by Marc Olden
Lyle pulled a bottle from his back pocket, uncapped it and drank.
Robert said to Marisa, “Your friend’s cute. Now he’s drinking his breakfast, which means we can look forward to a collision any minute now. Excuse me while I go below. He’s your buddy, you talk to him.”
But no one could talk to Jack Lyle anymore. He ordered Marisa to leave him alone. The little boatman was in charge, a fact he’d made clear before the cruise got under way.
All of that morning and into the afternoon Lyle drank. It was hard liquor, not stout, and the liquor turned him into something surly and unapproachable. When the passengers did venture on deck and inquired about stopping, Lyle insisted there was nothing worth seeing nearby. It was best to press on.
Nasty words passed between him and Robert more than once and each time the hostility somehow involved the book. By late afternoon the antagonism between the two men was ugly and obvious, spreading an edginess among the others. Eventually Robert hid the book, refusing to say where.
The five ate the day’s meals below, leaving Lyle alone on deck. They spoke in whispers among themselves. It was Marisa who noticed that Jack Lyle, for the first time, refused to acknowledge greetings from people and boats he passed. He stayed at the wheel and drank, in brooding silence; no one dared approach him.
Then shortly before dinner, as they sat around the table, Larry said, “Well, we’re Americans, aren’t we? We don’t have to be pushed around.”
Nat smiled and so did Ellie. Marisa giggled and Robert joined in and soon the four were laughing loudly and Larry, not understanding, shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t get it.”
Nat patted Larry’s hand. “From John Wayne’s mouth to yours. We needed a laugh. You may also have given us a little fighting spirit.”
Nat kissed Larry on the cheek.
Robert said, “You hit Lyle with the table and I’ll clobber him with the book.”
They all laughed. Not because it was funny but because they needed to laugh.
And then they heard and felt the bump at the same time.
Marisa gripped the table. “We’ve hit something.”
“Or something’s hit us,” said Robert. “Edward J. Smith lives.”
Nat adjusted his glasses. “Who’s Edward J. Smith?”
“Captain of the Titanic.”
Marisa said, “I think we’d better talk to Mr. Lyle.”
Larry leaned over to pick his cassette off the floor. “All of us?”
Marisa stood up. “Safety in numbers. Let’s go.”
On deck they saw Lyle arguing with two old men who stood on board a smaller boat now floating alongside The Drake.
“I barely touched yer damn barge!” yelled Lyle.
“We signaled!” The shorter of the old men was red faced with anger.
“Signaled, me arse. I signaled first. I told you bleedin’ sods I wanted to keep goin’ and you refused to acknowledge.”
The red-faced man said, “What are you in such a bloody hurry for, Jack? You been on the water long enough to know better.”
“Too long if you ask me,” said the other man.
“Outta me way,” said Jack Lyle. “I’m headin’ north, if it’s all right with you.”
“Go by way of hell, you stubborn old bastard.”
When The Drake cleared the other boat and was again heading north, Marisa motioned the others downstairs. After shutting the door to the cabin she turned toward them. “It’s only going to get worse with him.”
Minutes later it was she and Nat Shields who went back on deck to tell Jack Lyle that the five wanted to be put ashore as soon as possible.
Lyle reached for his bottle with one hand and steered with the other. “Next port of call’s Birmingham. You’ve got two hours to pack.”
At the pier in Birmingham he leaned on the rail and watched them carry their luggage down the gangplank to a pair of waiting taxis. Only Marisa paused a second before stepping into a cab to wave farewell to the little boatman, who solemnly touched his cap and nodded to her before disappearing below.
Two and a half weeks later she was in a London hotel packing to go home and Jack Lyle had almost been forgotten until he telephoned to warn her about the Druids and the Book of Shadows.
He’d spoken of fire and death and now Nat Shields had died exactly as Lyle had warned. Exactly.
Marisa remembered.
