"So did Robert take Grammy to the cemetery?" Dori asked, her voice trembling.
"Of course not. He's busy with patients while you're just at home," Brenda said.
Anger surged up hot and thick until it became hard for Dori to breathe. "Let me get this straight, Grammy called Robert who then called you to call me?"
"Yes."
"Would it have killed either of you to take her to the cemetery?"
"B-but that's your job," Brenda screeched. "I mean it's not like you're back on duty. Why are you making this our fault?"
Dori shot up to her feet, determined not to get sucked into her mother's tangled logic. "Where is Grammy?"
"At home, waiting for you."
Dori highly doubted Grammy was pining away at home.
"So what are you going to do?" Brenda demanded.
Dori hit the end button and shoved the phone back in her pocket. She vaguely heard the men working under the house through the screaming in her head. She swept her purse strap off the back of her chair on her way through the kitchen and out the door.
Without fail, for almost a year, Dori had taken Grammy to the cemetery every week. And of all days for her to forget-
As she drove to La Vista, Dori could hardly breathe through the guilt and panic. Did she have time to go to the liquor store for Grampy's bottle of Wild Turkey? No, best to get there as fast as possible.
She made it to the gates of La Vista in exactly eight minutes.
Grammy's car was parked across two spots. A funeral was taking place just a few feet away from Grampy's crypt. When Dori spotted Grammy sitting on the bench with Richard, the weird happy guy in the cemetery office, she imagined the worst: Grammy had fallen or fainted or all of the above.
Her car started to roll back. Dori yanked the parking brake into place and then hurried out of the car, forgetting to lock the door.
"Are you okay?" she called out as she came down the stairs.
Grammy glared at her. She turned to Richard. "Thank you for sitting with me. It's time for me to go."
He eyed Dori and then his expression brightened with recognition. "Oh hey, I remember you. I found your grandma coming down those steps by herself and-"
Dori could barely register what he was saying. "I'm so sorry I'm late. Wait. Where are you going?"
Grammy stood up and walked by without a word.
"I'm sorry. I got busy with-" Damn. She realized she'd run out on Gavin. "I mean, I got caught up in stuff and-"
"I already spoke with your grandfather. I'm ready to go home."
"But-"
"If you want to talk to him, he's where he's been for the last twenty years."
"I know you're angry. At least let me apologize."
Grammy started up the stairs.
Anger flared up, burning her guilt and shame to ash. "I've been driving you here every week ever since I moved back!" The words burned her throat. "Does this one time make me the bad guy?"
"It's the time that counts," Grammy snapped over her shoulder.
"I know and I'm sorry. But I'm here, aren't I? I didn't just call my mother like Robert did."
Grammy spun around and if Dori wasn't spitting mad, she would've worried about her falling.
Never mind that there was a funeral taking place behind them, Grammy's voice shot hell and brimstone across the cemetery. "Don't pretend that you liked driving me here every week! You did it out of duty, not love!"
The priest faltered in his graveside service, and out of the corner of her eye, Dori saw the mourners turn and stare.
"Um, excuse me," Richard said, holding up finger to his lips. "There's, like, a service going on right-"
Dori hurried up the steps and moved to take Grammy's arm. "Let's take this somewhere more private."
"To hell with private!" Grammy threw her arm off. "That young man had to sit with me because you weren't here to help me with the goddamned flower vase! It fell, and I made a fool of myself over it and broke the damn flowers and got water all over my pants and now all those damn people think I'm an old lady who pees my pants!"
Dori looked down. Grammy's pants stuck to her legs. The priest raised his voice to keep the crowd's attention on the burial.
"Why didn't you call me?" Dori asked, lowering her voice. "I would've come right away."
"Because I shouldn't have to. I'm a burden as far as you're concerned."
"I never said that!"
"You didn't have to," Grammy said, her voice trembling. "You throw my gifts and my attempts to help you back in my face."
