The man in front of him would never understand Caesar’s reasons for wanting to leave not only the business, but the state, no matter how small of words he used to express the eerie thoughts. How could he tell Carmine he sensed his mind was beginning to fracture from either dementia, Alzheimer’s, a brain tumor, or worse, and he planned on ending his own life before the final crack happened? How could he make Carmine understand, when even he really didn’t? What Caesar did know was he couldn’t shake the feeling his dead bride had come back to entice him to the other side. How would he start a conversation about how Romella beckoned to him to end his life, take his last breath, in their favorite place in the entire world, and he was struggling to fight the temptation?
Carmine continued. “Boss, if you’re worried, don’t be. I told you I handled everything. No one will ever tie his death to us. Not even to Nick. The arrests have already been made, and the evidence planted more than damning. I made sure of that. It’s a done deal. Lock, stock and barrel. In over fifty years, I’ve never failed you, and I’m too old to start new traditions.”
“If you would cut back on your outrageous spending habits Carmine, maybe your stack of cash would be higher. Paying for expensive female companionship and your predilection for gambling—those are the pastimes of the young. It’s time you settle down, find a good woman, and enjoy the spoils of your labor. And no, this isn’t about my nephew. Liabilities need to be dealt with quickly, regardless of personal feelings or blood ties. Besides, I trust you. Implicitly. You already know if I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”
Confusion spread across Carmine’s face. He struggled to understand just what was bothering Caesar. Finally, a glint of understanding sparked in his eyes. “Hey, you know I was just kidding about what I said earlier. You know, about women? It was spoken in jest, not as a dig against you. To be honest, I respect the unending devotion to Romella, even after all these years. Envy it, actually. You experienced something I only tasted briefly with my lady. I didn’t realize until right now how close it is until your anniversary. You’re dreaming about your old life with her again, aren’t you?”
The small hairs on Caesar’s neck and arms stood erect in response to his temper rising. Carmine had just overstepped the invisible lines of their friendship, landing smack-dab in the middle of the source of Caesar’s pain. Rather than answer the question, he decided to change the subject, wishing he wouldn’t have started the conversation to begin with. “You mentioned a news report. I missed it this morning while I was on my call with The Prick. What’s the latest?”
Carmine didn’t answer for a few seconds as he studied Caesar’s face. He weighed the pros and cons of keeping the discussion alive. His gaze moved to the ring on Caesar’s hand. He cleared his throat and went back to business mode. “Both parties were formally charged and bail denied. The evidence left at both locations is airtight. The rest of, uh, the remains are nothing but a pile of ashes, spread across two counties. No worries, Boss.”
Caesar took another sip of coffee while he gathered his thoughts. Though he felt no remorse per se about dispatching his own flesh and blood, he couldn’t shake the sense of unease about the whole situation. He wasn’t sure what source the edginess stemmed from. Maybe another thing age brought to the table was forced, reflective insights into one’s own heart and mind. A peeling back of the thick, dark layers of harshness covering the soul, one piled on top of another from years of cold, calculated acts. Whatever it was, Caesar didn’t like it. Not at all. He knew he couldn’t control his troubling dreams, but he sure as hell could, and would, control his waking thoughts.
“Good, good. And of course, the recipients of Ray-Ray’s generous donations are more than happy. Ecstatic, actually. It is a rarity to be offered younger parts, and they paid handsome prices for the longevity they will bring. I’ve already packed up your share,” Caesar said, nodding his head toward the sleek, black leather briefcase resting on top of his dresser. “It was quite a profitable transaction. Now, where are we on our next donors?”
Caesar watched Carmine stand and walk over to retrieve his share of the spoils. He couldn’t help but smile when he heard the crack of Carmine’s aged knees as he walked. At least Caesar wasn’t the only one out of their duo suffering from a body no longer in its prime.
Carmine let out a low whistle as he thumbed through the stacks of cash. “Now that’s what I’m talking about! With this haul, the gaping hole in my treasure chest will be much smaller!”
