Ravens

by George Dawes Green

  luxury homes ca Malibu

  Just for one bittersweet minute!

  The first place she came to was a twenty-two-million-dollar hideaway in the Colony that looked, she thought, like the concrete-block rest-room station at the Welcome Center on I-95. I can’t believe this; these places can’t cost this much! I bet I could get this for half what they’re asking! If I even wanted it, which I don’t —

  Shaw came into the kitchen.

  “What you looking at, Patsy?”

  She touched her way back to BibleGateway.com just in time, just before he came to peer over her shoulder.

  She said, “I’m looking at The Book of Nehemiah. The Word of Our Lord. Is that permitted?”

  “Sure,” he said. But then he grinned and reached down and checked her History. It was all right there — luxury homes, luxury homes ca, luxury homes ca Malibu — and he laughed. “More like The Book of Brangelina. What a comfort in times of stress! What’re you drinking, darling?”

  “I’m not drinking.”

  “Well, let’s get to it, girl. This is a time for celebration. How about a couple of g&ts?”

  “Oh, not for me,” she said.

  “All right. Make me one?”

  She shrugged. She got up and fixed him a drink so strong it smelled like Christmas. An aroma so endearing she changed her mind and made a little one for herself as well.

  She came back and handed him his drink, and sat. He said, “You think I’m messing with your dreams, don’t you?”

  She gave her ice a swirl.

  He said, “I just want you to understand, I’m not going to cost you money. I’m going to make you money. You’ll be much richer because of me. This I guarantee. You’re going to make a billion dollars. One billion. You think I’m insane, but I’m telling you the truth. You know how I’m gonna make you a billion dollars?”

  She kept her eyes down. Thinking, one billion?

  “Because you haven’t just won the jackpot here. What you’ve done, you’ve become a receiver of God’s power.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about. She was wondering how much a billion was.

  He went on: “There’s all this power passing through us, every second. Radio waves, TV waves. Messages from distant stars. Currents of pure healing. All the power in the universe just passing through us all the time — except not through you, Patsy. Because when the power gets to you, it stops. You receive the power. Which everyone is starting to notice. Everyone’s in awe of you, because the power of the Lord is with you. And I’m going to make sure it stays with you. Everyone will read your books. Everyone will watch your videos. Everyone will come to hear you speak.”

  “Me?” she said. “Are you kidding?”

  “They’ll pay you not millions, but tens of millions.”

  Was he toying with her? Was this just a string of lies to amuse himself? But he was looking right at her like he really meant every crazy thing he was saying.

  “Within two months, I guarantee, you’ll be having lunch with Oprah. Dinner with Regis. You’ll have weekends with Montel Williams and Dr. Phil. And when I say a billion? I’m dead serious. Actually, I’m lowballing it a little. You could wind up with more money than Bill Gates. The only question is what’re you gonna do with it once you get it?”

  She didn’t mind hearing him talk, even if it was all baloney.

  But she noticed that her drink was down to just ice. He noticed it too, and prompted, “Go make yourself another, girl.”

  “What about you?”

  He’d scarcely touched his, but he said, “Sure. Bring me another too.”

  She made two more g&ts, giving each glass a sawtooth lime wheel. When she returned to the table, she saw that he’d placed his chair close to hers, so they’d both be able to see the computer screen. Which at just that moment was conjuring up an image of the Earth in deep space.

  He murmured, “I want you to get to know this planet. I mean since you’re about to own so much of it.”

  She couldn’t help but grin. He was smiling too, and his smile was so goofy. When she handed him his glass, their fingertips touched for an instant. A little jolt.

  “Sit,” he said.

  She did. On the screen, the Earth kept getting bigger and bigger — she felt she was gently falling, and Shaw was falling beside her. They were falling right toward New York City, but then things kind of blurred out, as if they’d entered a cloud-bank. When everything came into focus again, she found herself not in the city but somewhere in the countryside, near the sea. She was hovering above a landscape of engraved shadows and oblong swimming pools and trellises and dovecotes and shapely gardens.

