Carrion

by Gary Brandner

  They returned to the main house and exchanged brief good-byes. Not until they were in the backseat of the Rolls, sealed off from the chauffeur and heading back east on Sunset, did Jillian speak.

  “Mac Fain, are you crazy?”

  He brushed his hand across the buttery leather upholstery. From the bar he took a bottle of Hennessy V.S.O.P. and held it to the light. He selected a fist-sized snifter from the rack of glasses. “This is good stuff. Care to join me?”

  Jillian watched him soberly from the opposite side of the car. “You are crazy,” she said.

  Chapter 4

  When they were back in the Echo Park apartment, McAllister Fain opened a can of beer for each of them. Jillian sat sipping hers thoughtfully in his big recliner while Mac paced from one end of the living room to the other, clutching his like a hand grenade.

  “Are you going to talk to me?” she said finally.

  “Twenty thousand dollars,” Fain said. “Do you know how much money that is?”

  “Yes,” Jillian said quietly.

  “It’s more money than I cleared in the last two years.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Combined.”

  “Gotcha.”

  He paced some more and swallowed some of the beer. “What do you suppose it’s like to have as much money as Elliot Kruger?”

  “It can’t buy happiness,” she said, waiting for him to pick up on the cliché.

  It went right past him. “Imagine living like that. Did you see that house? That car?”

  “Yeah, toilet and all.”

  Fain went on pacing and talking as though she had not spoken. “And servants! A chauffeur, at least one maid, and whatever that guy was who took us into the house. My God, I didn’t think people had real servants anymore. That’s out of thirties movies. And what about that old piano with all the gold on it?”

  “That was a harpsichord, and it was gold leaf.”

  “Right. I’ll bet it’s worth more than this whole building.”

  “I get the idea,” Jillian said. “You’re impressed.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Sure. I’m also impressed by Yosemite Falls, but I’m not tempted to ride over it in a barrel.”

  Fain drained half his can of beer. He sat down on the sofa, got up, sat down again. He drummed a rapid tattoo on his knees and grinned at Jillian. Then her words seemed to filter through to him. “What’s that about a barrel?”

  “You’re going to do it, aren’t you.”

  “Do what?”

  “Take Elliot Kruger’s money.”

  “It’s a business proposition.”

  “Trying to bring a dead woman back to life?”

  Fain did a sitting-down tap dance. “Why not?”

  “Why not? Mac Fain, you are out of your mind.”

  “What the hell, you heard the man. Ten thousand retainer, unlimited expenses, and ten more big ones just for giving it the old college try. I can’t lose even if I fail.”

  “What do you mean if you fail? You know, you’re talking as though you might actually do it.”

  Fain crossed to where Jillian was sitting. He took her hands and pulled her up, then hugged her tightly.

  “Hey, I haven’t completely flipped out,” he said.

  “I’m beginning to wonder.”

  “I’m the same old levelheaded, lovable Mac Fain.”

  “Then you don’t think you can raise the dead.”

  “Of course not.”

  She relaxed in his arms. “You had me going there for a while.”

  “But Elliot Kruger thinks I can.” She drew back and stared at him. “So what?”

  “Twenty thousand dollars’ worth he thinks so.”

  “You would actually take the poor man’s money?”

  “Poor man? Hell, twenty thousand dollars is parking-meter change to people in his bracket.”

  “What difference does that make? You’d be cheating him.”

  “Who says so? You heard him say he’d pay even if I couldn’t deliver. He knows the odds, honey. God knows how much he’s already shelled out to doctors and Bible thumpers. Now he says I’m his last chance. He’ll pay for a good try, and that’s what I’ll give him.”

  Jillian stepped back and stared at him. “Mac, this is not telling fortunes for little old ladies. This is messing around with life and death and a man’s grief.”

  “Think of it as putting on a show.”

