Wolfkind

by Stephen Melling

  Tired but curious, he returned to the bedroom and stretched out on the mattress; the springs squeaked and twanged under his weight, releasing the strangely offensive odor of laundered linen. He stared at the ceiling, musing over the day and a half spent out in the open. The rambling wooden-framed house in New Hampshire where he had lived most of his life seemed a million miles away. Although he was glad to be elsewhere, a small, instinctive part of him still yearned for its sanctuary. His fingered the amulet around his neck. Touching the gold wolf-crest reminded him who he was, and why he was here.

  His brief interaction with the motel manager had raised his spirits somewhat. The exchange had gone smoothly and he had avoided confrontation – though part of this success, he conceded, was forbearance from the old man, who assumed Joshua was a regular guy.

  But could he pull it off in Los Angeles?

  His pulse rose at the thought.

  He swung his legs to the floor and dragged his sports bag to his feet. He started to pull the zipper, but hesitated. He crept over to the window and peered out. In the dim light from reception he saw Benjamin’s Dodge and the deserted promenade. After double-checking the curtains for gaps, he unzippered the bag and removed a thick, hard-backed scrapbook whose pages swelled wider than the spine. He fanned through the sheets until he found the section devoted to Los Angeles crime boss Salvatore Durant.

  Barlow had arranged a news-clipping history of the Durant syndicate in chronological order, and where he deemed it necessary had added text of his own. Though Joshua knew the book cover to cover, Barlow insisted he take it along for continual study.

  He flipped pages until he found the picture of the young woman. The clip identified her as Genna Delucio – Durant’s daughter. Though a direct relative of the mobster, Delucio was considered a civilian, in no way affiliated to her father’s criminal frat club. Barlow had included her picture to complete the album.

  The weight of his mission came back to him, and all at once he became aware that the walls about him were strange. Loneliness descended on him and he lowered the scrapbook, running his fingertips down the faded green cover, realizing his allegiance to the quest felt different - weaker? He wondered if perhaps the short length of time he’d spent among ordinary people had already started to change him as Barlow had feared.

  He stared at the telephone. The old man would be waiting for his call.

  He punched Barlow’s number.

  After a brief clatter of plastic a wheezing presence came on the line. The connection crackled. “Is that ...you?”

  He could almost smell Barlow’s disease through the receiver. On the morning Joshua departed, Barlow had foregone his usual dose of Morphine in order to remain lucid, and probably still suffered the consequences. Six months ago doctors gave the old man three months to live. A dead man walking if ever there was one. “Where are you calling from?”

  “A motel halfway across Iowa.” Joshua said, leafing through the scrapbook. One page exhibited tabloid photographs of assassination victims; bodies mauled beyond recognition.

  “Something’s gone wrong.” Barlow said after a moment’s silence. “I can tell by your voice.” Joshua found it uncanny how Barlow seemed able to read his mind; even over the phone the old man knew something was amiss.

  Joshua outlined the incident at the diner.

  “Unfortunate,” Barlow said. “But expected. We’ve been through all this, Joshua. Look no one in the eye. Keep your head down, and for the Lord’s sake don’t go making friends. We can ill-afford to have anyone poking around. Right now your anonymity is the only edge you have.” Barlow sighed again. “I want you to call me every day, even if you’ve nothing to report.”

  “Okay,” Joshua considered telling Barlow about the ex pro-footballer, but he closed his mouth.

  “I’ll be waiting for your call,” Barlow said, and then, almost as an afterthought. “Joshua. God help us.”

  Joshua hung up and stared at the scrapbook, the carnage, the gangster mug shots – the Invisible Assassin. Confrontation. The true reason for his being here came crashing in, shattering the pleasant feeling that talking to Benjamin Jefferson had instilled.

  He tossed the scrapbook aside and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. A spider’s web of cracks radiated from the light fitting. For the first time in his life the ceiling above him was not his own. This unsettled him in a way he found hard to define. Intensified his feeling of alienation. He rolled onto his side and stared at the wall, thinking about the handgun and poisoned load at the bottom of his bag. Before long, his eyelids grew heavy and he fell asleep.

