Nick Nolan

by Double Bound (Sequel To Strings)

  Protect him. Bring back that carefree high school boy he was just getting to know and to enjoy being around, instead of the ersatz prince Katharine was always putting though plan check.

  So he decided to resurrect him; once they were through with this trip, they'd go home and lie around the pool together or play catch on the sand or go have coffee or maybe just sit and watch TV. He would make mac 'n' cheese, just like that first night when Jeremy came home from Fresno. And maybe he could finally show him It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, his favorite movie of all time.

  They'd laugh a lot, especially at Ethel Merman's braying.

  And Dick Shawn's dancing.

  And Jerry Lewis's goofy expression as he ran over Spencer Tracy's hat.

  Just the two of them, laughing.

  Once this was over.

  My old buddy and me.

  And with that thought in his head and a smile on his lips, Arthur drifted off--as the shadow from the mountain towering over his bedroom deepened and stretched.

  Chapter 19

  The afternoon breeze had recently announced the arrival of evening by its change from onshore to off, but there were no waves on the shoreline below; instead, the water slid smoothly onto the sand, and a pair of anchored boats bobbed lethargically in the bay, prows parallel, as if watching the sunset together.

  Fabiano's compound was built into an immense, cantilevered ledge of granite that gave the impression that it defied gravity. And it was remarkable: a main house of generous, horizontal proportions flanked by reflecting pools and twin neo-Grecian colonnades that extended each side of the house like wings, and beyond that a patio that levitated dangerously over a sheer drop of perhaps a thousand feet or more to a grove of thrusting, jagged rocks. Arthur thought the environment to have been inspired by the lair of some James Bond villain, or taken from the pages of Architectural Digest, circa 1968. Either way, it was as dynamically picturesque as it was subtly disconcerting.

  He sat at the round glass table opposite Jeremy, while Carlo faced Dom Fabiano.

  Their servers--that same pair of stunning twins from this morning, with skin the color of singed mahogany--attended to them. Arthur found them quite breathtaking in their unbuttoned white shirts and loose linen slacks and bare feet; up close now he noticed that each had iridescent green eyes that flashed mysteriously from a handsome, sun-bronzed face.

  "Many Brazilians, because of the old Yoruban influence, still believe we are dominated by one of their orixás," Fabiano explained. "On these they blame their erratic behavior or poor decisions, instead of just their own laziness or stupidity."

  "So are all of their gods supposed to be evil?" Jeremy asked before popping a forkful of barbecued meat into his mouth.

  The big man laughed. "No, even Exu isn't all bad. But he does get blamed for everything from infidelity and murder to kidnappings and even drug overdoses. By the way, you must try the bolinhos de bacalhau," he suggested, then snapped his fingers at one of the young men, who trotted over to the buffet to retrieve the steaming bowl.

  "What's that?" Jeremy whispered to Carlo.

  "Just fish and potatoes," he replied. "My avó used to make it for us on Fridays during Lent. It's good." He snatched the ladle from the tureen and helped himself.

  "And could I please get some more pao de oueijo? " he asked one of the servers.

  The other youth nodded, and padded over to retrieve from the buffet a basket stacked with cheese bread.

  "What about that other god you mentioned?" asked Arthur as he took the ladle from Carlo. "I can't remember his name."

  "And which orixá might that be?" Fabiano replied, cutting into his steak.

  "I don't know." He raised his glass for another sip of the delicious sangria. "But you said something about him being the protector."

  "Of course. You're referring to Ogum."

  "Ogum." Arthur tried the pronunciation.

  "He is also known as Ogun or Ogoun or Ogou. And as far as I'm concerned, as the god of protection, he is also the god of fools."

  "Why?" asked Carlo, his mouth stuffed with bread.

  Fabiano put down his fork and looked at him with a sanguine smile. "Because what is meant to happen is going to happen, my friends. It's that simple. You have no idea how many souls waste their time and precious resources praying to gods who simply do not exist, and then these same people"--he snickered--"are surprised when they burn alive in ramshackle buildings or have some street criminal put a bullet through their eye. It would make as much sense for me to pray to this fork for protection"--he grasped his eating utensil and held it in the air--"as it would for me to pray to Ogum."

  "But what about Exu?" Arthur asked slyly. "He's supposed to provide strife to the Brazilians, and there sure seems to be a lot of that around."

  "A valid point, my friend."He nodded while withdrawing his Dunhill pack from his breast pocket."But then, what might be the point of praying to someone who only means to do you harm? Would you then be asking for mercy? If so, Exu would only laugh at you and torture you more."

