Rudy skipped ashore from the boat and ran towards him. “Hey, Ray,” he said, his voice a light imitation of his father’s. “Elsa wants to know when you are coming round to dinner. She wants to see you again.”
Ray smiled at the boy. He was just seventeen with clear olive skin and a wild shock of curly black hair. He looked a lot like his sister Elsa, both of them having inherited their looks from their mother and not from Oscar. Thank God, Ray thought.
“Tell your sister I’ll try to make it next week,” he said to the boy.
“Is that a promise?” Rudy said eagerly.
“Listen to him, Ray,” Oscar called from the boat. “He takes after his mother. Romantic, just like my Margarita, always trying to play cupid. Leave Ray alone, boy. He’s too much of a man for that sweet little sister of yours. Let her meet a boy her own age.”
“Tell Elsa next Wednesday, okay?” Ray insisted.
“You got it,” Rudy said and winked.
Ray reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair. “And take good care of that old wino who calls himself your father,” he said, loud enough for Oscar to hear.
Rudy laughed loudly and ran back to the boat. Oscar launched into a tirade of Hispanic invective, and cuffed the boy around the head as soon as his sneakered feet hit the deck.
Ray raised an arm in a gesture of farewell and carried on walking. It pained him sometimes to think that no matter how well he got on with people like the Hernandez’ he could never be as one with them. Too many clinging ghosts from the past made sure of that. Oscar Hernandez and his family made a meagre living from the sea. And while Ray earned money taking tourists for joy rides round the bay and ferrying the occasional fishing parties to the reefs, he wasn’t dependent on it for his livelihood.
The interest on the money in the trust fund set up by his father decreed that, if he wanted to, Ray could sell his small launch and retire, needing never to work again. Not that it was an option that attracted him. He’d fought a long hard battle against the pressures of a privileged life style, and despite the heavy handed attempts by his family to persuade him to conform, and accept the silver spoon they so desperately wanted to ram into his mouth, he was determined to remain true to his feelings.
The party tonight, at the Stock family mansion, he guessed, was just another of those filial ambushes. But this time he had to go, no matter how unpleasant the outcome would be, because along with the invitation was a note written in his sister Caroline’s distinctive flowing script. The note was terse and to the point. “Please come. Mother has cancer. She’s dying.”
He reached his car, a battered old Chevrolet convertible, with rusting gold paintwork and leather seats split and flaking with age. A small group of Mexican boys in regulation jeans and leather jackets stood close by it, one of them leaning on the hood, cleaning his fingernails with a switchblade knife. Ray stopped walking and stood a yard away from them. The boy leaning on the hood looked up at him disinterestedly then went back to cleaning his nails.
“Would you mind doing that somewhere else,” Stock said, his voice soft, polite.
“What’s it to you?” the boy said. The others in the group started to take an interest, all turning to face Stock, threatening, insolent expressions on their swarthy immature faces.
Ray smiled pleasantly, bent forward and whispered into the ear of the boy who was leaning on his car. “If you don’t move your ass, I’m going to take that knife and geld you.”
“What’s that mean?” the boy said.
“It means you’ll be singing soprano for the rest of your life,” Ray said, with a smile. “Clear now?” Ray cupped the boy’s balls hard and twisted. “Or is that any clearer?”
The boy swivelled his head around and looked hard into Ray Stock’s eyes. What he saw there belied the smile on Stock’s face. They were very dark brown; almost black in the dim street lighting and the boy could read the message there loud and clear. Don’t fuck with me, boy, because I mean what I say.
The young Mexican grinned, despite his obvious discomfort. “Cool, man, I mean, no problem.” He pushed himself upright, wiping sweaty fingerprints from the paintwork with the sleeve of his jacket. “Nice wheels.”
Ray opened the driver’s door and climbed inside. The Mexicans had formed a group again and were questioning the boy to find out what Stock had said to him. Ray started the engine and wound down the window. “Thanks for minding the car for me boys,” he said as he eased away from the curb. “I’d give you a tip but I’m fresh out of change.” Then he gunned the engine and sped off down the street.
