘Secrets of the Supernatural’?”

  Fain smiled apologetically. The old man did not respond. Richard Kruger leaned forward, his eyes narrowed behind the bifocal lenses.

  “It is only a newspaper ad,” said Fain.

  The old man slapped the tabloid with the back of a skeletal hand. “Are you or are you not an ‘occult authority,’ as you represent yourself here?”

  Fain cleared his throat. “That’s a fairly loose term. I admit I’m not exactly a stranger to the field. I have a pretty good library on the subject and I — ”

  “Never mind the sales talk. I am prepared to hire you and let you prove it.”

  “Mr. Kruger, as I said a minute ago — ”

  “Don’t turn me down until you’ve had a chance to consider my proposition. I never ask a service from anyone that I can’t pay for.”

  Fain looked around the richly furnished room. “I don’t question your ability to pay, Mr. Kruger.”

  “Then let’s talk business. If you succeed in returning my wife to me as she was, I am prepared to be … extremely generous.”

  Fain studied the old man and decided he was serious. He felt the prickling at the shoulder blades again. Very strong. “That’s an interesting proposition, but as I told you, it’s not the kind of thing I do.”

  Kruger went on as though he had not spoken. “Let me be specific. I am prepared to pay you an immediate retainer of ten thousand dollars. That’s in addition to any and all expenses, which I will cover. For merely making the attempt, even if you should fail, I’ll add another ten thousand dollars at the conclusion of your efforts. Should you succeed, I will double the final payment.”

  Fain swallowed hard at the mention of the figures.

  Kruger watched him intently. “Perhaps it would help you decide if you came with me to see my wife.”

  “Well … it couldn’t hurt to look.”

  Jillian snapped her head around. “Mac!”

  He gave her a quick gray-eyed stare. “It couldn’t hurt to look.”

  Kruger levered himself out of the chair and led them across the thick carpet to the tall windows. Fain followed, ignoring Jillian’s attempts to get his attention. Richard Kruger, with unconcealed distaste, brought up the rear. They left the house and walked in single file across an expanse of lush lawn, past the swimming pool — sparkling blue and empty — through the tall eucalyptus hedge, to a small building beyond. From inside the building Fain heard a soft, rhythmic throb like a muffled pulse.

  A crew-cut young man in a white laboratory coat let them in. The small building contained pumping and filter machinery for the swimming pool, and one corner was fitted out as an office for the attendant. But the room was dominated by the dark steel cylinder that lay in a bed of pipes, tubes, and gauges. The young man stood by, watchfully respectful, as Elliot Kruger led his guests inside.

  Fain moved up to stand beside the old man as he gazed down through the shatterproof viewing window set into the upper end of the cylinder. Richard Kruger and Jillian stayed back by the door.

  “Here she is,” said Kruger unevenly. “This is my Leanne.”

  The glass was faintly misted, but the lovely face of the woman inside could be clearly seen. Her eyes were closed. The rich brown hair, showing highlights even through the dull glass, lay softly on her shoulders. The mouth quirked up faintly at the corners as though she enjoyed some secret joke. Except for the ivory pallor of the skin and the absence of any breathing movement, the young woman might have been asleep.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she.”

  Fain started and looked up. “Yes,” he agreed. “Very beautiful.”

  The old man started to speak, then made a strangled sound and turned away. “Excuse me,” he said.

  The white-coated attendant hurried to his side and helped him out of the pool house. Richard Kruger came over to Fain.

  “I won’t let you get away with it, you know,” he said in a strained voice.
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  “What are you talking about?”

  “This con game you’re pulling on my father. He’s not in good shape mentally, and he’s liable to agree to anything. But I’m here to see that he’s not victimized by people like you. I can make it very uncomfortable for you.”

  Fain turned to face him squarely. “Maybe you’d better get specific.”

  “As you may imagine, my father’s name carries considerable weight with state and local authorities. That disgusting ad of yours in the scandal sheet may well be in violation of a number of laws.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Fain said.

  “Think again. There are people in high places who owe my father favors. I could make a couple of phone calls that would have you behind bars by nightfall.”

  Fain drew himself up to emphasize his three-inch height advantage over Richard Kruger. His expression has hardened, and the pale gray eyes smoldered. When he spoke, his voice carried a new ring of authority.

  “Now you listen up, friend. Your father sent for me. I didn’t come looking for him. I haven’t asked him for a damn thing. I’ve made no promises. If he wants to make me a business proposition, I’ll listen. And his name may carry all the weight you say it does, but that’s his name, not yours. Don’t threaten me again. I don’t like it, and I don’t think your father would, either.”

  Richard Kruger sucked in a lungful of air through his nose. He puffed out his cheeks. Before he could speak, his father and the attendant reentered the pool house.

  “Forgive me,” said the old man. “I don’t do that often. It’s just that … you’re my last hope. A small hope, I admit, but you’re all I have. Please” — the word did not come out easily — “Mr. Fain. If the retainer isn’t enough — ”

  “The retainer is fine,” Mac said quickly. He looked down again at the lovely, pallid face beneath the glass. “Can I let you know? There are certain arrangements I’ll have to make.”

  Fain was acutely aware of the hostile glare from the younger Kruger and a look of disbelief from Jillian, but he kept his eyes on the old man.

  “How soon?” asked the old man.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “That’s acceptable. My man will give you a number where I can be reached directly as soon as you have reached a decision.”