And in the early morning as she sat alone in her Manhattan apartment, unseeing eyes staring at the television set, the New Jersey farmer whose property bordered Nat Shields’ angrily threw back the bedcovers and reached for a light switch. His dogs were fighting and that could only mean a couple of them must have dug their way under the fence again, and were running free.
Even though it was June, the nights were still chilly so he had to put on a shirt, trousers, and worn slippers before going outside, where he intended to whip any dog caught on the wrong side of the wire.
He had a flashlight and a belt in his hands and didn’t have far to go before he found them. Three of them were snarling and snapping at each other over something one had in his jaw. “You dumb bastards!” shouted the farmer, shining the light at them. “I’ll kill the bunch of you, I swear I will!”
He charged them and they ran, but not before the dog holding the prize had dropped it. Seconds later the dogs had disappeared in the darkness.
The farmer shone the flashlight down on the ground.
“Goddam.” He drew the word out.
The thing on the ground was muddy from the rain-wet earth and it glistened with dog saliva, but there was no mistaking what it was. The farmer stared at it a long time before picking up the severed hand.
SIX
THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPENED and Larry Oregon stepped into the studio lobby, grinned and lifted a hand in farewell to the security guard. Returning the grin, the guard touched his cap with a ballpoint pen before placing a check mark beside Larry’s name, one of several on a typed sheet attached to a clipboard.
Marisa had come through. Larry was working as an actor again. He’d just finished his second day on World and Forever and while the money so far was only S.A.G. minimum, he’d been promised three more days on the show next week. His role as manager of a discotheque was being kept in the script and he’d have at least two lines. That meant he’d be earning several times the minimum. Tonight Larry had something to celebrate.
From the studio, directly opposite Lincoln Center, he walked toward the corner of Columbus Avenue and 64th Street. It was going on seven o’clock and he’d put in an eleven-hour day. Soap operas were hard work. You couldn’t be a regular on one and party all night, as Larry sometimes liked to do.
World and Forever began rehearsals at 7:30 A.M., followed by blocking. At twelve the show broke for lunch, which rarely lasted more than a half hour. After lunch it was costumes, wardrobe, makeup and for the women, the services of two hairdressers.
1:30. A run through timed to the show’s hour length.
3:00. Makeup retouched or changed and notes handed to the cast.
3:30. An hour’s dress rehearsal, more notes, more makeup retouching.
5:00. Taping.
All of this took place in a studio huge enough to house thirty different sets, eight of which were used by World and Forever. Those eight were lit and arranged in one long row for the convenience of the five cameras used for taping. A small army of actors, directors, stage managers, technicians, and stagehands was responsible for the show’s success, a success that was not without cost. Everything was done fast, immediately, and timed to the second. Numbed by the grueling schedule, exhausted actors complained that they never saw the sun.
Larry loved it. It was show business and show business was glamor, never a grind. Others may have looked overhead and seen the hundreds of heavy studio lights as a source of merciless heat and harsh light; Larry saw them as a sky filled with polished diamonds.
The performers who dozed fitfully on prop beds or couches while waiting
to be called by the director were not bone-tired men and women. To Larry they were sleeping idols to be gawked at. He blushed when Marisa told him that three actresses on the show had a bet as to which of them would be the first to get Larry in bed.
The bad part was that Nat Shields wouldn’t be here to see Larry on screen. He’d always believed Larry photographed superbly, particularly from the left side. “You and Claudette Colbert,” said Nat. “She made a career out of her left profile. Why can’t you?”
Poor Nat. He was the only man in Larry’s life who’d given and not merely taken.
On Columbus Avenue Larry was looking around for a taxi when someone called his name. He turned and saw Cornell Castle waving from the front door of The Matador, a gay bar. Cornell, charming and domineering, had been the reason Larry had almost gone to jail.
“Larry-O. Looking good, looking good.”
“Cornell. How’s it going?”
“Fine, just fine. Let me buy you a drink.”
“I—I have to be at the gym in twenty minutes.”
Cornell’s smile featured expensive dentistry at its best. “The Olympics is quite a way off, lover. What kind of events are you interested in these days? I bet you still go the distance, hmmm?”