  Sometime later he awoke from a terrible dream in which he’d been pursued through woodland by faceless hunters. The dream slowly fragmented and he became fully aware of his surroundings. Iowa. He was in a motel.

  Outside his room a hunched shadow played across the curtains; then a hard rap at the door. “You ok, son?” Benjamin’s voice, touched with concern.

  Joshua swung his legs to the floor. His forehead glistened, and when he wiped his brow, noticed an unfamiliar configuration of bone. He felt the rest of his skull for abnormalities. He found none. Nevertheless, he went into the bathroom and switched on the light over the mirror. He inched his face toward his reflection; but saw nothing erroneous. He swilled his face twice with double hands of cold water. Then noisily slurped another three.

  Benjamin Jefferson knocked again.

  “I’m in the bathroom.” Joshua told him.

  The old man muttered something Joshua didn’t catch, and then his awkward steps receded down the concrete promenade.

  Joshua scrutinized his reflection a moment longer before switching off the light. After putting away the scrapbook he picked up his room key. Perhaps another talk with Benjamin would be restful – and hadn’t the old man mentioned something to eat?

  A plate of sandwiches and a glass of Coors awaited him when he finally left his room and walked up the promenade into reception. The bell tinkled merrily above his head and the warmth inside felt homely and sociable. Jazz music still played softly in the background.

  “You okay there, big guy?” asked Benjamin, his rheumy eyes narrowing. “Hollered like a son-of-a-bitch in your sleep.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first who checked in and clocked off. Few years back had this traveling salesman from Baltimore check in; Barrington Ball. Clung to his bag like his soul was in there. Paid a night’s rent and waddled off, arms wrapped round that bag. At dawn I found him hanging from the shower-rail by his snakeskin belt. Stiffer than a frozen sausage. Goddamned if he wasn’t still clinging to his bag.” He indicated a chair. “Come round this side of the desk. Grab yourself some vittles and hoist that beer less it gets warm.”

  Three chicken sandwiches, which Benjamin confessed were loitering on the ass-end of their sell-by date, were stacked in a neat pile on a torn sheet of tinfoil. Joshua sat in a battered armchair, reached for a sandwich and devoured it in two bites. He followed this with a large swallow of beer. As he went for another sandwich, he noticed a minor disruption in his sense of balance. Chicken sandwiches were nothing new, but beer drinking was fresh snow. He raised the glass and gazed wonderingly at the gold liquid. “This…this feels good.”

  “Damn tooting,” he said, and hoisted his glass. “And I got a few more on ice.”

  Joshua started on another sandwich and killed the rest of the beer. Alcohol’s dubious magic found no resistance in his unsuspecting body, which possessed no immediate tolerance. His inhibitions started to melt away and oddly, hunting assassins in Los Angeles didn’t seem half as daunting as it did half an hour ago. Benjamin talked more of his football career and adjusting to life as an amputee. Joshua dutifully listened, but said nothing of his own story.

  After a short silence Benjamin said. “You running from the law, boy?” He cracked a wise smile and held up a leathery palm. “I ain’t judging you, Josh – that's not my thing. I’m just old and nosey and that look in yo
ur eye tells me you either running from something or to something that don’t swim too sweet in your belly. Feel free to step on me if I’m flappin’ my jaw, now.” He reached into a Styrofoam cooler and tossed another beer.

  Joshua caught it and after a short period of heady consideration, cracked the seal. “I’m not running from….anything,” he said, a touch mystified to discover his tongue felt too big.

  Benjamin cocked his head. “Son, is this your first beer?” Without waiting for an answer he threw back his head and cackled. “Well pucker up and kiss my bad leg,” he cried. “You’re one of a kind, Josh.”

  A single thought swam to Joshua through the pleasant haziness. “One of a kind…”

  The old man cracked himself a new beer. “You wanna talk about what’s in L.A., son?”

  Joshua looked up sharply.

  “Called out in your sleep,” Benjamin explained.

  “I...I can’t say,” Joshua whispered. “Secrets. Terrible….”

