CLAN

by Harry Shannon

  The feet moved closer.

  "Hi, honey."

  Bobby fondled her. Selma wiggled again. May as well get this over with. Resigned, she grabbed the edge of the tub and pushed back with her hips. "We should take a bath first," she murmured. "I'm all smelly."

  He's even more bold than usual, she thought. Bobby really must be drunk. And suddenly he was rough, lively, really into it. "Oh, that's good."

  When he started he felt huge and Selma grunted with shock and delight. He gripped her waist and held on. Selma moaned with delight and a surprising degree of satisfaction.

  He drove deeper and it hurt a bit. "Careful, not so hard." She didn't like when he got rough. But Bobby didn't even slow down, much less stop. Selma could tell he was about to finish and for some reason that started her over the edge as well. The feelings rippled up and down her flesh and she found herself thinking that if he was going to be this good maybe she'd keep him around a while after all. He reached around and grabbed her by one breast and twisted. The pain threw her off. "Ouch!"

  And that is when Selma looked down at his hand. She tried to scream but could not grab enough air. The large hand was hairy and the nails were long, yellowing and filthy. She looked back. The body behind her was covered with thick, matted fur.

  No! That's not Bobby…

  Sharp teeth bit down on the back of her neck.

  "Let me go! No!"

  But it was too late, something was very wrong. Her knees buckled and her body twitched. Her eyes rolled up in her head. Stunned, she found herself staring at the wall of the damp shower. What the hell is happening to me?

  A sharp pain ripped across her neck and throat. Somehow Selma was not that surprised when the thick gout of blood from her carotid artery sprayed the white tiles a dark red.

  The lights dimmed permanently.

  5

  Kelly let herself in early again the next morning, as usual. She was not concerned when she found the office empty. Her date with the television actor had been a complete bust. Brian Dylan was just another handsome but boring young man who found it difficult to focus on anything but himself. Kelly was disappointed but not shocked—after all, this was L.A. She made herself a pot of strong coffee, sat down behind her desk and began to plow through some scripts.

  The first two were unbearably bad and she threw them in the circular file after the first couple of scenes. The third, however, wasn't bad at all. As a matter of fact, it read quite well. It was a sweet little movie about a farm boy who fell in love with his best friend's stepmother. It even had a reasonably well-crafted bittersweet ending, with the farm boy going off to die in Viet Nam. Kelly scribbled a compliment on the first page, stuffed it into an envelope addressed to the writer and trashed the script.

  Why? Because Starburst did macho buddy movies, karate-chopper flicks pairing American comics with Hong Kong action stars, and a bit of soft-core porn for cable. Bud Silverman would likely fire her if she tried to option a quality script. The business had changed, and not for the better. Downloading, copying, pirating; even DVD sales were down. One major studio was going for a slate of 20 down-and-dirty $100,000 features in the hopes of getting one major hit. Everyone with a HiDef camera and screenwriting software was suddenly going to feel like a major player. Same kind of thing had all but destroyed the music business by 2010.

  Her cell phone rang. Kelly picked it up, flipped it open to check caller ID. She sighed dramatically, almost closed the sleek little blue telephone again but opted to take the call.

  "Hi, Mom."

  "Well, the diva answers her telephone! How nice of you, my dear—especially since you never call your aging mother except to complain about the stress you're living under."

  "Mom, don't nag."

  "Honey, don't be so sensitive. You know I'm only kidding."

  There really is a Tooth Fairy. In fact, she has fangs. "Sure, I know. How is the weather back there?"

  "It's still very cold. And that's so hard on my bones, you know, even that nice Dr. Barton says so. Did I tell you he was flirting with me the other day? Right there in front of the nurse, too. I said 'have you got time for an old lady?' and he looked all around and said, 'why sure, where is she?' Isn't that just too sweet? I really think he likes me."

  "I'm sure he does, Mom."

  "He told me to call him Ray."

  "That's nice, Mom."

  "Which reminds me, what you need in your life is a nice young man to keep you warm. Didn't you say something about having a date last night? I hope you didn't let him kiss you on the first date. Or even worse. You can be so cheap."