Dori's throat burned. The muscles around her mouth twitched as she fought back tears.
"You're not saying anything," Grammy said quietly. "I was the only one in the family who has supported you, defended you even though you think you're better than us."
"That's not true," Dori said, despair ripping her up inside.
"I can't even look at you right now," Grammy said before walking away.
To her shame, tears spilled over. But Dori wiped them away before anyone could see them.
If Grampy was here, he would've taken her side. He wouldn't have let Robert or Chuy get away with their shit. He would've called them out on it. Dori wouldn't be cut off by everyone, looking at their backs and wondering what terrible thing she had done to deserve it.
As the wind pushed against Dori, she swallowed the hard truth that Grampy wasn't looking over her. Vicente's love for Anna Vazquez had chained him to this world; pitting him against the impossibility of ever seeing her again.
But her grampy had moved on when he died. He must've felt he'd done everything he could to prepare Dori for life without him. Even though she wished against all sense and logic that he was here, she wasn't going to let him down. She'd let herself cry when she went to a place where no one could see. The fact was that she was on her own. People came and went, even family. No one was going to step out of thin air to take care of her.
Dori hugged herself tightly and walked to her car.
Chapter Twenty Five
In the 80 years or so he’d been dead, Vicente liked to think he’d had enough time to become a wiser man. He could see where he’d gone wrong with Anna. He could even admit to himself that if he’d placed love higher than pride and ambition, he might have died a poor, old man instead of a rich, young one.
The dark hallway appeared before him. He was alone, but he didn't feel lonely. Hope fit him like a baggy suit, and he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. Dori was all he had and piece-by-piece she found crumbs of his life. Eventually, dead or alive, she would find Anna and perhaps he would know peace.
Shafts of blue light pooled on the floor. If he looked hard enough, he could almost see James McClemmy standing before the front parlor, sending him to his death. He started down the hallway, testing his mettle. He'd already lost everything. Well, mostly everything. He'd stonewalled Dori last night when all along he knew there was a part of him in that room. If he could face it, then maybe he would be free.
When he turned to the gaping doorway, he only saw an empty, pathetic room. He waited for it to appear. He then stepped into the room. Nothing happened. The walls didn't melt away; nor did the furniture reappear from the past.
"You-" He cleared his throat. "We did our best. We could've made it but-"
The rage simmered inside him. He held up his hands that were turning black like burnt wood. "I did my best," he repeated in voice that was his but raspy.
He struggled against the voice that told him he'd been betrayed; his life taken and tossed away.
A door opened in the house. Vicente leapt back, staggering in the hallway. The thing remained in the room, a dark silhouette of where he'd just stood.
He held up his hand. It was normal. He'd had no strength against what waited in there.
With relief, he recognized Dori's footsteps through the house.
Vicente appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. Dori leaned against the refrigerator, a note crumpled in her hand. Someone – not hi
m – had left the light on. Vicente glanced at the clock over the stove. It was almost midnight.
Something was off about her, as if there was no spark. Vicente tried to think of the best way to make his presence known without startling her. Frankly, there was no way to go about it when you were dead, so he cleared his throat and stepped into the light.
"You look like hell," he said, hoping outrage would shake loose the blankness of her face. "What happened now?"
Dori didn't take the bait. Thinking it was the silent treatment, he dug down deep for something nice to say. Kindness and soft words had never been his way.
"Uh, if you want I can-"
She came towards him and he flinched as if avoiding a blow. But she walked right through him and continued up the back staircase.
Vicente found Dori in her bathroom. Bottles fell into the sink as she pawed through the cabinet over the sink. She twisted off the top and he said, "What are you doing? What the hell is wrong with you?"
Dori froze and then slowly looked up into the mirror.
"I can't do it anymore," she told him.
"Dori," was all he could say when he saw the emptiness in her reddened eyes.
She pulled in a shuddering breath. "I have to pull myself together."