  “It’s not putting on a show,” Jillian insisted. “That old man is going to pay you to make his wife get up out of that flipping freezer and walk into his arms. If he thinks there’s even one chance in a million you can do it, you’ll be cheating him. The whole idea is crazy.”

  Fain looked at her. The pale gray eyes glowed under the dark brows. “Is that so? Who can say for sure that I can’t do it?”

  “Aagh!” Jillian spun away from him and stalked into the bedroom.

  He followed her and stood in the doorway as she moved briskly about, rearranging objects on the bureau, adjusting the shades, smoothing the bedspread, kicking at a loose corner of the carpet.

  “Something’s bothering you,” he said. “I can sense it.”

  “Oh, sure. Mister Mystic. Master of the Occult. Sometimes you make me so fleeping mad, Mac Fain….”

  “Hey, lighten up, kid. What I do for a living isn’t all that different from what you do. You get up on a stage and pretend to be somebody you’re not, right?”

  “It’s not the same at all. People know a stage performance is just make-believe. They know we’re actors. They come to be entertained.”

  “Why do you think people come to me?”

  “To have their fortunes told. Hear you predict a great love life for them. Find their lucky number.” Jillian took a moment to regain control. “Or, God help me, to bring back a dead wife.”

  “That’s not it at all,” Fain said. “People come to me for hope. That ocean voyage they’ve always dreamed of, the tall, dark stranger they wish would walk into their lives. The sudden fortune they know in their hearts they’re never going to have. I give them the possibility that it just might happen. Nobody gets hurt; nobody gets lied to. I never tell anybody their future is guaranteed.”

  “Not since the plainclothes policewoman nailed you for telling her to beware of a large blond man.”

  “Okay, I was careless once. Anyway, I read a month later where she was shot in the foot by a freaked-out junkie. He was blond and weighed damn near three hundred pounds.”

  “You’re telling me you really saw that in her future?”

  Fain grew serious. “Sometimes I don’t know what I see. I open my mouth, and things come out. Most of the time I’m careful to keep to generalities, but there are times …”

  His voice trailed off, and Jillian came over to stand close to him. “What times, Mac?”

  “I was just thinking about when I was a little boy.”

  “You’ve never told me about your childhood.”

  “There wasn’t that much to it. I was born and grew up in Michigan. Dad was a civil engineer, worked for the state. My mother was … just a mother, I guess. Housewife, a now-and-then churchgoer. The whole thing was very Midwest.”

  “Were your parents happy?”

  “Not really, now that I look back on it. The folks never had a lot to say to each other. Dad tried. Sometimes, when he’d had a couple, he would start clowning around, but my mother would always turn chilly and give him a look. I don’t mean they were miserable, but now I don’t think there was a whole lot of love between them.”

  “Poor little Mac,” Jillian said.

  “Hey, not me. I was treated just fine by both of them. No lack of love there. Like I said, all this is hindsight. At the time, I figured all families were like mine. And then we had Darcia.”

  “Who was Darcia?”

  “An Indian girl who worked for us for a while. People said she was strange and had spells. I figured out later that she was an epileptic. I didn’t know at the
time, and it wouldn’t have mattered. Darcia took about as much responsibility for raising me as either of my parents.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. After my mother died, she just went away. I used to ask Dad about her, but he never really answered.”

  “How old were you? When your mother died, I mean.”

  “I was seven. That’s what I started to tell you about. I saw my mother dead before the fact.”

  “What happened?” Jillian said softly.

  “It was the damnedest thing. I was in the house playing, or watching TV or something, and all of a sudden I had this sick feeling about my parents’ bedroom. Something terrible was in there, I just knew it, but I had to go and see. I ran back and opened the door, and my mother was lying there on the bed all broken and covered with blood.”

  “How awful for you,” Jillian said.

  “More awful than you think. You see, my mother was out shopping at the time. She came home when she was supposed to, just like nothing had happened. I was too embarrassed to say anything about what I saw, but I couldn’t forget it.