“I’m working. Got a role on World and Forever. They’re—they’re talking about making me a regular.”
“La dee da. Let me run and tell Miss Rona. Back among the working classes, are we?”
“Had to.”
“I heard. Sorry about Nat. A sweet man.”
“The best.”
Cornell Castle sipped Perrier and lemon. “Did I tell you about my new job?”
“No.”
“Assistant casting director for Carmela Advertising.”
Cornell Castle waited for the reaction and smiled when it came. Larry had licked his lips.
Cornell Castle said, “It was time to go straight, if you’ll pardon the pun. My former line of work had its drawbacks, as you probably remember.”
“Oh, I remember, all right. I’m not about to forget.”
Cornell Castle had been a pimp, running a call-boy service out of his apartment. He’d seduced Larry, then talked him into turning tricks. Not only had Cornell Castle kept most of the money Larry earned, but he had also tried to blackmail a judge who’d become enamored of Larry. The judge had solved the problem by sending a pair of police detectives to talk to Cornell and Larry. The threat of jail was enough to convince Larry to break with Cornell Castle, who himself was shaken by the visit from the detectives.
Cornell Castle was trouble. But he was also in casting and Larry needed work.
He said, “You working on anything special?”
Cornell Castle fished the lemon slice from his glass and popped it into his mouth. “Never been so busy in my life. We’re doing commercials, producing a soap, and putting together a couple of specials. We’re also working on a pilot for a disco show and one for a situation comedy and all of it’s being done right here in the Big Apple.”
“Anything for me?”
“Funny you should mention it. You’re dark enough to pass for Italian and we need a ginzo to play the brother of two obnoxious Brooklyn virgins. You wouldn’t happen to have any new photos, by any chance?”
“First thing tomorrow,” said Larry. “I could deliver them first thing tomorrow.”
They said he would be anxious, thought Cornell. God, how right they were.
He rolled his glass between the palms of his hands. “The director’s inside. Like to meet him?”
A couple of actors who’d just left the studio waved to Larry, who waved back, his eyes quickly returning to Cornell. One of the actors flagged down a cab and offered Larry a ride, which was refused.
Inside The Matador, Cornell Castle slipped an arm around Larry’s waist. “How’s my little Bambi, my little fawn of the north woods. Let’s get you a drinkie-poo. I do like your hair, Larry-O. I do indeed.”
His hand casually slid down to cup Larry’s buttocks.
Central Park.
In a deserted part of the Ramble, Larry Oregon lay nude, face down on the ground. Cornell Castle, half dressed, lay beside him stroking his hair.
After a few seconds Cornell sat up and reached for his pants. In the moonlit darkness he fumbled around for his socks and boots, found them, and when he was fully dressed, stood up. He hadn’t known he was being observed until a male voice behind him said, “Be exact, Mr. Castle. Make sure you haven’t left anything.”
A startled Cornell Castle snapped his head around to see a stocky white-haired man and a tall woman standing half hidden in the trees. The white-haired man held the bridle of a white and gray horse who impatiently pawed the ground with a front hoof.
Cornell Castle, his heart pounding, squinted into the darkness. “Who—?”
“Beltane, Lughnassadh, Samhain, and Imbolc,” said Rupert Comfort, naming the four great yearly festivals of the Druids.
A nervous Cornell Castle answered with, “Walpurgis Night, Lammas, Halloween, and Candlemas.”
These were the great sabbaths celebrated by witches, the dates identical with those of the Druids’ festivals. Cornell Castle, an outsider selected to help retrieve the Book of Shadows, had long been a member of a witch coven.
Rupert Comfort pointed to Larry Oregon.
Cornell Castle cleared his throat. “As—as you ordered. I did as you ordered, including the drug.”
“Then you may leave.”
“Is there anything else I can—”
“Leave.”
“I—I understand.”
After Cornell Castle disappeared in the darkness, Rupert Comfort looked up at the moon in silent prayer, then led the white and gray horse to where Larry Oregon lay drugged and unconscious. While the white-haired man stroked the horse’s long head and gently spoke to it in Shelta Thari, Rowena Comfort securely wrapped one end of the bridle around Larry’s wrist.