He didn't dare break eye contact. Even though he didn't know what she was talking about, he said, "You're fine."
She shook her head. Her voice trembled as she struggled through her tears. "I'm losing everything that matters to me and-" Her eyelids fluttered shut. "I can't help you."
"You promised me you'd find her."
Dori tossed her head back and covered her mouth with her hand. She swallowed the pill dry. She gripped the edges of the sink, her shoulder blades pointing up sharply against her shirt.
He watched helpless as she flickered and then faded away. Vicente staggered back, scanning the now empty bathroom for her. Dori would come back. She gave him her word that she would find Anna. He knew her word was her bond, but if something happened to her-
He watched as the walls vanished. Hell was not a dark, fiery pit of suffering. It was blindingly white and limitless with a suffocating silence that pressed against his ears. He called out Dori’s name but no sound came from his mouth. He called for her over and over again and then a figure appeared before him.
He yelled at it that he was here, that he was lost. It approached, and he froze when he saw a faceless woman walk by him. The light absorbed her, and then he saw he was surrounded by beings like her, moving silently around him.
Dori no longer anchored him and he was nothing more than a kite cut free from its string.
In time, he would forget everything, even Anna's face and his own name. He begged God, Jesus and the Devil to let him free. He’d give anything, do anything, for one last chance to find Anna and see the light in her eyes when she heard him say he loved her.
But none of them answered. They’d forsaken him in this netherworld where he’d eventually end up like the unblinking souls around him.
Vicente started to run. He had no idea where he was going. If there was a way in, there had to be a way out.
Faintly he heard a man over a loud speaker. He quickened his pace towards the sound as it sharpened into the voice of a conductor announcing the train from Los Angeles.
Glossy brown octagonal tiles appeared under his feet. In the distance, a door waited for him. Vicente ran faster before it disappeared and left him here forever. When he was within a few feet, he stretched out his hand. He grasped the cold brass handle. His shoulders strained as if he were pulling it open under water.
San Diego, October 1932
He stood against the full blast of color and sound of the Santa Fe depot. Pigeons fluttered over the wood benches. Newsboys hollered the morning edition’s headlines and the ground rumbled underfoot as the train appeared alongside the windows.
He hurried his pace and his men did the same. They should’ve been on the platform so Mr. McClemmy could see them from his private car when he arrived.
Vicente pushed through the doors and weaved through the crowd of passengers and porters and luggage carts. Mr. McClemmy’s private car was glossy silver and black, and the tasseled window shades were pulled exactly half shut.
"Wait here," he ordered his men who stood sentry at the private entrance, discouraging onlookers from getting too close.
Vicente climbed up the steps, and the door was opened by a red-haired man he’d never seen before.
"This is a private car-"
"Who are you," Vicente said, stepping through the door, forcing the man back.
"What the-" the little man stumbled back but then grabbed Vicente's collar.
With his forearm, Vicente pinned him to the wall by his throat. "I asked who are you?"
"Mr. Sorrelle," Mr. McClemmy said behind him. "You haven’t met Mr. Dearbourne."
Still holding the little bastard by the throat, Vicente turned to see his boss pouring himself a cup of coffee from a silver samovar while his lawyers and clerks sat frozen, staring in shock.
Vicente released the little shit. Mr. McClemmy dropped four lumps of sugar in his cup. "Apparently Mr. Dearbourne neglected to introduce himself over the telegram."
Vicente eyed his boss, taking in the bags that hung under his blue eyes. Lines had cut deep around his mouth, and his blue-black curls were silvered.
He waved his cigar at his lawyers. "I’ve seen enough of you today. Good day, gentlemen."
The lead lawyer looked to Dearbourne and Vicente didn’t like it. They should’ve looked to him to confirm Mr. McClemmy’s orders.
Vicente stepped forward, reclaiming his rightful place. "You heard him," he said to the lead attorney. "You can either walk or take the taxis parked outside."