  “Keeping secrets is about all I’m good at,” Benjamin said. “Even if I weren’t, there ain’t no one I could tell them to anyhow.” He set down his beer and reached over to switch off the VACANCY sign. “You got something serious on your mind, don’t you son? That ain’t the booze talking. But don’t you fret. It’s my nature to pull up the ladder behind me. And let me tell you a human truth that’s taken me a lifetime to learn: a man can’t help his nature.”

  Joshua dragged a hand over his face and looked at the floor. “That’s my problem. I can’t help what I am. I shouldn’t be saying this…”

  “Hey…we’re drinkin’….we cool, and it’s after hours. By sun up whatever we got to say will be piss and wind anyhow.” He raised his glass. “It’s the beauty of the brew.”

  Sinking into his seat, Joshua gazed into the depths of his beer glass. Tiny bubbles floated through the golden liquid to the surface, bobbed there a few seconds, then popped. Many of his inhibitions seemed to pop along with them, become gas and air. Tormented by the desire to tell his secret, Joshua gazed fixedly at the old man. “Barlow believes they’re in Los Angeles,” he said airily.

  “Who are?” Benjamin asked. “The Lakers?”

  “Assassins.”

  Benjamin took the glass from his lips. “One’s what’re bumping off mafia? The...what they call ‘em? Invisible Assassins?”

  “Invisible?” Joshua stared into space. “Only to some.”

  Genna Delucio

  Genna Delucio turned off La Brea onto Santa Monica Boulevard, her eyes alternating glances between the road ahead and rearview mirror. The blue Chevy Nova hung on her tail, as it had since she left the medical center parking lot, staying well back in traffic, yet matching her every maneuver.

  She quickly swapped lanes. The Nova, still several cars behind in the late evening traffic, followed her accordingly. This confirmed her suspicions. “Oh you son of a bitch.”

  Familiar resentment of her father seeped into her thinking and reawakened feelings she had tried so hard to repress. Umbrage between kids and their parents, be it strictness or possessiveness, generally stemmed from love and fear. But to hate one’s father as she did hers made her feel somewhat disgraced.

  Nevertheless, despise him she did – and all that for which he stood. She still heard the oily tones of his voice, riddled with falsity, tempered with the air of never having his word refused: Move back under my roof, if only until the assassin is caught. I’m worried over my little girl – is that such a crime? Forever surrounded by his minders – hired flatterers them all – he had long ago lost the ability to accept no as an answer; doing so would erode his self-reinforced illusion of control, and control was his baby; control was his gospel; control was everything to him. But Genna represented an element in his life beyond his control and it drove him nuts.

  She looked back at the Nova, realizing she’d been foolish ever to believe her father had called off his shadow ‘protection’. He he’d probably had her followed twenty-four-seven since the morning she stormed out of Stromboli Mansion and into her own apartment.

  The blue Nova hung farther back, leaving a five or six cars buffer, in the outside lane. Beyond the glare of its headlights the Nova’s windows were opaque. Genna found herself wondering whether those shadowing her were indeed her father’s men. Could be they were rivals, targeting her instead of her hoodlum father. The mafia code which decreed civilians should not be targeted was observed about as religiously as all their other cardboard codes and practices. It was little more than mob invention, its purpose to lend their organizations a ribbon of respectability.

  Ahead was a busy intersection and as Genna drew near, the lights changed. Before fully realizing her intentions, she punched the gas and ran the red light. Horns blared. A motorist braked hard to avoid a collision, the headlights momentarily blinding her. Once clear, she glanced in her rearview mirror and saw the blue Nova held up in the snarl.

  “Yes!” She hunched over the wheel, grinning in spite of herself. A lock of hair fell over her eyes, and she tossed it back with a flick of her head. She looked at her reflection, raised an eyebrow in admonition of her reckless behavior, and released a shaky breath.

  All the way back to her apartment in Silver Lake, for which she headed at a safer speed, Genna kept a mental note of which cars appeared immediately behind her. At one point a Chrysler followed her bumper for two right turns and a left, but drove straight on when she hung a left and descended into the subterranean parking lot beneath her apartment block.