Forty-five minutes later he was swinging the car through the gates of the Stock mansion. As he drove up the long gravelled drive, the smells of jasmine and magnolia filtered in through the Chevrolet’s air conditioning. Familiar fragrances that always meant home to him, or rather the home he had left years ago without a backward glance. It was now over five years since he’d been back here but at his first sight of the house it appeared nothing much had changed.
The house was a huge white colonial mansion that would have been better situated in the Deep South rather than here on the western seaboard. An ancient ivy clung to the eastside of the house like the beard of a half shaved man, and a wild rambling rose clung tenaciously to the west side, defying years of pruning. The oaken front door stood open and he could glimpse the inside, well lit by the crystal chandelier that hung in the hall.
Two men flanked the doorway. They wore business suits and hard expressions; his father’s security men. He recognized one of them; Phil Ryker, an ex-cop with a short iron-grey crew cut and a face like sculpted granite. The other man was a new face to him, younger than Ryker but of the same breed.
Ray slid his Chevrolet into a narrow space between a Rolls Royce Corniche and a large black Mercedes. There wasn’t enough room to open the door of the Chevrolet so he slid back the roof and climbed out. The security men watched his entrance with unconcealed interest and were now lumbering down the steps of the mansion to intercept him.
“Private party, buddy,” the one who wasn’t Ryker said. As he spoke his eyes absorbed the details of Ray Stock’s unkempt appearance. Check shirt, Levis, engineer’s boots. Hair long and uncombed, curling down over the collar of his shirt, a day’s beard stubble on his chin, a gold earring in the lobe of his right ear. A big man, six two, lean and well muscled. A nose that looked as if it had once been broken, a mouth whose corners wrinkled up in a sardonic smile, mocking the world.
The security man who wasn’t Ryker was Carl Anders, and he didn’t like the look of Ray Stock. Trouble, he decided. Trouble with a capital T. He smoothed his right hand over the bulge of the magnum nestling in the shoulder holster under his jacket, to reassure himself it was still there and easy to get to; also to warn Ray Stock. I’ve got a gun here, mister, so watch your step, and your tongue.
Anders walked until he was six feet away from Stock. “You hear me, buddy?”
Ryker came up behind him and laid his hand on his arm. “Easy, Carl. Hello, Ray. It’s been a long time.”
“Not long enough, Phil. How you keeping?”
Carl Anders’ face took on an expression of puzzlement, mixed with disappointment. It had been a long boring evening, welcoming in the stuffed shirts and the dog’s dinners they supported on their arms and called “honey,” and “darling”. Society men and their wives. He’d counted three senators, two congressmen, half a dozen film actors and one prominent Beverley Hills cosmetic surgeon. As well as countless other less stellar personalities. He’d hoped with Ray Stock’s arrival the evening might lighten up a little. He was just in the mood to kick ass.
“This is Ray Stock, Carl. Mr. Stock’s other son.”
The phrase “other son” needled Stock, as it always had. His elder brother Frank had been dead nearly twenty years but his parents kept his memory alive, and for as long as he could remember Ray had always been described as “Randolph Stock’s other son.”
“The one that got away, that’s me, Phil.
”
“It’s good to see you. Miss Caroline warned me you might be coming,” Phil Ryker smiled, and the granite softened, making him look older, more wrinkled; almost like somebody’s grandfather. Almost but not quite.
With Ryker and Anders flanking him, Ray walked across the forecourt to the front door.
“How long have you been with the family now, Phil?” Ray asked as they walked.
“Twenty five years, almost. Joined your father’s company when I left the force, and been with him ever since.” Phil Ryker was a master of understatement. He’d left the police force because a New York street gang had cornered him in Central Park and beat him close to death with metal-sheathed baseball bats. If Ryker had been a lesser man he wouldn’t be alive now to enjoy his police pension in the California sunshine.
“And how long have you been head of security with the Yellow Beach Corporation?”
