Blood and Oranges

by James O. Goldsborough

  “Hi Maggie. Just a few questions before the parents come in,” the older one said, approaching. Neither man removed his hat. “We need a little information about the accident.”

  She sat up straighter, thankful the smock was tied in back. For the first time she was aware of the bandages, including one on her cheekbone. She knew her hair was a mess and would love to have washed her face, which felt icky.

  “Just tell us what happened. Take your time. Tell us what you remember.”

  The younger officer kept writing as she talked and after a while she thought they were done because they stopped asking questions. Strangely, they didn’t turn to leave. The older officer looked to the younger one, who shook his head. The older officer sighed.

  “We found sperm in the car and on the young man’s pants,” he said, softly. “Can you tell us anything about that?”

  Sperm?

  “He tried to kiss me,” she said, gathering herself.

  “He tried to kiss you as you were driving—is that why you lost control?”

  “No, before that. We were just sitting in the car. After the riding lesson.”

  “He tried to kiss you and had an orgasm, is that what you mean?”

  They were practically whispering. “An orgasm?”

  “You don’t know what an orgasm is?”

  “When the sperm comes, you mean?”

  The two officers looked at each other, expressionless, professional, keeping it in. “Yes, Maggie,” said the older one, “when the sperm comes. Did you see it?”

  She wondered if they could hear outside. “I did not.”

  “Did he molest you?”

  “He did not.”

  “Did you have intercourse with him?”

  “I did not!”

  “Is that why you were speeding? Because you were mad at him for what he did to you—or tried to do?” The voices were louder now.

  “He didn’t do anything to me—and who said I was speeding?”

  “Why did you lose control of the car?”

  Of course, she was speeding, going at least sixty coming out of the Culver ESS but they didn’t need to know that. But lose control? Even at fourteen, she was a good driver. She was ready to race that car. She had no idea why it happened. Had Billy done something as they drove? She couldn’t remember. And her pretty red Ford: she knew it was a total wreck.

  Her head dropped: “I don’t know. A tire maybe?”

  “No,” said the younger man. “It wasn’t a tire.”

  The older man nodded. “That’s all for now, Maggie. Thank you for your cooperation.” They walked to the screen to join Dr. Lambert but did not leave the room.

  Why did they have to let the Todds come? Nelly came over and took her hand, followed by Lizzie, who then moved to the window and took out her notebook. Eddie hung back, but Mrs. Todd, who looked a wreck, came right up to her and blurted, “what were you doing driving a car? You are a child.” Mrs. Todd knew about the deal because she and Nelly had discussed it. Mr. Todd stood nearby, haggard and quiet, but Mrs. Todd seemed close to hysterics.

  “Just tell us what happened, Maggie,” said Mr. Todd. “As best you remember. It is important to us.”

  She couldn’t do that, could she? She couldn’t tell them that they went up into the hills so Billy could feel her breasts and that the last time he’d brought out his penis and she’d seen it spurting. At least they hadn’t overheard the detectives. “I can’t remember,” she said. “He tried to kiss me and I pushed him away. That’s all I remember.”

  “YOU ARE LYING!” shouted Mrs. Todd, so loudly that Dr. Lambert took a step forward.

  Through all this Maggie was aware that her father stood off away from the others, sometimes watching her, sometimes looking around the room. She could tell he wanted to check his watch but didn’t want to be seen doing it. For some reason she found that funny. Did he even care what had happened? She could not read him. She could read her mother, in control as always, letting others take charge in every situation because she hated dramas, but her father, finally peeking at his watch, showed nothing. How he wanted out of there! Where was Cal, she wondered. Why wasn’t he here? They hadn’t told him, that’s why. She could have used a hug and a kiss at that moment, from anyone, even on the stitches, but everyone hung back. Cal wouldn’t have.

  “Kitty, Kitty, please,” Nelly, finally said, stepping forward to put an arm around Mrs. Todd and having it shoved away.