The others refused to budge, waiting for their leader’s next move. Vicente locked eyes with him, deliberately slowing his breath and loosening his muscles. Not that this pencil neck would get physical, but he’d learned never to be taken by surprise.
The lawyer eyed him up and down, a sneer of disgust twisting his lips to save face. He stood up and took his time buttoning his jacket. Mr. McClemmy shook his hand, wished him a good day and then said, "Dearbourne, please see them out."
They shuffled past Vicente, taking care not to look him in the eye. "You too, Dearbourne," Mr. McClemmy added. When the door was shut, Vicente walked to the samovar to pour himself a cup of coffee.
"You shouldn't be here," he said to his boss, who now sat in his leather chair near the window.
Mr. McClemmy glanced around the private car as if searching for something. "I'm going to damn prison so who the hell cares." He jiggled his knee.
"But you haven't been sentenced yet."
"Next week."
Vicente tilted his head to the chairs vacated by his legal team. "What do you have them for?"
"Exactly. Why the hell do I have any of you?"
Vicente waited for Andy to step out but then decided to sit with his boss.
"Your reports are unsatisfactory," Mr. McClemmy said, perched on the edge of his seat. "You were supposed to be looking out for things for me."
"I have. I shut down our biggest competitors."
"But not all of them."
"Look, if you shut down every operator, it's gonna be-"
Mr. McClemmy slapped him. His coffee cup flew out of his hands and landed on the rug with a thump. In an instant Vicente was on his feet, fist drawn and ready to smash the old man's face. "What the hell?" he said, spitting in his face.
Mr. McClemmy pointed his cigar in Vicente's face, his eyes cold. "Remember who I am."
"I do," Vicente said, struggling to put his fist down. "But what the hell was that for?"
"I don't trust you. I don't trust no body. So I'm here to make sure all the mice get exterminated."
"The bigger mice are gone. The smaller ones can't compete. Not with the shortages and rumors that Roosevelt's gonna give over on wine and beer."
"But I worry about
my house and the damage they’ll do." Mr. McClemmy fidgeted, which was unlike him. "I want Muriel to live comfortably till I come back. I want all of them gone."
A solid mass of anxiety formed in the pit of Vicente’s stomach. Anna was still at the hotel. Her operation was shut down. She was no threat.
"Vince?" Mr. McClemmy called him back, watching with a dangerous gleam in his eye. "I have no need for men I can’t count on."
He sat down opposite his boss. "I know. But you've been able to count on me. I've followed your orders to the letter."
"You're not afraid of me, are you?"
Vicente chose his answer carefully. "I've had nothing but respect for you, sir."
Mr. McClemmy’s stare eased and a grin stretched across his face. "You remind me of a new father. Do you have something you need to tell me?"
He knew better than to be fooled by Mr. McClemmy’s paternal joking. His boss had outmaneuvered the feds and the mob during Prohibition. He could order Vicente’s permanent replacement as easily as he ordered bacon instead of sausage for breakfast.
"You should get one for yourself," Mr. McClemmy continued as if Vicente's pant legs weren't stained with coffee. " A wife, I mean. Just so I don’t envy you."
Even though he was having trouble breathing through his nose, Vicente forced himself to smile as if enjoying his boss’ father-son council. "Duly noted, sir."
Always a patient hunter, his boss let the silence stretch out. He then tapped cigar ash on the carpet. "Yes, you’re the man for the job I have in mind."
Vicente set his handkerchief on the marble topped table, listening for Andy to walk in. "I thought I already had a job."
"This is something particularly sensitive."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Join me at a meeting with law enforcement."
Vicente nodded, mimicking Mr. McClemmy's now relaxed posture. "I’ll make arrangements."
"It’s arranged. Just you and me will finalize the last part of our agreement. Then when repeal is official, our business will be perfectly legitimate."
"I know who should accompany us."
He stared across the room, calmly smoking. "No security. No guns," he said. "Just you and me, my boy."
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