  Die. Please just die. "Oh, Mom. I didn't kiss him."

  "Good, because you know how men are. Things were different when your father was alive. I think things are just way too permissive these days. Why, I would never act the way young women do in this century. Never."

  Sure, and that's why I was born seven months after you and Daddy got married. "Mom, I have to go into a meeting. Can I call you back?"

  "Oh, now don't you trouble yourself. I know you're a big shot Hollywood executive now and you don't have much time to spare for a silly old woman in Ohio. I just called to tell you I love you. Don't worry your head about my aches and pains and what the doctor said. I'll be fine."

  Don't bite, don't ask. But then she did anyway. "What did the doctor say, Mom? Are you okay?"

  "Oh, my goodness! Look at the time! Marie Huffington is here. I have to get off to play a game of bridge. I'll talk to you soon, thanks for calling."

  Yeah, thanks for calling.

  Kelly massaged her temples and trembled. Even a brief conversation with her mother left her feeling 'slimed,' as if someone had sprayed her with a thin film of creepy, invisible gelatin. Her head started buzzing with voices that sardonically called her a slut, a failure and a bad daughter. It happened every time. She shook the feeling off and dug into another script. Halfway in, she tossed it and went to the next.

  When Kelly next raised her head to check the time, it was 9:45. Puzzled, she checked the answering machine. Perhaps Selma had called in sick. But the light wasn't blinking. An uncomfortable feeling knotted in Kelly's throat. All she'd asked for was the delivery of a package and a receipt. Was that too much to ask, for Chrissakes?

  Kelly McCammon pushed away from her desk, rolled the chair back on the hard plastic rug protector and walked briskly to the front of the bungalow. She shuffled through the papers in Bud Silverman's 'in' box.

  No receipt.

  Oh, crap. No.

  The telephone rang.

  "Starburst Pictures."

  "Is that you Kelly? I'm on the airplane. I can't hear you worth a damn."

  "Bud? Yes, this is Kelly."

  "How was your trip?" He didn't wait for her to answer. "Crap, I'm losing you. Tell me everything is taken care of. That was a lot of Russian money in there, and those boys don't play nice when you're late with the vig. That's why I had to send someone else this time. See? Anyway, so you did get it there okay?"

  "Money?" Kelly swallowed. You lying sack of moose crap, you told me it was a script revision. Real anxiety began to overtake her. "Oh, sure. Yeah. It's all been handled." Selma must have opened it. I will track that little bitch down and kill her on the spot, I swear it on my daddy's grave. "Just relax and have a good trip."

  "That's my VP, babe. I'll call you from France."

  "Bud?"

  But he'd already severed the connection.

  VP my shapely ass.

  Kelly sat down in Selma's chair, behind the reception desk. Her face beaded with icy perspiration as her stomach did a swan dive. She leaned forward over the trash basket, waiting for the coffee to come back up, but nothing happened. Her heart was ripping along, jackrabbit fast. She had to force herself to taker longer, slower breaths.

  Russian mob money. Hedge fund money from Russian bankers maybe? Both? He'll be gone five business days. I have a week to put this right, and if I'm smart nobody ever has to know…

  …Fu
rther west and north, the sprawling San Fernando Valley became rows of pastel barrio homes. Some sections encircled scattered enclaves of middle-class properties which were distinguished primarily by better landscaping and the more expensive cars in their driveways. Joe Case now lived there; in a funky, racially-mixed town called Reseda. Case had been clean and sober for three weeks.

  The murder of his family, the prolonged IAD investigation with attendant negative publicity, the remorse over his own behavior had finally gotten to Case. Burned out and bitter, he sold his Burbank home, transferred the equity into stocks and bonds and bought the much less expensive two-bedroom property in Reseda. He also took the early retirement package offered him by LAPD before attempting suicide by whiskey. But eventually that novelty wore off. The hangovers turned brutal and bizarre hallucinations became routine.

  Case quit because he got sick of finding three or four day's worth of newspapers on the parched lawn, facing a stack of unpaid bills and having to constantly call to turn the phone or utilities back on. He went to a few AA meetings, but the constant talk of God and gratitude grated on his nerves. He decided to stop on his own.

