Book of Secrets

by Chris Roberson

  "Hmm," Angela hummed, giving nothing away.

  "When we finish up here," she finally said, "we're heading on over. You want to follow us in?"

  "Sure," I answered. "I've never been here before, and the directions I got from my principle were a little sketchy."

  "Great," she said, clapping her hands. "Maybe then I'll have someone to talk to." She leaned in close, and I got two nostrils' full of her perfume. "There's a certain old world charm to these things, but the conversation is usually for shit. I mean, I can only listen so many times to the story about how Rocky Stompanato took out that whole group of Triads single-handed, or to the one about what Mack Diamond did to that spic he caught in bed with his wife, before it starts to get old. You know what I mean?"

  I nodded, trying to smile. I was getting in deep now. Movie stars and pop singers seemed a whole world away.

  I followed the limo up the narrow road from Sizemore to the compound in my little rented Ford. Angela had offered to let me ride up with them, but I wanted my ride handy, so politely declined. For a second it looked like she might want to ride with me, but the two mooks stepped in front of that one and ushered her into the waiting limo. They eyed me as I walked back to my Escort, one of them thoughtfully patting the bulge under his arm.

  The road dead-ended at the gate which still read "Second Harvest Ranch." There was an electrified gate on rollers in place across the entrance, made of reinforced chain-link and topped with razorwire. From either side stretched a steel-banded fence some ten feet tall, crowned with electrified nettle and razor-wire, with a sentry tower visible a hundred or so yards off to the left and right. I could hear the sounds of guard dogs barking within, and a couple of uniformed thugs with assault rifles made a slow circuit into view as we pulled up, circling the other perimeter of the fence.

  The limo driver pulled up to a TV monitor and two-way radio set on a pedestal a yard from the gate, and after a few seconds the gate rattled open to let him in. As soon as his rear wheels had passed inside, a row of barbed spikes popped back out of the pavement, pointing at me like accusatory fingers. I took off the parking brake, and rolled forward, the gate sliding back into place as I came.

  The TV monitor flickered on, and a security guard's bored-looking face filled the screen.

  "State your name," his voice crackled over the intercom.

  "I'm here as proxy for Tan Perrin," I said, leaning out of the window. I felt like I should order fries next.

  The voice on the other end of the intercom sighed, and the security guard looked directly into the camera.

  "State your name," he repeated automatically.

  "Um, Cassidy," I answered, "David Cassidy. But I don't think I'm on your list. Like I said, I'm here as proxy for…"

  "I heard you the first time, sir," the guard answered in beleaguered tones. "But I still need your name for my records."

  "Okay, you've got it." I didn't want to push too hard, but neither did I want to seem like a pushover. Either way would have sent up red flags, and I didn't know if Tan's name carried enough clout with these people to weather that.

  "Yes, I've got it," the guard said, writing on something out of my line of sight. "And who are you representing?"

  "Tan Perrin," I answered, allowing a bit of annoyance to creep into my voice. I was remembering every heavy I'd ever run into and trying to imagine how they might react. "You want I should call him up, see if we can get this worked out?"

  The implied threat worked.

  "No, no," the guard replied hastily, "that won't be necessary. Mr. Perrin's right here on our list. Looks like he called ahead about you coming, but doesn't look like he gave your name."

  "He wasn't sure who'd be available," I answered, sounding pissed, "but if that's a problem for your little dog and pony show here, I'll turn right back around and let him know you don't want his business." I blew a cloud of smoke at the camera lens and added, "It's not like I don't have better things to do with my time, better places to spend my money."

  The gate in front of me shuddered and then started to roll open. I saw the barbed spiked just beyond fold back into the ground, and turned back to the monitor.

  "Come on in, sir." The guard smiled. "Sorry about the inconvenience."

  "I bet you are," I blustered, and then drove on through the gate. I found a place to park amidst the ocean of limousines and luxury sedans, and turned the engine off. My hands were shaking, my palms sweating. I was out of practice in this business, but it was starting to come back to me.

  Angela found me again just after I entered the main building. I was standing in line in what I thought was a registration desk or a coat check, but on getting to the head of the queue found I didn't have what they were after.

  "Are you carrying, sir?" the primly professional woman on the other side of the desk asked.

  "What?" I said.

  "You should have been provided a list of controlled items with your invitation," the woman recited, a robot in a nice business suit. "We must look after the interests of all our guests, you must understand."

  "No, I don't–" I began.

  "She means, 'Are you packing?'" came a voice behind me. I turned to find Angela standing a few feet back, her arms folded across her chest, smiling at me. "Well," she went on, "are you, Mr. Cassidy?"

  "Um, no," I answered. At that point, my whole inventory included only a pack of smokes, my lighter, my wallet containing the last few thousand left over from the night before, and the CDr I'd burned after talking to Tan about the auction. I unconsciously reached into my pocket, feeling the sharp corners of the jewel case; I hoped it would be enough.