  She reversed into a space, grabbed the bag of groceries and climbed out of the car. The air smelled of damp concrete and carbon monoxide. Her uncharacteristic behavior at the stoplight had left her feeling nervous and vulnerable, yet angry with herself for succumbing to these emotions. She locked the car and engaged the alarm, wincing at the ear-piercing double beep, as though the noise might wake a hit man who had nodded in the shadows. She imagined the headlines: Young woman who ignored warnings found murdered amongst milk cartons and cut price English muffins.

  She started toward the elevator. The legs of her jeans swished, the grocery bag rustled, and her footfalls echoed in the corners. Ahead, the elevator doors were already open, the empty carriage waiting. She refused to hurry. She would not.

  Somewhere behind her, a tin can clattered over the concrete.

  Ok. This she decided was reason to panic.

  Thirty or so yards of open space separated her from the yawning brightness of the waiting elevator. She hurried toward it, already fishing for her apartment key. Whoever was playing kick the can in the shadows was perhaps thirty or so yards back. If they blew cover right now and charged her down she would reach the elevator with scarcely enough time to close the doors.

  When she was ten yards from the bright carriage, the sliding doors started to close. “Wai...” She started, but quickly realized that whoever called the elevator stood on a different floor. Instead of presuming to push a hand into the narrowing gap, she diverted her run twenty degrees toward the fire-escape, sprinting now. Behind her, footsteps clacked on the hard floor, tracking her.

  Inside the stairwell the confusing acoustics amplified her breathing and returned sharp echoes of her steps. Still clutched in her right hand, slick with sweat, her apartment keys clinked and clanged against the hand rail. Below, the fire-escape door hit the wall as someone barged into the stairwell.

  She burst through the door at her floor and fell onto her knees on the hall carpet. Her grocery bag split, spilling the contents in all directions. She climbed awkwardly to her feet, stepped on a bag of muffins, and thundered down the corridor to her apartment. Behind her the stairwell door squeaked as someone pushed through – very close behind.

  Inserting her door-key proved as troublesome as threading a needle with frayed cotton. After several seconds of frantic fidgeting she dropped the keys to the carpet. Instead of retrieving them, she plunged into her purse and pulled the P7 pistol Suzanne gave her. With her back pressed to the door she held the
weapon two-handed out in front of her, ready to shoot whoever rounded the corner.

  Her pursuers clearly did not expect this, for when the two men appeared they stuttered to a halt and threw up their arms. “Don’t shoot,” one of them pleaded.

  “You!” Genna said.

  “We saw you running...” said Oliviera, staring down the barrel of Genna’s pistol. Oliviera resembled the British T.V. version of detective Poirot, though his appearance was far less refined. “We’re here to protect you...”

  Rolands winked. “We’re the good guys, Miss Durant.”

  “Durant,” Genna repeated. “Is my father’s name.” She lowered the P7 and tucked it back in her purse. Stooping to retrieve her keys, she added: “My name is Delucio. Delucio.”

  “I’m sor…sorry if we...we startled you,” Oliviera said, dimples of sweat glistening on his top lip. “Your father only wants you to be happy-”

  “Happy?” Genna swiveled on him. “Go look up the goddamn word, why don’t you? I’m not permitted happiness. I’m not allowed friends; if I so much as look at a guy twice you clowns scare the hell out of him.”

  The men swapped guilty glances.

  Genna opened her mouth to add something else, then froze, as though realizing she was engaged in conversation with trained chimps. She sighed and unlocked her apartment. She looked back once and glared at the two men, both of whom still held their hands high in the air. “Get lost, the pair of you.”

  She slammed the door in their faces.

  Her heart still trip-hammering, though more now in anger than in fear, Genna hung up her jacket and paused a moment, scanning her apartment, as if seeing it for the first time. The living room, at best utilitarian, looked much the same as it had when she moved in four years ago; polished wooden floors, a large peach rug, low-backed easy chairs; a matching sofa faced a television she rarely watched. Watercolors of landscapes, cats, dogs, and the painting of a girl lying on a bed adorned the walls.