To bring Carmine out of his money-induced euphoria, Caesar cleared his throat.
“Oh, sorry. Got a little lost basking in the green glow of success. Okay, so as you know, our next marks are going to net us all some serious pocket money. One in particular. He’s the perfect target and has a clean bill of health. Out of the three, he ain’t even on any meds. Only has one lung we can use, but the rest of his parts are pristine.”
“Only one lung? There is no worry about whatever disease took the other affecting the healthy one, correct? And, what about family? You sure no one will come sniffing around after the donors pass?”
Carmine clicked the locks on the suitcase and groaned as he hefted it off the dresser. A few wobbly strides brought him back to his spot in the sitting area next to Caesar. He plopped the briefcase down next to Caesar, grabbed his coffee mug, and took a tentative sip. “The first two you picked, Seth Thomas and Wylie Wilson, are in fair health, considering their ages. The last one, Cecil Pickard, has no diseases at all. A bullet tore up the other lung. Got shot while out hunting on his property nearly two years ago. No one was ever arrested, so my guess is he was shot by his son, who, by the way, is dead. Boy was the only living relative, and from what I discovered, he wasn’t worth much. A drunk who tried to stay on the wagon but kept falling off. Old man was worth quite a bit, and I believe junior grew tired of waiting for him to kick the bucket and tried to speed things up. That is just my opinion, of course. Just a few weeks after the old man recovered, kid went on a bender and then got behind the wheel. Died on impact when his truck crashed. Not long after that, the old man sold all his land and moved to The Magnolia. The real estate records indicate he sold the acreage and his home for over ten million. As of right now, our other facilities don’t have any great prospects.”
Caesar tried, but failed, to stop the smile forming on his lips. “Hmmm. Cecil Pickard has no living relatives, correct? You sure?”
“Yep. Had Franco do a background check on him too, and he found the same as we did–dick. Cecil Pickard was married only once and fathered only one child. His wife died a few years ago, cancer I believe, and like I said, his son died in a car accident. Parents passed over twenty years ago, and he only had one sister, who died when she was fifteen from pneumonia. No cousins, grandchildren or the like. Even the paperwork he filled out when he applied for residency at The Magnolia, lists no living relatives. As you well know, the only visitor to come see him is the old buddy he grew up with, Junior Tuck, who is also listed on his residency paperwork as an emergency contact.”
Caesar sipped his coffee and enjoyed the rush of adrenaline. The predator in him enjoyed the hunt. “Yes, I’m well aware. Go on.”
“According to what Carmella discovered, it is possible he will need to be dealt with, but we don’t know for sure just yet.”
“Expound on that, please.”
“Carmella hasn’t been able to track the location of all of the cash from the sale of Cecil’s land. Old fucker has it spread out all over and is quite private. Doesn’t leave any financial papers, checkbooks, receipts or anything else out in plain view. She’s only been able to locate three accounts, totaling a little over two mil. She plans on doing some more snooping tomorrow, when the weekly domino game commences.”
“And what part of what you just related ties back to having to deal with Mr. Tuck?” Caesar queried.
“Because the accounts Carmella did find list Junior Tuck as beneficiary upon the death of Pickard. That’s why.”
Caesar
leaned back against the cool confines of the chair, swallowed a sip of tepid coffee and closed his eyes. He could feel Carmine watching him, waiting for a response. His mind rolled around the pros and cons of continuing with Mr. Cecil Pickard as their next target. No family and a clean bill of health were pluses, but a living beneficiary and close friend, one who was a weekly visitor, was a major problem. Something in Caesar’s gut told him to hold off.
“Carmine, tell me more about Seth Thomas and Wylie Wilson.”
“No family, no beneficiaries, decent health. One had an aortic valve replacement in his heart a few years ago, but has responded to treatment quite well. The other has COPD, but his eyes are almost perfect and his liver is in good shape. Carmella said he brags about never having touched a drop of alcohol his entire life. However, neither of them, even put together, are worth a tenth of Mr. Pickard, but profitable just the same. Why, something eatin’ at ya about Pickard?”