  “This is your fault!” she shouted at Nelly. “You arranged this because you were too lazy to drive her yourself—so you could play bridge!”

  Kitty was not in Nelly’s bridge group.

  At that, the police slipped out. Good, Maggie thought. She wanted to get up, but not with a crowd around and the loose strings on the smock and hysterical Mrs. Todd standing over her. She needed to say something and felt she should probably be crying, but her eyes were too sore to produce tears.

  “Mrs. Todd, I’ve told you all I can,” she said, without lying. “What Billy did upset me and I was driving home and lost control of the car. It could have been me instead of him, and I’m sure you wish it was . . .”

  “What Billy did . . ?”

  “Come, Kitty,” said Mr. Todd. “You know we have things to do.” He turned to Eddie. “Terrible for all of us.” His voice trailed off. “Our only son, you know. He would have come into practice with me.”

  Eddie nodded, the two men shook hands and Mr. Todd left with his arm around his wife.

  During all this Lizzie sat on the windowsill, quietly writing.

  “So what happened, Mag?” said Eddie. “What did he try to do to you?”

  “Just get me out of here, will you, Dad? Mother, find where they put my clothes.”

  “Those clothes are gone dear, the blouse was ripped, you know. We’ve brought you some fresh ones.”

  Chapter 10

  Eddie was in a hurry to leave because he had important things to do. Maggie was beat up, but he knew his kid; she’d be on her feet before the day was out. Too bad about the other kid, but he had his own problems. He left the hospital in his black Buick and headed down Colorado Avenue past Mull Enterprises to the Santa Monica pier. He walked halfway out the pier to a large heavy-lettered sign: PROVIDENCE WATER TAXIS. He showed his pass and descended the gangway to a canvas-covered launch belonging to a fleet making half-hourly runs to the ship Providence, anchored three miles out in Santa Monica Bay.

  The Providence never closed, and the launch, a forty-footer seating fifty, was already near full at 11 a.m. The boat swayed gently in a calm sea. Eddie nodded to the boatman who shoved off. He had the night’s proceeds to collect, deposit at the Santa Monica branch of Security Trust and Savings and arrive for an appointment with his brother at Mull Enterprises at noon.

  The end of Prohibition had been painful. For a few golden years, Eddie Mull had done as well as anyone in Los Angeles, maybe not grossing as much as he once did, but still flush with cash. His core businesses, oil and real estate, were off, but bootlegging made up for it with the added bonus of no taxes to pay. Neither did he have payoffs because protection was part of his own operation. Never had there been more drinking in Los Angeles than when it was illegal to drink. It took a year for Prohibition to end across the nation, a year that gave Eddie and his associates time to make the transition from bootlegging to gambling, or “gaming” as they preferred to call it. They bought an old Ohio River collier, chugged down the Mississippi to Mobile for repairs and refurbishing and on through the Panama Canal. She was reincarnated in Santa Monica Bay as the Providence.

  The ship was top-of-the-line stem to stern, two-decks appointed in the latest teak furnishings and salons equipped with the best gaming equipment—elegant craps and roulette tables and one hundred Mills slots from Chicago. There was a waiting list for slots: Nevada had legalized gambling as it, too, prepared
for the end of Prohibition, but Eddie paid over list and got his slots before anyone. Because gambling was illegal in California, the ship was anchored three miles out, just beyond the reach of state law enforcement. The feds didn’t care.

  Eddie had a full day ahead of him. Willie had turned his preacherly indignation against sin squarely on the Providence—never mind that the ship was outside city limits. Eddie learned of Willie’s campaign not from Willie’s radio broadcasts—he never listened—but from an editorial in the Santa Monica Evening Outlook, which Henry Callender showed him. “If we have offshore gambling, what will be next?” the newspaper asked. “Floating houses of prostitution?” The Outlook was insignificant, but Eddie didn’t want Willie launching a crusade that brought in the Times and Examiner. He’d have to reveal his ownership to his brother, but he would take that chance. Willie had his own reasons for keeping his brother’s name out of the headlines.