When she had finished, she stepped back and nodded to her husband, who reached into his jacket pocket, removed an envelope, and poured a pale green powder from it into the palm of his hand. Motioning his wife back, he looked at the horse for a few seconds,, then hurled the powder at its nose.
Instantly the horse shifted from a controlled nervousness to a murderous frenzy. As husband and wife hurriedly backed away from it, the animal reared up, pawed the air with its front hooves, and whinnied as though in intense pain. It came down hard, a front hoof crushing Larry Oregon’s left collarbone.
The horse turned, viciously swinging Larry’s nude body around and dragging it on the ground. Again the animal reared up, then landed with both hooves on Larry’s back. Then it was speeding off into the darkness, dragging Larry’s body on the ground beside it, the body smashing into trees and bouncing off and the crazed horse galloping faster, faster.
In the silence of the Ramble, the Comforts stared after the horse.
“Hu Gadarn,” whispered the white-haired man.
“Hu Gadarn,” whispered his wife.
SEVEN
“SOMEONE TRIED TO BREAK into my apartment,” said Marisa.
“Happens,” said Joseph Bess.
“That was yesterday.” She lit her fourth cigarette, inhaled once, then stubbed it out in the ashtray on Bess’s desk.
He said, “Two days after your friend Larry Oregon gets dragged to death by a horse in Central Park. Why didn’t you report the break-in?”
“I was told I’d be wasting my time.”
“By who?”
“The locksmith. And the building super. Both say break-ins are common and no one’s every caught. Attempted break-ins, I’m told, interest the police not at all.”
“So why are you here?”
Marisa reached in her bag for her cigarettes. “Because, sergeant, I’m scared. Because in the short time I knew you, when you served as technical adviser on World and Forever, you managed to communicate some small degree of sensitivity as well as intelligence. You didn’t bowl anyone over wit
h your warmth and charm, but I had the feeling that underneath it all you were sometimes alive and breathing.”
Joseph Bess tossed a pencil onto his battered desk and leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Working on your show wasn’t my idea, Miss Heggen. Frankly, I’d just as soon have avoided the honor. I’m a cop, not one of the beautiful people. To me, show business is some kind of freaky playpen, light years removed from the real world. I’d have been happier pulling night duty on any Harlem street.”
“You never did mince words.”
“The order came down to help you people and I had no choice.”
“Whatever happened to the idea of public service?”
The plainclothes cop held her gaze. “It’s still going on, Miss Heggen. So far this year six cops have been killed and the year’s not over yet. If you want more service, stick around. Some clown’s sure to get it in his head that whacking out a cop is more fun than ice skating.”
Marisa looked down at the floor.
Joseph Bess leaned forward. “Sorry.”
She looked up. “What’s bugging you?”
He sighed. “There are days when I can’t take the weight and I guess this is one of them. I caught a case a few weeks ago and maybe I’m taking it personally. Unfortunately it’s the only way I can handle this one.”
Marisa waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. Joseph Bess—he insisted on the full first name—was a private man, a small, thirty-four-year-old second-generation American of Armenian ancestry, with sad brown eyes and no interest in being polite unless absolutely necessary. Under the toughness he’d acquired to survive as a cop, Marisa saw something else: a vulnerable, lonely man. In the few weeks he’d served as the show’s technical adviser, she’d found herself attracted to him and sensed he felt the same way about her.
Neither of them did a thing about it. She wondered if that’s why he now seemed annoyed with her.
This was their first meeting since Bess had finished his stint on World and Forever. The day after someone had tried to pick the lock to her apartment, Marisa, shaken by Larry’s death, had telephoned the sad-eyed police detective. A thin piece of metal had broken off in the lock, jamming it. Marisa had recalled the deaths of Nat Shields and Larry, and Nat’s feeling that his home had been broken into and that he was being followed. Marisa felt that she too was being followed.