“Eighteen years,” Phil Ryker said modestly.
Ray turned to Carl Anders who was walking on his left side, his face a mask of bored indifference. “You see…Carl, is it?” Anders nodded. “You see, Carl. Here is a man whose boots you aspire one day to fill. Do you see yourself as Head of Security here sometime in the future?” Ray glanced round at Phil Ryker. Ryker was still smiling, knowingly this time.
“I haven’t given it much thought. Perhaps, yeah, perhaps one day.”
Ray nodded his head slowly. “Then in that case let me give you some sound advice. Next time I come in through those gates remember that I never was, am not and never likely will be, your buddy. Got that?”
Anders looked at him sharply. Ray was stone faced. Phil Ryker let out a belch of laughter and slapped Stock on the shoulder.
“You shouldn’t have stayed away so long, Ray. It’s been really quiet around here since you left.”
Anders was staring at Ray, his hands balling into a fist. He realized he’d been insulted, and he didn’t take being insulted lightly. The last man who did it found his face smeared around the walls of Clancy’s bar in Upper Burbank. But there was nothing he could do about it this time. He wasn’t gifted with a startling IQ, but he had enough intelligence to realize you didn’t cream the only son of your employer in the grounds of his own house and expect to hang onto your job. He tucked the insult away in a dark corner of his mind. One day he’d bring it out and dust it off, then God help Mr. Ray wise-mouth Stock.
Anders stayed by his post at the door as Phil Ryker and Ray entered the house. Inside the hall a small, balding, fat man was being helped into his astrakhan coat by Edwards, the family butler, while an ugly woman in a mink stole and violet rinse stood by, berating the fat man in a whiney hectoring voice for drinking too much and embarrassing her. Edwards looked up from his task as Ryker and Stock entered but his only reaction was a slight rising of the right eyebrow. He’d been doing his job too long and was too professional to let anything distract him from his duties.
“I do hope you had a pleasant evening, sir, madam,” he said unctuously, casually dusting the dandruff from the collar of the fat man’s coat. “Would you like your car brought up to the house?” The unspoken question was, “Do you think you can make it across the forecourt without falling on your face?”
“We’ll manage, thank you, Edwards,” the woman said, having a break from her tirade. She took her husband firmly by the arm and guided him out through the front door.
“I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes tonight when they get home,” Phil Ryker said under his breath.
The noise of the party was spilling out of the ballroom into the hall. There was a small band playing a competent but soulless rendering of Just the Way You Are, and someone was crooning a poor imitation of Michael Bublé. A woman was laughing hysterically and a man’s voice boomed, “Hey, Joe, you old son of a …where have you been hiding yourself?”
Edwards studied Ray for a moment, and then said, “If you’ll accompany me to the library, sir, I’ll tell Miss Caroline you’ve arrived.”
“Thanks, Bert,” Ray said. He’d called Edwards, Bert for as long as he could remember because it was the only thing that could ruffle the prissy little Englishman’s feathers. Edwards’s cheeks reddened and Ray knew he’d hit his mark. Accompany me to the library, my ass, he thought, and wondered if the rest of the household were going to treat him in the same way. The wayward son, the black sheep.
The last time he’d visited the house it had ended in acrimony. Perhaps now he’d been relegated to persona non-gratis. To be received in the library was a privilege reserved for trades people and lesser executives of the Yellow Beach Corporation. Oh well, Ray boy, just you remember that if Caroline and the rest of them want to play these kinds of games, then they’re only following your lead and playing to your rules.
“Catch you later, Ray,” Phil Ryker said, and sauntered back to join Carl Anders at the door.
“If you’d be so kind, sir,” Edwards said, making quick little beckoning motions with his hand. He led the way across the marble floored hallway.
“I can find my own way to the library, Bert. Don’t trouble yourself.”
“It’s no trouble, sir, I assure you,” Edwards said, his voice heavy with irony.
“No, I’m sure it’s not,” Ray said, and started to follow.