  Case loaded up on orange juice, waffle syrup, crackers and vitamin tablets. He locked himself in the house and puked and sweated and crapped himself sober. After a few days, reality wasn't as harsh and he began to bathe. Two weeks later, he'd gone a few days without crying and things were starting to look up.

  The third week found him fixing up the house and planting perennials.

  On this bright morning Case was out in his tiny front yard struggling to save a row of rose bushes from an onslaught of aphids and his own chronic over-watering. He was on his knees in the dirt, packing plant food into holes already filled with shit from the neighbor's cats, when he heard the sound of a car rolling to a stop out at the curb. Case sat up and twisted his torso. What he saw made him grunt in annoyance and resume working.

  Feet came up the walk. The smell of her thick perfume struck his nostrils. Ever since his wife's death, he'd found a woman's perfume almost insufferable.

  Without looking up: "Hello, Janet."

  "Did you get my messages?" Her voice sounded flat and strained. Case knew he'd upset her. He lowered the garden trowel and got to his feet. His right knee popped. Somewhere high above them a small plane droned its way toward Burbank airport.

  "I just haven't felt like talking."

  "Joe, I can understand that, really I can. But it's been over a year now, and I needed to talk to you."

  Case turned to face her. His sister Janet was a coltish woman, long limbed and often clumsy. Her pretty eyes were red and puffy and her normally robust skin seemed deathly pale. His heart softened. "Jan, what's the matter?"

  Janet Lawford looked down and away and her lower lip trembled. Case abruptly remembered her at four years old, when he'd teased her too much and she was about to cry. He waited for her to contain herself. Janet angrily brushed away one lonely tear.

  "Bobby's disappeared," she said. Her voice broke a bit on her husband's name. Janet toed the grass. "I'm scared to death."

  Joe Case stepped out of the flowerbed and took her hand. "Now, hold on just a second. What do you mean disappeared?"

  "I mean he's gone, Joe."

  "When did you last hear from him?"

  "He called yesterday, late in the afternoon. He told me he was working late and I should go on to bed if he wasn't home. I tried to stay up, but I couldn't. I finally went to bed around one. When I woke up he still wasn't home."

  Case, who had never liked his too-slick brother-in-law, kept his suspicions to himself. "Did you call to see if he had signed out of the office building?"

  "Yeah," Janet managed. Her lip trembled again. "He did. At a little after nine last night."

  "Come on inside, Janet. I'll make us some coffee."

  "Do you have anything stronger?"

  Case paused in the doorway. "No. I don't."

  Janet sighed. "Good. I guess that's good."

  She dropped her cigarette on his sidewalk and smeared it around with the heel of her tennis shoe. Case made a mental note to clean the pavement after she'd gone. They went into the tiny kitchen and he poured them each a cup of coffee. Janet took hers with loads of cream and sugar; Case opted for black. They sat down on the couch. Janet looked around, struggled to make some small talk. "It's a cute house."

  "I like it well enough."

  "Are you doing okay, Joe?"

  He knew what she meant, but did not feel like opening up. "I had the flu, that's all. I'll live. Did you call the cops, Janet?"

  "Huh?" She seemed dazed.

  "About Bobby. Did you call the cops?"

  She nodded. "But you know the drill. He hasn't been missing long enough for them to do anything. They told me to check the h-h-hospitals and the m-m-morgue." And then she broke down completely. Case took his little sister in his big arms and rocked her for a bit, going shhh, shhh and trying not to think about his own lost family. It was not like Janet to forget to ask about his.

  Janet quieted and blew her nose. "I'm so worried about him, Joe. It's not like Bobby to disappear."

  "No offense, honey, but yes. It is."

  "Not like this. Even those times he was f-f-fooling around on me, he always told me where he was. Even if it was just to put my mind at ease."

  "How thoughtful."

  "Joe, I know you never liked him."

  "That's because he beats you and cheats. Other than that, he's a prince."

  "Don't joke about this, Joe. I know you're pissed because you're my brother. But I l-l-love him, okay?"