  Arthur shrugged. "I don't think I'd be praying to anyone for anything. I was raised Catholic, and the church angered me so much that I really don't believe in God or prayers anymore."

  "Not any of it?" Fabiano asked.

  He shrugged. "Nope, not any of it."

  Fabiano's eyes narrowed. "So when your lover--I believe his name was Danny--

  died in the horror of that day in New York, you said not one prayer for him?"

  Arthur shot him a fierce glare. "How do you know about that?"

  Fabiano lit his cigarette, drew in his cheeks, then blew out his words in vaporous puffs. "Mr. Mortson told me the circumstances of your coming into his household; of course he knew nothing at the time of your working for the FBI, at least that he shared with me. But it was crass of me to have brought the matter into our dinner conversation in such a manner. Won't you please forgive me?" Without waiting for an answer, he snapped his fingers at the nearest boy. "The moqueca de camarao should be excellent; it is one of my chef's specialties," he announced brightly. "The mingling of shrimp and coconut, with the garlic and olive oil, makes a flavor that always surprises me--it is a specialty of Bahia."

  Arthur was shaken, and he felt his appetite shrink as his anger grew. "How much do you know about all of us, Dom Fabiano?" he asked quietly, then sipped from his glass. "Or should I say, El Gigante?"

  Fabiano narrowed his eyes. "So you know my little nickname?" He laughed. "I'm afraid it's followed me since I was a child, for my given name is Elegbara; but then my cruel father called me Elegante for my fastidious, and some would say feminine, ways." He turned to Jeremy. "But as I grew into a man, my considerable height...and enviable size resulted in this more primitive title, which I've come to embrace." He cocked an eyebrow salaciously and threw a suggestive glance at the young man. "As for you, my dear guests, I know little about your lives, except for what concerns my business." He pulled heavily on his cigarette again. "You might think me presumptuous to have gathered information about you, but I--like you--

  have learned to be suspicious of others, especially where great sums of my money are concerned." He nodded. "Wise men always examine their potential friends, just as we would be foolhardy not to scrutinize our enemies; this is the very foundation of the business of security, in which we are all engaged, like it or not. Because each person must be viewed as a potential threat, not to assume this posture, in these dangerous times, is pure foolishness. It would be like the four of us sitting here praying to Ogum to keep our guests safe," he chuckled, "instead of engaging the best security measures that technology has to offer, and our money has to buy."

  He turned his attention to Arthur. "Mortson also told me that you had a failed career as a soldier before being hired as the Tylers' housemaid."

  Arthur laughed sourly before downing more of his sangria, which tasted better with each sip. "He told you that because he was too big of an idiot to figure out I was working for the FBI."<
br />
  Fabiano ignored him and turned to Jeremy. "My dear young man, what I know about you is that your uncle murdered your father and was thought to have murdered your mother as well. And so you, in turn, killed him--in self-defense, of course. I also know that your mother had certain...issues, and that she raised you in abject poverty. But your lovely great aunt, Katharine Tyler, has rectified this."

  Jeremy nodded. "Yeah, that's pretty much it."

  "What about me?" Carlo asked, not wanting to be left out.

  Fabiano reached over and touched him gently on the wrist. "All I know about you, my handsome young friend, is that you have suffered sadness in your life, but now you have the joy of loving your amante with all your heart."

  "Who told you that?" Carlo asked him, smiling shyly.

  He chuckled. "no one told me. It's what I see with my eyes." He turned to Jeremy again. "And you? Do you believe in prayers?"

  "I don't think any of it matters, to be honest."

  The big man grinned as he exhaled yet another smoky drag. "So then you are the pragmatist of your group," he said, and then paused in thought for a moment.

  "Please excuse the forward nature of this question, but would it be fair to assume that because you have so many wonderful possessions, and so much personal beauty as well as so much love from these men," he said as he reached over and squeezed Jeremy's hand, "that you have no need to ask the gods for anything? That you, unlike the rest of the mere mortals sitting at this table, have already received from heaven everything it has to offer?"

  Jeremy shifted in his chair. "I guess you could say that, if you wanted." He shot Arthur an uncomfortable grin, and Arthur returned his glance so he might see the cold fury in his eyes.

  "Please tell me how you find our little island so far," Fabiano told the group obliviously, signaling for more sangria to be poured. Then he glanced over at Arthur's plate and saw he'd hardly touched his meal. "By the way, if you do not care for the fish or the shrimp, we have the frango ao vinho--chicken with a red wine sauce."