  He said, “See this house?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “This is Gwyneth Paltrow’s house.”

  It was a proud thing but not preening. It was perfect.

  She took a drawn-out swallow of her g&t.

  They drifted over the treetops. As though they were riding in the gondola of a hot-air balloon.

  He told her, “This is Vera Wang’s house.”

  It was severely graceful, the soul of elegance. They floated on, and she sipped, and he showed her the homes of Larry Gagosian and Barry Diller and Diane von Furstenberg. He told her who these people were, and they seemed somehow more serious than the celebrities of Malibu, their lives more significant. He took her over Ralph Lauren’s dreamlike estate. She couldn’t believe that Ralph Lauren was an actual person, that this was his actual home. That pair of shadows on the lawn — could that be Ralph and his dog? Could that be Ralph Lauren walking his dog this very moment, and maybe wearing one of those shirts with the horse and rider?

  Grace of God.

  Then came Paul McCartney’s house; then P. Diddy’s house.

  Then the ‘cottage’ where Arthur Miller had spent a summer with Marilyn.

  “Some say the Hamptons are over,” Shaw said. “But you know what? They’ll never be over. Because this is where so many lines of power converge. The Hamptons go on and on, and beauty is drawn to them as though by a magnet. And this is where you must preside. Not Malibu. Forget Malibu. Malibu is for common entertainers. You’re not an entertainer, Patsy, you’re a visionary. We’ll get you a quiet estate off to the side. Not on the beach or Georgica Pond, nothing melodramatic, but just something quiet and magnificent that will suit you. You can spend your winters in St. Barts. But during the season, here is where you’ll preside. Everyone will come to your house, because they’ll know that Patsy Boatwright is a receiver of the power of God.”

  They didn’t speak for a while; they just coasted.

  “Shaw?”

  “What?”

  “You’re a lunatic.”

  He smiled. “I’ve heard that before.”

  She said, “You gonna live here too?”

  “Well, you know, the Hamptons really aren’t for me. They’re for you. I’ll need something a little simpler. You know?”

  “Oh sure,” she said. “Like a little hut somewhere?”

  “Exactly.”

  They laughed together. She swirled her gin and it was all ice again, so she got up to make herself one more little one.

  Clio kept telling herself no, she wasn’t going over there. Never. Never debase herself by showing up at Tara’s house. That place that was now like some kind of Bible camp crossed with a Jaycees’ barbecue? I mean I refuse to kneel down and beg her to be my friend. Do I even care what the stuck-up bitch thinks about me? I’ll be OK without her. I’ll drive around a while. I’ll go to the island. That dude Zach Collins who supposedly likes her so much? He’ll be getting off his shift soon at Southern Soul. Let’s go see who he likes when his sweet dick is in my mouth. Right?

  But she didn’t go to the island. She was on Rt. 17, ready to take the turn — but instead she pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot and turned around and headed for Tara’s. She had to see Tara, she had to. She had to tell her about how Manny’s check for Cindy’s abortion had bounced three times. And that she
had met the manager for Drive Fast & Shut Your Eyes, and he was a screwy little nutbag but kind of cute. She had to tell Tara — who else would understand?

  She thought, I’ll just stop by for a second. I mean after all we’ve been through: she can’t have forgotten me overnight! Right? It’s not possible! Not overnight. Give her a chance.

  The cops made her park three blocks away from the house and walk. The place was swarming with cult people, some of them singing hymns and others cooking on grills, and so much smiling it made your teeth hurt, and there were TV trucks and the scene was totally bizarre. When Clio tried to walk up to the house, she got stopped by a couple of goons who told her she couldn’t go any farther.

  She said, “I can’t go to my own frikkin best friend’s house? Like what, like she’s got a velvet frikkin rope now?”

  One of the goons went to check, and then came back to escort her to the carport. Making her wait there till Tara came out to meet her.

  Then suddenly here she was. She looked terrible.

  Oh, Tara, thought Clio. Oh my God. Jesus.

  She looked drawn, ghostly-pale, lumpy around the eyes, nervous. And Clio instantly forgave her everything and just wanted to take her into her arms.