  Angela and the woman behind the desk must have thought I was doing a final check for any firearms, because when I came up empty handed they both smiled at one another and nodded. The woman behind the desk make a couple of quick marks in the big ledger in front of her and handed me a fan with the number "23" printed on it in big, block characters.

  "The auction will be in the main conference center," she recited, pointing to the rear of the building automatically like a flight attendant miming exit signs, "and is scheduled to begin–"

  "That's alright," Angela broke in, threading her arm through mine. "I'll show him the ropes."

  As she led me away into the foyer, I straightened my tie and tried to shake the wrinkles out of my slacks with alternating steps.

  "You look fine," Angela whispered in my ear, sensing my concern. "Most of these jokers couldn't get dressed in the morning without two other guys helping them."

  "Thanks," I said, walking a little taller and casually scanning the room for familiar faces. It wouldn't do to be recognized, not yet at least. "If you don't mind me asking," I said to her, placing my hand over hers on my arm, "and I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but why are you even talking to me? You outclass me by four to one, and I'm sure there's lots of guys more important than me around."

  "Sure," she answered, "almost all of them. But they can also be the most boring sons of bitches you'll ever have the misfortune of meeting. Like I told you, if I hear their fucking stories one more time I swear to god I'll shoot 'em all myself, and to hell with the business's image."

  "You think I'm so much more interesting?" I asked.

  "I don't know, but you haven't started to bore me yet." She tightened her grip on my arm and gave me a sharp look. "Besides, I can always shoot you later if it comes to it."

  I tried for a good-natured response, but managed only nervous laughter. Either Angela didn't care either way, or couldn't tell the difference, because she joined right in and steered me over to the bar.

  I ordered up a screwdriver and a scotch and soda for the lady, and then we stood talking quietly in the corner, sipping our drinks. Angela pointed out the capos and dons as they crowded into the room, commenting on this one's changes in fashion style since taking on a new mistress, and on that one's obvious color blindness. I started to relax, feeling like I was at someone else's prom, and joked with An
gela about the heavy hitter with the lisp who spat on everyone in proximity as he talked, but who carried so much weight that no one dared say anything. Angela wondered if he knew he was doing it, but given the spattered eyeglasses and hastily covered drinks of those standing around him, I found it hard to believe he couldn't.

  "These guys," Angela explained, "are here mostly just for the company. There's so few places these days where people in our line of work can get together and just relax, ever since big business moved in and took over Vegas. So every time there's one of these shows out here at the ranch, they come flocking in to catch up on old times. Those that aren't out to kill each other, that is, but even some of those."

  I confessed to Angela that this was my first time at the ranch, playing it off like I always had obligations elsewhere when invitations had arrived before.

  "Oh, it's pretty sweet," Angela said. "Security's tight, which is nice. The chick at the welcome desk over there – the one who asked if you were packing – is a fifth-level black belt, and has a stun gun in the desk drawer in case she can't get in too close. That's one of the only rules of the ranch: No Guns. The guards here can carry, but they can't come into the main house. That archway we came under is really a metal detector, and if you tried to get in here with a piece the guards'd be on you with Tasers and mace before you could make a move."

  I nodded absently, hoping the x-rays hadn't somehow scrambled the disc.

  "There's guns enough outside, though," Angela went on. "I left Benny and Nick with their buddies on detail outside, and they probably still haven't finished stroking each other's rifles." She caught my confused look, and laughed. "They've got a range set up just outside the front gate. Helps the muscle get their aggressions out while they're stuck hanging out here. You let those guys go too long between killing something, they start to get jumpy." She paused, glancing at the windows to the bright light beyond. "I wouldn't want to be a rabbit around here when one of these shows goes off. Those boys don't know when to stop."

  I wasn't really feeling any better about my decision to come after hearing all this, but I was saved any further good news when the lights overhead flashed on and then off.

  "Come on," Angela said, grabbing my elbow and dragging me towards the conference room. "I want to get a good seat before the big wigs show up."

  Considering who we'd already seen milling around, I wondered just what Angela's idea of "big wig" entailed. I was about to find out.

  The conference center, the rows of aluminum frame chairs with upholstered seats and backs arranged to face the raised podium at the front, with aisles down the middle and either side, could have been nestled anonymously in any midscale hotel from California to New York. If you didn't notice the mob bosses and contract killers taking their seats, that is, which I couldn't help but do.

  "Now, that's interesting," Angela said in a stage whisper as we found our place.

  "What's that?" I asked guardedly, scanning the crowd.

  She gestured, nonchalantly, with her chin towards the front of the room.

  "You usually only get business types at these things," she answered, "but now and again civilians with underworld connections make an appearance. When they do, they're typically escorted by somebody in the business, you know?"

  I forced a chuckle and answered nervously, "Well, art appreciation knows no borders, right?"