  "If he hits you again, I'll damn well kill him."

  "Joe, please…"

  Case covered his annoyance. He shrugged. "He'll turn up, Janet. Batterers are emotional cowards. So Bobby is a survivor type, you know? He takes care of Bobby. He's probably just drinking too much again, or off in Vegas or something."

  Janet wasn't buying it. "It's not like him and you know it. Joe, help me. Can you get them to look around for a little while, before it's too late?"

  "Too late? Don't be dramatic, Janet."

  "I'm worried."

  "And I'm exhausted."

  "Didn't you always say the first couple of days are the most crucial in a 'missing persons' investigation?" Her hands were trembling and she spilled a few drops of coffee on her slacks.

  Case thought about his own nerves. He wondered how good they'd be under pressure. He didn't like the odds. Still, he nodded. "Okay. I can make a few calls," he said, although he wasn't so sure anyone downtown would be willing to talk to him. "Would that make you feel better?"

  Janet dabbed at her nose. "What would make me feel better is if you'd maybe go looking for him, Joe. Hey, we've got some money. I could pay you."

  "Keep your money. I can't do that."

  "Joe, what's the matter? Talk to me!"

  Case shook his head. "Look, Janet, I'm…not myself. I haven't been well. I lost my nerve after…what happened."

  "P-p-please help?"

  "I'd just botch it."

  "I'm begging you, Joe."

  "Don't," he said. A woman's tears always tore him up inside. "Janet, I'm retired for God's sake. You know that."

  "From being a cop, not from being my brother."

  Case grunted. She's got you there. "Keep your money. I'll nose around a little, I promise. But I'll need some things."

  Janet brightened. "Anything."

  "Get me his Social Security number, your credit card numbers and expiration dates—especially gas cards. And I'll need your ATM information as well. Okay?"

  "I'll go right home and call you."

  "This time I'll answer."

  6

  Kelly, still feeling sick, sat at the reception desk. She imagined Selma Talbot making air reservations, finishing up her work, probably spacing out and having to go back for the heavy package. Kelly then tried to guess when and where Selma's curiosity would have gotten the better of her; where she would have f
inally broken down and opened the package. Searched through it. And found out it was stuffed with money from the Russian Mob.

  Would it have been cash? Damn, it could also have been drugs, bearer bonds, gold certificates, anything. These people run banks, hedge funds, armies full of private contractors for heaven's sake. Who the hell knew what her boss had been up to lately. But whatever it was, it was worth a fortune. And it didn't take a rocket scientist to know that Kelly's career was as good as over if she didn't find the damned thing, and Selma Talbot, in a hurry. These Russians were so bad-assed the Italian families ran errands to avoid doing their wet work.

  Kelly dialed the company travel agent. In ten minutes she clarified that Selma had indeed made the reservation to Reno, via America West, and that she had boarded the plane in Burbank. She hadn't remembered to reserve a car once there, which seemed strange. But she had flown that far, so the package had likely still been intact.

  Reno. Kelly had been there on more than one occasion, sometimes to catch a show in Sparks and sometimes to do Bud's bidding.

  So Selma got as far as Reno, for sure. She had arrived and wandered through the jangling slot machines by herself, down to the luggage area where the bags arrive and the rental cars are doled out. There is one long row of rental agencies along that back wall; smiling folks in idiotic uniforms dully watching the silver metal baggage racks go around and around, all day and night.

  Reno. Kelly pictured Selma walking over to rent a car, the package under one arm. Then being forced to stand in line, changing feet and needing to pee. Or maybe she had to wait for a vehicle; maybe it was late or out of gas and she went to the ladies room. Then she was sitting there with nothing to do, just sitting in the stall with her panties down and that package in her lap. And she got curious. Hell, maybe even a bit worried about accidentally being somebody's 'mule' and carrying dope or something.

  Whatever. But somehow she had talked herself into it. Selma reached down and opened up that private package…and found the goods. But then what? The decision probably would have happened right there, in that toilet stall. She'd had no time to plan, call friends or warn anybody. So just the decision to take someone else's money and run for it.