  Tara thought: finish this. Make it quick and show no mercy. If you show mercy you put her in danger.

  Clio said, “Hey, Ratface. Sup, bitch?”

  Tara gave her nothing.

  They stood there like that, until Clio said, “So what’s it like? Shit. All that money.”

  “It’s… fine.”

  “Yeah? But what’s with all these frikkin zombies?”

  “These are my friends.”

  Give her nothing, and make it seem like I’m a thousand miles away.

  Clio said, “Bitch, they’re staring at me. They’re like, undead.”

  That’s exactly the word, Tara thought. A laugh tried to surface but she smothered it.

  Said Clio, “How come you haven’t answered my texts?”

  “Been busy.”

  “Too busy for me?”

  Rip this, thought Tara. “Look, Clio, I have other friends now, OK?”

  “What do you mean, other friends?”

  “I don’t know. I guess better friends. Like more in common. You know? Maybe we’re like, it’s like time to give each other some space. All right?”

  Clio’s face went splotchy. “Sure. Absolutely. Have fun with your zombies.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tara said. But she was thinking, stop it, shut up, just get away from her quick as you can. “OK,” she said. “See ya.” And turned from her just in time, before the tears broke.

  Romeo slowed the car as he passed Cousin Alfred’s house. It was a grand affair, a Queen Anne Gothic with turret and eyebrow window, and a gray-misted garden to which Romeo felt powerfully drawn. He slowed the car to a full stop, the Tercel sitting in the middle of dead-quiet Union Street, with the windows wide open because the a.c. was useless against this heat. Keep moving, Shaw had said. Keep moving at all costs. But the garden was calling him, and finally he parked, and walked up to the iron palings. Tangled and fragrant and dark in there, and the stone bench looked perfect for sleeping. Voices came down to him from the house. The verandah was swaddled in vines, so Romeo couldn’t see anyone, but he heard one older cultivated male voice (he guessed this was Alfred himself), and several younger male voices, languorous, and now and then the cackle of an old woman. They were exchanging gossip. The tinkle of ice cubes, the pour of bourbon, laughter. Romeo didn’t know anyone they were speaking of, but he loved the suggestion of soft malevolence in their tone; and the fragrance of the vineflowers was ravishing, and he stayed there a long time, clinging to the palings, trying to follow the talk. Only when a knot of rude kids came up the sidewalk, and one of them said, “Dude, you drunk?” did he finally manage to quit that spot and totter away.

  He got back into the Tercel. He drove on.

  What the hell, he wondered, was that about?

  All I have to do with Alfred is kill him. Not get mired up in his life. Just be ready to behead the man when called upon to do so.

  The Tercel crept through the stately streets. His thoughts spun slowly. He went past Nell’s. Nell came out of her potting shed wearing a big hat and carrying a long-handled shovel. She seemed sufficient unto herself, like a desert prophet. Her garden was as enticing as Alfred’s. He wished he could do some hoeing for her. Happily he’d have worked all day for nothing. But he had to keep rolling, keep going round and round on his carousel.

  His problem, as he saw it, was a lack of hate. Not enough hate. The brain of a revenge killer, he thought, should be spiky with hate. He should be hating Nell, and hating Alfred, hating them all. He should make himself dizzy with hate, should work himself into the same whirling froth he’d been in that time in Hollow Park, when he was ten years old and he’d beaten the hell out of Shaw’s mutineer.

  Burris drove to the station house and went online, went to Accurint, to find out what he could about Shaw McBride.

  Precious little.

  City of residence: Dayton, Ohio.

  Breaking and entering ’94.

  Suspended license ’97.

  Civil claim for unpaid rent ’98.

  Misdemeanor possession of marijuana ’00, probation.

  Passing bad check ’03, probation.

  That was it — except for his pretty face on the mugshots, which looked glum in ’97 but by ’03 devil-may-care, with pinned pupils and a slippery grin.

  It surprised Burris that the sheet wasn’t longer.