  Angela smiled slightly.

  "I couldn't agree more," she said in silky tones, "but still and all. Check out those folks at the front there, those three on the left and those geezers on the right."

  I followed her line of sight and finally noticed who she meant. To the left of the podium, looking calm but deadly serious, were two men and a woman, all of them groomed to perfection like they'd just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine, wearing tailored business professional attire in shades of gray.

  Opposite them, across the aisle on the right side of the room, sat an odd assortment of gray and bald heads, shifting uncomfortably, darting glances around the room. They were all dressed in non-descript suits and ties, but I was able to recognize at least a few of the faces, and knew they were more used to wearing uniforms or judges robes. I didn't mention it to Angela, but unless I was mistaken, at least one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and a couple of Supreme Court judges were in that group, and one face I recognized from the business pages of the New York Times but couldn't place.

  "Not the regular crowd?" I asked casually, behind my hand.

  "Not hardly," Angela said, suspicious. "They don't seem the types to be serious art collectors. Still, they must know which strings to pull or they wouldn't be in here."

  I thought for a minute, and then lobbed another question at her.

  "Don't people worry about being caught out?" I asked. "I mean, these civilians you're talking about. Don't they have any problems getting seen at one of these things?"

  Angela shook her head.

  "No," she answered, "the type of people who normally come to these things, both in the business and out of it, usually aren't in a position to worry about anything like that. They're powerful enough that they don't give a shit who sees them where, because they don't have to. It's the nickel and dime players who have to worry about aliases and being incognito. The most powerful move with impunity through anything, any situation, because they're practically invisible by nature."

  I nodded, my eyes shifting between the two groups at the front of the room, when a couple of cartoon mobsters took to the podium at the front of the room and started the show.

  "That's Dominick Carerra," Angela whispered in my ear, indicating the thick-fingered don taking the microphone. He was in his late fifties, with slickedback white hair and an expensively tailored suit. As he flexed his grip on the microphone, a pinky ring caught the light. If you looked up "mobster" in a pop culture dictionary, this is the guy who would be staring back at you. "He always plays auctioneer at these things. If you ask me, he's a frustrated comedian, and being head of the Chicago syndicate doesn't get you many chances for public speaking, if you get me. So he volunteered to head this operation up when the families bought the ranch a few years back, and he's been up there with Mr. Microphone every chance he can get since."

  I blew out a breath between my teeth, hoping Angela didn't notice my slumping shoulders. Tan's tip had been right on about Carerra running the show. Now I just had to hope that the disc would do its job.

  "Alright, alright," barked Carerra dramatically into the microphone, waving the murmuring crowd of mobsters quiet. "It's time to get this party started, right?"

  A wave of reluctant nods and grunted agreement moved through the room, as the boys left off their bloody reminisces and settled into their chairs.

  "Okay, I'd like to welcome all of you to this little fund raiser, and I want you to know it's great to be here with you again. There's a lot of familiar faces in the crowd tonight, a lot of old friends, so it's nice to see that not all of us bought the farm this past year. Ha ha."

  Polite laugher rippled through the room, punctuated by some hearty guffaws. Carerra, satisfied with the response, continued.

  "There's some new faces with us here tonight, as well, so maybe this would be a good time to cover some ground rules, yes?" Carerra took a breath, and his tone got a bit more severe. "The past few days, the ranch has been the site of some, shall we say, unpleasantness. On three separate occasions, for those of you who don't know, someone has tried to force their way onto the property. Small groups, well equipped, and armed. Now, I'm not mentioning any names, because we don't have any, but this kind of thing just isn't right. Our security systems out here are nothing to sneeze at, you know, and our guys are some of the best, but if not for some unseasonal thunderstorms and lightning flashes, at least one of these little commando raids might have been successful."

  There was some noise from the crowd at that, and some unhappy faces.

  "Now, I'm not pointing any fingers, and I'm not about to start a witch hunt, but I j
ust want to remind everyone that we're all businessmen here, so let's act professional. Storm-trooper raids aren't professional. Most of you here ponied up a bit of the scratch we needed to buy this place, and your contributions help us keep it up, but it looks like someone has forgotten one of the first rules of business. You don't shit where you eat."

  Carerra leaned forward, tightening his grip on the microphone.

  "You all with me?" he said forcefully, scanning the crowd. He got a chorus of nods in response. "Alright, then, let's start the bidding."

  It was over an hour before they got to the lot I was after, so I took the chance to scope out how things were supposed to work. The image of the mob boss playing auctioneer was a difficult one to swallow for a while, especially considering the lame jokes he tossed in between lots, or the jabs he tossed off at the winners and losers at each round of bidding. It was like a livestock show, celebrity benefit, and roast all rolled into one, disconcerting mess. I kept reminding myself to take Dom the Joke Man seriously, though, remembering what Tan had told me about him.