  “Then, three days later, my mother was out in the front yard working in her flower garden. We lived at the bottom of a hill. Up at the top a truck was parked. Somebody didn’t set the brakes properly. My mother never saw it coming. She never knew what hit her. The neighbors rushed out and carried her inside. I heard all the commotion, and Darcia tried to keep me from going into the bedroom. I broke away from her and ran in where they had laid her down, and I saw my mother lying there dead for the second time.”

  Jillian was silent for a long moment. “How come you never told me about that before?”

  “I never told anybody.”

  “Did anything like that ever happen again?”

  “Nothing that dramatic. Sometimes I would have a feeling about where to look for something that was lost.

  Or I’d know somebody was going to call just before the phone rang. That kind of stuff happens to everybody.”

  “Then that’s how you do the fortune-telling — I mean card readings — and all that stuff?”

  “Nah, that’s a performance. I tell the people something that will make them happy. Like I said, give them hope. If it happens the way I tell them, they think I read the future. If not, they can’t blame me, and at least they had the fun of thinking about it.”

  “You make it sound so harmless, yet I can’t lose the feeling that you’re doing something wrong.”

  “You’re not going to go moral on me now, are you?”

  “But, Mac, all that stuff — the tarot cards, the palm reading — is small potatoes compared to this business with Elliot Kruger. I mean, that woman is dead.”

  “No doubt about that,” he agreed.

  “You said yourself the dead don’t come back. Like my aunt Rowena, remember?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said, and as far as I know, they don’t. But who really knows for sure?”

  “You’re beginning to scare me.”

  Slowly he relaxed. The feverish look went out of the pale eyes. “Don’t worry about it, honey. I’ll give Elliot Kruger the performance of my life. It’s not likely that his wife is going to get up and walk, but if the man wants to pay twenty thousand dollars for the attempt, I’m not about to turn it down.”

  “You’re going through with it, then.”

  “Sure. And you can help me.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “Help you how?”

  “You’re my assistant, remember? And a darn good actress.”

  “Forget it,” she said. “I don’t want any part of fooling that sad old man.”

  “I wish you’d stop thinking of it that way.”

  “How am I supposed to think of it?”

  “Try twenty thousand dollars. That’s not hard to think about.”

  “I liked you better when you were poor.”

  “You’ll come with me, won’t you? When I do the scene? You don’t have to do anything, but I’d really like to have you there.”

  “I don’t know. When are you going to hold the … ceremony?”

  He became thoughtful. “Not right away. I’ll have a lot of research to do. There are things I’ll need — material, equipment.”

  “It sounds like you’re planning a space shot.”

  “I can’t just rush into this. The man is paying twenty thousand dollars; he’ll expect more than a pot of incense and some mumbo jumbo.”

  “What he expects,” Jillian said, “is that his wife will come back to life.”

  “Besides, there’s that unlimited expense account. It would look funny if I didn’t have a few expenses.”

  “Oh, sure.” Jillian looked at her watch. “I’ve gotta go. I’m having new pictures taken at one o’clock. Will I see you tonight?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve got a lot of reading to do about bringing back the dead.”

  Jillian shivered. “I wish you didn’t sound so serious about it.”

  “Honey, I am serious. Twenty thousand dollars’ worth of serious.”

  She kissed him quickly and headed for the door. There she turned. “There’s no chance you’ll change your mind?”

  Fain was already prowling along his bookshelf. “Um, what’s that?”

  “Never mind,” Jillian said. She shook her head and went out the door.

  Fain let his finger trail along the row of books until it stopped on a black-covered volume with the title stamped in gold. The Holy Bible.

  What better a place could there be to start? he thought. He carried the Bible back to his recliner, adjusted the reading lamp, and opened the New Testament to John 11 and 12.

  The raising of Lazarus.

  Chapter 5

  After a few minutes Mac Fain closed the Bible with a sigh and returned it to the shelf. John 11 and 12 had been a disappointment. There were no useful details given as to how Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead.