  Willie turned down an invitation to visit the ship. Eddie wanted to show his brother that the Providence was not out to squeeze people, but to lift them up. The ship was fairer than any other games anywhere. They took a smaller house cut—1.4 percent—than any house in Las Vegas. The keno payoffs were higher and the faro table faster. They had dining and dancing on the lower deck, and the Evening Outlook’s food critic, apparently out of touch with the editorial page, had given the restaurant three stars. Eddie wanted to show him that the operation was exactly as the ship’s name implied: providential, providing a little honest entertainment in a world of Depression hardship.

  But Willie wouldn’t come. One photo of him on that ship was all his enemies needed. Eddie told him he had a business proposition, and they agreed to meet at Mull Enterprises.

  Willie brought Henry Callender with him. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have done it, but he believed that time and prayer had brought Henry to the point if not of forgiveness of Eddie at least of acceptance. The relationship between these two devout Christians was delicate, for how could Willie fully embrace a man who hated his brother? Clever with his hands, Henry had worked his way up to become the temple’s chief set-builder. The two men were friendly, and on Grandpa Otto’s Spanish chessboard kept a running game going, games that sometimes lasted for weeks. Each man kept a chessboard at home to duplicate the game, pondering his moves and likely counters of his opponent. They were roughly equal in ability—skilled but not expert players, men who shared a deep love for the game.

  At home, Callender did not always play alone. He lived on Lemon Grove Avenue, one of those leafy lanes of neat little stucco bungalows spread out around Hollywood Cemetery just south of Santa Monica Boulevard. Since most of the people in the neighborhood were studio workers who didn’t earn that much, most of the bungalows were duplexes. Anyone who has ever lived in Hollywood or worked at the studios knows the kind of bungalow in which Henry lived. If it were a single house it would be two bedrooms and sixteen hundred square feet. As a duplex it was half that and suitable for one person or two at most, but no children.

  The last thing you wanted if you were trying to get ahead at the studios was children. If you got a raise and got married and wanted children you could move into something larger in West or East Hollywood, but where Henry lived was just Hollywood, and Hollywood was duplexes and no children. In distance, Lemon Grove wasn’t that far from Willie on the top floor of the Sunset Tower, a mile at most, but in status it was a different world. Henry lived with his cat, a smart Siamese named Nyx, which in Greek means night. Nyx got the name because he was more black than tan, rare in a Siamese. Henry found him in a Hollywood pet store, the black sheep of the litter, and since Henry was also a black sheep, they were well suited. Henry liked cats and tried to have one whenever he had a fixed address, which wasn’t often. Gainfully employed, he’d found the cat, named him, neutered him and together they shared the duplex.

  One reason Henry liked cats was that he talked to himself. Sourdoughs, prospectors, diggers, drifters, loners of every type accustomed to the solitude of the trail, often talk to themselves. In civilization, soliloquizing is viewed as unsocial, perhaps even pathological behavior except in cases where the soliloquist addresses an animal. As animals go, most people prefer dogs because they believe dogs listen, but Henry preferred cats. And Nyx listened.

  The cat’s routine was to seat himself in the chair across from Henry’s coffee table to watch the game. His eyes followed the moves. Henry, seated on the sofa, would look into those deep blue cat eyes and know that the cat understood. He believed Nyx made him a better chess player, gave him an edge on Willie. Nyx respected the game. Whatever foul cat mood he might be in—hot, cold, hungry, lonely, brooding over his crushed testicles—he never took it out on the game. Left alone as he was most days, it would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to jump on the board and knock the pieces to kingdom come, but he never did.

  Willie and Henry were the first to arrive at Mull Enterprises that day. If Henry did not know where they were headed when they left the temple, by the time the driver turned the Cadillac off Olympic in Santa Monica into the 19th Street Mull parking lot (the depot for heavy construction and drilling equipment had a separate entrance on Michigan Avenue), he understood. He’d been there before, of course, to see Eddie, only to be sent away. True to his nature, he didn’t say a word. The car was parked, and the two men walked inside to be informed that Eddie was on the way. They were shown to his office and sat down under a Yosemite painting by Bierstadt, facing the door.