Caesar opened his eyes and stood. “I believe some investigating needs to be done into the relationship between the buddies before we continue further with Mr. Pickard. Proceed with another, and make it quick. Pick the one with the best heart. We have a current open order for one that needs to be filled. Soon. Oh, and if you don’t stop sticking your nose into my business, I might just use yours.”
Carmine roared with laughter as they rose to leave. Both knew Caesar’s heart was cold enough to actually live up to what he just said. With his usual comedic flair, Carmine shot back, “You are welcome to my body parts when I go, but you’ll have to look elsewhere for a heart. Have to have one before it can be harvested. But I’m all for giving my Johnson to someone else. Preferably, a guy with a short one, so he can enjoy the sensations of having his lover gasp at the sight of it, like it’s done for me all these years.” Carmine grabbed his crotch and squeezed. “Let this monster live on in another. Live long and prosper!”
10
The Majestic Magnolia House
Jimmy Calhoun parked his car in his designated spot by the front door and smiled. He couldn’t help it. Every time he looked at the ancient place, so full of history and graceful beauty from times long since passed, Jimmy felt a surge of whimsy in his chest. The Magnolia was a stately stunner for sure. The bronze and gold placard erected in the front lawn announced to all visitors with gilded letters the year the manse was originally erected: 1820.
The mansion had once been the heart and center of Hot Springs, built on a small rise that overlooked the entire city. The original owner spent six years of his life overseeing the construction of the sprawling estate, in hopes of making his young bride less homesick for her native Germany. No expense was spared as the mixture of architectural design meshed together. Germanic influences were infused with the opulent styles of French and Mediterranean. From the wood to the brick, to the Romanesque inspired backyard, complete with three porticos and a small vineyard, to the highly-polished maple, cherry and oak floors. The original structure had forty bedrooms, twenty bathrooms, a ballroom, three formal dining rooms, a library, smoking den, and a kitchen bigger than Jimmy’s entire house. Chester McFarland completed his dream and built a one-of-a-kind spread, which covered over seventy-five acres, and made his young wife happy. Then, he died three weeks after moving from a head injury, sustained in a horseback riding accident. His widow lived the remainder of her life inside the walls, childless, her only companions the staff who stayed on.
With no heir to the property upon her death, ownership of The Magnolia passed through many hands over the years. The final individual owner, Shelby Sasafia, sunk his last remaining bit of savings he’d accumulated during his life, just to keep the place from falling apart. When he died, penniless and alone in the mid-80’s, The Magnolia went up for sale. The once stately manner had fallen on hard times. The wood was old, warped, and in need of serious attention. The mortar between the bricks cracked, crumbled and fell out in chunks. The enormous, three story winding staircase, built entirely from teak, sported gaping holes in the steps, and so many spindles were missing that from a distance, the staircase looked like a mouth with numerous teeth knocked out after losing an epic battle with the local bully. The vineyard was overrun with weeds, no sign of the once vibrant vines. The massive stables, once full of over fifty horses, had collapsed in on itself.
The plumbing and electrical had been updated in the 60’s, and Shelby Sasafia tried to continue the trend in the 80’s, but died before he could completely renovate all twenty bathrooms. The entire place needed not only a major overhaul, but an owner who had deep cash reserves to not only bring the place up to par, but keep it that way.
The city of Hot Springs had hoped that someone would swoop in and buy the eyesore, restoring it to its former glory. But, the history of the place hung on like a deer tick embedded deep under the skin of a hound dog. Between the deaths that occurred there, some of the less-than-stellar owners of the past, down to the rumors of the place being haunted, ruined any chances of someone willing to take on the challenge. No one wanted to invest the cash to restore it, or say they were the proud owner of a former house of ill repute, gambling den, speakeasy, failed restaurant, and home for unwed mothers that just may or may not be inhabited by the ghosts of the past.