  Not that Fain had expected a how-to manual, but he was hoping for some hints he could adapt for his own use. It turned out to be one of those unexplained “miracles” like walking on water and such that Jesus pulled off occasionally to impress the populace. As a boy in Sunday school, Fain had wondered why, if Jesus was so handy with the miracles, he let himself get nailed to the cross.

  But there was no time now for theological musing. He started over with the occult books, noting every reference he could find to raising the dead. An hour or so of this left him more discouraged than before. The major concern of the books in the resuscitation field was bringing back the spirit of the departed to deliver some message from the other side. Ghosts were no help. Elliot Kruger wanted a flesh-and-blood woman returned to him. Nothing less would be acceptable. Scratch the seance.

  Back to the bookshelf. Fain continued down the row of titles. Witchcraft, astrology, the magician’s handbook, numerology, fortune-telling, voodoo. Voodoo?

  Weren’t those people famous for revivifying corpses?

  He flipped through the pages to the section he wanted. Uh-oh, zombies. That didn’t sound good. Elliot Kruger wasn’t shelling out twenty thou to have some blank-eyed hunk of meat shuffling around the house.

  Fain looked up suddenly from the book. What the hell was he thinking of? He wasn’t actually going to do anything. Elliot Kruger didn’t have to know it, but all he was buying was a performance of mystical mumbo jumbo. Ghosts, zombies, what difference did it make? At least the voodoo book gave him some impressive-sounding French-Creole expressions he could drop to give the old man the impression that something was going on. It was a start, but he would need more details about the actual ceremonies to be convincing, and Fain thought he knew where he could get them.

  But first, he might as well make it official. He scribbled some notes from the voodoo book, laid it aside, and picked up the telephone.

  He dialed the number Elliot Kruger had given him that morning. The old man answered on the first ring. His voice quivered with a pathetic note of eagerness. Mac h
ad a brief pang of conscience, but he quickly swallowed it.

  “Mr. Kruger, I’ve decided to accept your proposition.”

  “Thank you. I suppose you’d like a copy of our agreement in writing.”

  “That’s not necessary, sir. I have your word.” It would do no harm to boost the idea of trusting each other.

  “Fine,” Kruger said. “I’ll have my check for your retainer delivered to you by messenger. Will tomorrow morning be soon enough?”

  “Oh, definitely,” Fain said, hoping his voice wouldn’t crack.

  “The expenses will be covered in any manner you choose.”

  “Plenty of time for that.”

  “Time,” Kruger said thoughtfully. “How soon will you … do it?”

  “Well, now, I’ll have to make preparations.”

  “Mr. Fain, I don’t like to rush you, but I’m sure you understand the urgency of this matter to me. Every day I spend without Leanne is like a year off my life.”

  “Well, 1, uh, suppose we can speed things up. Shall we say two weeks?”

  “Suppose we say this Friday.” A hard note of the driving businessman returned to Elliot Kruger’s voice.

  Fain rubbed his jaw. Three days wasn’t much, but how much could he need? “I suppose I can manage it by then.”

  “Good. Is there anything I should do in advance?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Fain hung up, checked his voodoo notes again, and left the apartment. He walked down the flight of stairs to the street, turned left, and headed up the walk to his neighbor’s house.

  • • •

  The house next door to Fain’s stucco apartment building was a clapboard bungalo dating to the 1920s, when Echo Park was a somnolent small town within the exploding city of Los Angeles. The house had survived storms, earthquakes, a flu epidemic, smog, uncounted tenants of varied ethnic backgrounds, and twenty or so amateur paint jobs. The current color was a pastel blue found only on certain birds’ eggs and buildings in the Caribbean.

  Fain strolled up onto the lawn where his neighbor Xavier Cruz was engrossed in his ongoing battle with the wreck of a Volkswagen van. A pair of chickens flapped out of his way, clucking wildly.