The main staircase was shaped like a horseshoe with the stairs coming down on either side of the hall. At the top was a landing with a long corridor leading from it. As he passed under it Ray glanced up.
“This isn’t a fancy dress party, is it?” he said.
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
Stock shook his head but walked back to the centre of the hall where he could get a clear view of the landing. The landing was brightly lit and empty, yet just before he passed under it Ray was sure there had been a figure standing there. A figure wearing a robe similar to a monk, complete with cowl to cover the head. He stood for a full minute staring up at the landing but no one appeared. He shook his head and followed Edwards through to the library.
The room was just as he remembered it. A large dark room, the air pungent with the smell of stale cigar smoke and musty old books. There was an unlit fire made up in the grate and over in the corner a small bar, a touch totally out of character with the room. Books covered two walls while a third was given over to a six-foot by three-foot oil painted portrait of Ray Stock’s father, Randolph Stock.
Stock left Edwards by the door and walked across to the portrait, standing before it, his hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his Levis in a subconscious gesture of defiance. “Hello, you callous old bastard,” he said quietly. He heard a click behind him and turned to see that Edwards had gone and had shut the door.
Ray poured himself two fingers of Chivas Regal at the bar and sat down in one of the two club chairs that flanked the fireplace. On a side table next to the chair was an ashtray with a half smoked Havana cigar, lying in a small nest of grey ash, and a magazine folded open on an article about diamond mining in the Transvaal. Evidence that his father had recently occupied this seat.
He shifted uncomfortably then rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. The library was far enough away from the ballroom to render the sounds of the party almost inaudible. If he concentrated he could just pick out the melody of the tune the band had moved into. Evergreen. He sipped his whisky, put the glass down on the table next to the ashtray, and let himself drift for a while.
It had been a long tiring day. At seven o’clock that morning he’d been out on the ocean with a group of Minnesota businessmen, schooling them in the art of game fishing. They’d been slow learners, and poor sailors. Three of them had thrown up over the side before they’d even left the harbour. He’d brought them back just after five in the afternoon, collected his money from the leader of the group, a small skinny man with a receding hairline and a more deeply receding chin. His name was Herb Whitehead; the rest of the group called him Sir, so Ray guessed he was their boss. Whitehead had wanted to book him for t
he following day and had been very put out when Stock told him no. It seemed that Herb Whitehead wasn’t used to people saying no to him. He offered Stock double the fee, but the refusal was the same and they’d parted company on less than amicable terms.
He went back to the room he rented above Eddie Meeson’s chandlery and showered, then went down to the Red Snapper bar and got quickly drunk on a lethal mixture of bourbon and tequila. He remembered the blonde girl’s approach but remembered nothing more until the hotel room and the hour of passionate, but slightly desperate, sex that followed.
A long tiring day. He hoped the night wouldn’t be so demanding but that, he knew, was just wishful thinking.
“God, you look a mess.”
He opened his eyes to see his older sister, Caroline, standing over him. He hadn’t heard her enter the room; he must have been dozing. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and got to his feet. “Hello, Caro,” he said yawning.
She glared at him. “I thought you could have at least made an effort to look somewhere near human.”
“You know your trouble, Caro, you’re a snob. Always judging people by the cut of their clothes and their Gucci shoes. I always felt you only married Martin Devereaux because he wore Armani suits and had his toupee trimmed at Vidal Sassoon’s.”
She aimed a slap at his face but he caught her wrist mid-flight and lowered her arm gently. “I think, in the circumstances, we should at least try to be civil to each other, what do you say?”
She wrenched her arm away and turned her back on him. “Christ, you’re impossible. I knew it was a mistake to invite you back here.”
“Look why don’t you go out and come back in, and we can try again. I don’t want a war with you Caro. It was the old man I fell out with, not you.”
“You turned your back on the family when you walked out of here. Not only father, but mother and me too. Do you really expect to be welcomed back here with a laugh and a song?”
A Weaving of Ancient Evil Page 14