  Entering middle age, the twins still looked alike. They didn’t dress alike or talk alike and their lives and interests had taken different directions, but physically the resemblance was still strong. Eddie was heavier, for he had a less ascetic past, but Willie, consuming strawberry sundaes, was catching up. With their solid builds, slightly olive skin, dark wavy hair, deep brown eyes, easy smiles, they could have played any role in Hollywood, from producers to leading men to extras. Without knowing them, people still tended to look twice as if they’d seen them somewhere or someone very much like them. Some couldn’t tell them apart, though for Henry Callender they were as different as Jesus and the Devil. They traveled in different circles and were rarely seen together, having decided it was best for both of them that way.

  Eddie paused momentarily as he entered his office, surprised to see two visitors when he’d expected only one, still more surprised when he recognized the second one. He came quickly forward as his visitors stood, throwing his arms around his brother and embracing him.

  “I believe you know Henry Callender,” Willie said.

  It was more than awkward. Henry moved mechanically, taking the proffered hand though immediately bringing his hand back as if bitten. Here was the man he’d tried so long to forget. If at times he erased him from his conscious mind, he still bubbled up in his unconscious. Henry was not known as a man of violence, though no man could live the life he’d led without his share of showdowns. It’s like that on the trail. Even if you don’t start quarrels, it’s hard to stay out of them. You pack a gun for a reason. He still had his gun, a Remington Derringer.

  His body quivered to the tips of his mustaches, and he struggled to conceal it. How many times had he gone over it with Nyx, telling the story as he made his moves? And now here not five feet away was the man who owed him so much—how much would it be, how many millions? Let it go, let it go, the cat would say. It’s ancient history. But Henry’s mind would wander and wonder what it was like to be a millionaire and live in Bel Air, live like Eddie Mull. “Why isn’t it us up there?” he’d say to Nyx, who understood.

  “Henry is my righthand man,” said Willie, enjoying his brother’s discomfort more than he should. Eddie had no desire to see Callender under any circumstances, but certainly could not discuss the Providence with him in the room. “I’m sorry, Henry,” he said quickly, “a family matter has come up. Would you mind leaving us alone for a while?”

  Henry looked to Willie, who ve
xed, nonetheless nodded.

  “A family matter?” said Willie when he had left.

  Eddie sat down at his desk and told him of Maggie’s accident, leaving out the more lurid parts. Willie was shocked—he was the girls’ godfather in addition to being their uncle and loved them both dearly. He promised to visit the hospital and to say prayers for Maggie. He was also annoyed, wanting to bring Henry back into the room for that was the whole point in bringing him, to reconcile with Eddie, who, Willie saw, had more than Maggie’s accident on his mind.

  Eddie turned to gaze a moment into the courtyard. A fountain burbled. He needed a moment to push Callender out of his mind. He had no idea why Willie brought him and would not ask. “There’s something else,” he said, turning back. “It involves the Providence, the gaming ship I believe you’ve mentioned in your broadcasts.”

  Ah, thought Willie: He does listen.

  “You should know that I have an interest in that ship. I am a silent partner, so to speak.”

  Willie’s expression never changed.

  “It is legitimate, Willie. You should come out and have a look. People come to the ship for a good time and because they just might go home a little richer. Many do. Don’t think of what we do as any different from the hundreds of games of chance played on Venice Pier, Ocean Park Pier, Santa Monica Pier.” He chuckled. “Though we reward our winners with more than kewpie dolls. It’s the Depression, Willie. People need a little sunshine in their lives. Why begrudge them that?”

  “I begrudge no one sunshine. Eddie, what do you want from me?”

  The tone annoyed Eddie. They were never brusque with each other.

  “Want from you? Whatever gave you that idea? Just understand that we’re in different businesses, that’s all. We take care of people in different ways.”