  He took the cruiser up Rt. 341 to the I-95 Chummy’s. He asked for the manager, but the clerk said not today. Saturday was Mr. Hu’s day off.

  Burris flashed his badge. “Just get him.”

  The clerk made a phone call, and Mr. Hu came in a hurry. He was Korean or Laotian or something, and struggled with the language, but was as obliging as could be. Burris explained that he had questions regarding the jackpot winner. He asked to look at the security tapes.

  Mr. Hu said, “You mean when jackpot winner buy ticket?”

  “No, from the next day. Thursday.”

  “Oh. OK.”

  Mr. Hu didn’t ask questions. He took Burris back to his little office and slipped the disc into the drive. It was an old cheap system. Fisheye videos, herky-jerky. The customers came lurching into the store, rushed around, paused before the cash register for a few hummingbird heartbeats, then flickered away again. One large couple came on with such a ludicrous waddle that Mr. Hu burst into a deep malignant laugh — before he caught himself and got all smiley again.

  Abruptly, on the screen, Shaw McBride made his entrance.

  “Slow it down,” said Burris.

  Then the frames came one at a time. McBride looked sweaty, tired. He stopped to groom himself before approaching the cash register. All that could be seen of Cheryl the clerk was the back of her head. She handed McBride something: what was it? He didn’t pay for it; he just walked out of the store.

  “What did she give him?”

  “For tire,” said Mr. Hu.

  “Pressure gauge?”

  Mr. Hu nodded.

  “Skip ahead,” said Burris.

  Mr. Hu jumped to McBride’s re-entry. Now it was Mr. Hu behind the counter and Cheryl at the window. McBride handed the gauge to Mr. Hu, then went to talk to Cheryl. You could hardly see either of them. After a minute, McBride went out.

  A moment later, a couple of guys with TV cameras came into the store. And that was it. Show over.

  “You remember that guy?” said Burris.

  “No remember.”

  “You have a picture of his car? You got an outside camera?”

  Mr. Hu tried another tape. It was from a camera focused on the pumps — but during the time in question, there was no car to be seen. This wasn’t surprising though — McBride hadn’t come for gas. He’d have been parked over by the air pump.

  But Burris and Mr. Hu did get a glimpse of something p
assing through the frame and driving out of the lot. Blurry and inconclusive but it might have been McBride’s car. Sedan. Kind of boxy.

  Burris shook his head. “OK. You can turn it off now.”

  Mr. Hu complied.

  “Hey, aren’t you getting some money for this? For selling the winning ticket?”

  “No money,” said Mr. Hu. He smiled some more.

  Said Burris, “I thought the store that sells the ticket was supposed to make a lot of money.”

  “No for me. I just manager.”

  His grin was not rueful at all, but truly content. He seemed quite pleased to be taking no part of this pie — altogether pleased that winged megafortune had chosen to alight on some other poor bastard’s shoulder, and not his.

  Shaw went with Mitch to visit this big financial guy, Henry Lonsdale. Lonsdale lived in a parvenu mansion in the Black Banks neighborhood of St. Simon’s Island. Tabby walls and cold beetling balconies, windows of smoked glass. From the driveway you were led by the maid beneath a columned pergola to the ‘office’, which had a twenty-foot-high vestibule. One wall was adorned with trophies and plaques for bass-fishing prowess.

  Lonsdale came in and introduced himself. Shaw asked him, “You really won the Bassmaster Southern Open?”

  “Which one? Oh, yes. ’06.”

  “Wow. What’d you haul?”

  Lonsdale shrugged. “Oh, I think 59, 3. Something like that.”

  “God. What were you throwing?”

  “Well, I started spinner but swimbait filled my bag. If memory serves I used a King Shad.”

  “That’s soft?”

  “That’s a hardbody. It all depends on your throw. I saw you on TV, Mr. McBride. I take it you like to fish?”

  “Just, well, up in Ohio. Where I’m from. Never largemouth. I’d love to cast for largemouth.”

  “Well, there’s not a lot of that action here on the coast. But I’ll gladly take you jigging for redfish, if you’d like.”