With no buyers, and a city unwilling to step up to the plate and take control, nor able to demolish the place for fear of public outcry (which had happened twice when the subject came before the board members of the city) the once beautiful piece of history sat in stony silence, each day rotting and dying a bit more than the one before.
Jimmy stepped out of his cool car into the humid afternoon air. He stopped and stared and the elegant, restored concrete stairway leading up to the front of the building. The newest additions to the property were a sloping walkway big enough for wheelchair access and a covered parking lot for over one hundred vehicles. He was more than thankful someone did step up to the plate and buy the crumbling property. With a sad smile, he recalled all the times he and his wife dined inside the walls, back when the place had been converted into a restaurant. Now, almost fifteen years after the original purchase by a corporation that specialized in independent living retirement communities, The Magnolia finally was living up to her name once again. It sparkled and shined in every nook and cranny, and housed thirty seniors who had the resources to afford the exorbitant monthly fees. When Jimmy first retired, he gave serious consideration to selling his own home and moving in, since he didn’t relish the idea of spending his golden years knocking around inside his house all alone. Instead, he satisfied his needs by being a volunteer.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Jimmy arrived and held painting classes for any and all seniors who desired to learn. On Saturdays, Jimmy sat in what once was the ballroom and read to those who wished to hear classics from their younger years.
Jimmy picked up his pace and trudged up the walkway to the massive, double-front doors. He was greeted by cool air and the delicious smell of lunch. As he crossed the front foyer, he veered right and followed the sounds of chatter from residents in one of the formal dining areas. Winding his way through the tables, Jimmy said hello to each table full of residents until he made his way over to the long serving line. In seconds, his plate was packed full of broiled chicken with mushroom sauce, green beans smothered in onions, two piping hot butter rolls and cornbread dressing.
“Hey, yo, Jimmy! Over here. We saved a seat just for ya!”
Jimmy turned to the sound of the brittle voice of Wylie Wilson. Sure enough, the old man sat a few tables away, along with another resident, Seth Thomas. The two men were active participants in Jimmy’s painting class (though neither of them could draw a circle, much less paint) and always sat in the front row on Saturdays when Jimmy narrated the classics. He wasn’t too fond of Seth. Never could get a solid read on the man. Seth was too quiet. Seth was a former librarian who looked at him with squinty, watery blue eyes in what Jimmy could only conclude was disdain. Though Seth never commented or corrected Jimmy when he made an o
ccasional pronunciation error, Jimmy sensed the subtle undertone of superiority.
Wylie Wilson, on the other hand, was Jimmy’s favorite resident. At eighty-seven, he barely reached five-foot-six with his cowboy boots on. Wylie had a pair of bowed legs a steer could run through without touching either knee. He was bald, save for a small thatch of snow white hair that sat right on the top of his head. Even when he was still, it waved like a wheat field in motion. His cheeks and nose were bright red, due to fifty-plus years of his devotion to drinking Jack Daniels straight. Wylie possessed a rowdy sense of humor and was always the first one to think of a practical joke to play on an unsuspecting victim.
Wylie’s son, Weston, brought him to live at The Magnolia four years ago, right before Jimmy became a volunteer. According to the yarns Wylie liked to engross anyone in earshot with, his son forced him to sell his home and move from Magnet Cove, since Wylie continued to get into trouble with local law enforcement. Wylie just couldn’t understand why they objected to him driving his 1973 Cadillac Coupe de Ville on the town sidewalks as he was trying to locate various stores he wanted to visit. After Wylie’s fines hit the thousand dollar mark from mashing a few parking meters on Main Street flat, and the State of Arkansas pulled his drivers’ license, Weston grew tired of his father’s shenanigans. At first, he had Wylie move in with him so, according to Wylie, he could keep an eye on him, but that decision proved to be a fiasco. Weston made the mistake of showing his father how to use the computer, and one day while Weston was at work, Wylie stumbled on a website full of tons of practical jokes. Being the prankster he was, Wylie decided to try some of them out. All at the local Walmart.
Blood Ties - A Magnolia Novel Page 9