  "No thanks, I've had quite enough," Arthur replied curtly, leaning back in his chair.

  "It's beautiful," Jeremy answered. "And it's a lot bigger than I'd pictured."

  "And the resorts?" Fabiano asked after taking a dainty sip from his crystal glass.

  Jeremy said nothing, so Arthur spoke up. "First-rate," he noted blandly.

  The man nodded his huge head and grinned. "It pleases me to hear that. So many Americans think those monstrosities in Las Vegas are the pinnacle of luxury and taste, but most have no understanding of what a five-star resort should feel and look and even smell like. And this will be a five-star, when finished, although more on the intimate scale of Europe's finest boutique hotels."

  "Clearly," Arthur muttered.

  "And what about you, young man?" Fabiano asked Carlo. "Does this place agree with you?"

  Carlo smiled, nodding. "I can't wait to come back when it's finished," he said.

  "especially to the beaches. I love to lay out."

  "Then you'll absolutely adore the beaches here. We will have two shorefront retreats on the other side of the island; one in the American style, with a buffet-style restaurant and private cabanas, and the other in the European style."

  "What's the difference?" Jeremy asked.

  "The European beaches, with their sidewalk cafés and simple umbrellas and lounges, allow nudity--where the young and the old are able to truly enjoy the sun side by side. Europeans are much less...judgmental about their bodies. So that's what we will offer here: a beach without judgment."

  "How are people going to get there if they're on the other side of the island?"

  Arthur asked. "Are you gonna build another road and take 'em in buses?

  "We will have vessels to ferry them, as well as private boats equipped with GPS; these will take you there via touch screen."

  "All you'll have to do is set a nav system?" Jeremy asked, amazed.

  "Yes. It will be as if each watercraft has its own invisible captain. You may go from port to port, or from beach to beach, or even around the island twenty times if it pleases you. We have contracted with a German company who makes such watercraft for tours on the Rhine. But enough about this; you will see the rest of the island tomorrow." He ground the butt of his cigarette into his dinner dish, just before one of the young men snatched it from the table. "Young Carlo, I understand your family is from Brazil?"

  "Just on my mom's side. My dad's family is from California, way back when it was still part of Mexico," he replied proudly.

  "And you know the Portuguese language?"

  " Eu entendo mais do que posso falar," Carlo told him

  "Spoken like a perfect native!" Fabiano remarked with a clap of his hands. "So you must still have family here?"

  "Only a cousin, at least that I know of."

  "And where is he now?"

  "In the favela Dona Marta. In Rio."

  Fabiano grimaced. "I know of that place, but not very well. Please tell me you have asked him to come along to the island, as our guest."

  He shook his head. "He's not well. So we're going to try and find him in the favela on our way home and see if we can help him. We've got an address, but we don't have any phone number."

  He frowned. "No, no, no. You must not go there by yourselves; it is very dangerous. I will send you with some of my men; you will find him and bring him here for the remainder of your stay with us. For some rest...or is he in such ill health that he needs to be in a hospital?"

  "Not that I know of. I think someone would've contacted my family if he was."

  "You will go tomorrow," he announced.

  Carlo exchanged puzzled glances with Jeremy.

  "But we just got here," Jeremy protested.

  "And we've still got so much to see here," Arthur added. "The hotels, the conference center and the theaters, and the other side of the island."

  "Of course you need to finish your tour," Fabiano told the group. "So tomorrow morning, while we continue your inspection, with your permission I will send Carlo on our jet to Rio with two of my best men." He turned to him. "If you choose to go, you could not be in better hands--these men are former guards to the president of Uruguay. They will assist you in finding your cousin, and after you locate him you will tell him you have a generous friend who offers him medical care, as well as possible employment here at our resort. Then you will both be back for dinner with us all."

  Carlo's eyes bugged. "Really? Would that be OK with you, Jeremy?"

  He nodded, shrugging. "Sure. Why not?" He turned to Arthur.

  Of course Arthur preferred that they all stay together, for a myriad of reasons--not the least of which was Carlo's safety. Then he realized it might be the timeliest solution to the young man's mission, and voicing his own dissent might paint himself as ungrateful or unduly paranoid--or both. "I think it's a reasonable proposal, as long as you can guarantee Carlo's safety," he replied, "or should I say a little prayer to ogum instead?"

  Fabiano ignored him again, and sat back and clapped his hands instead.

  "Wonderful. I'll have the jet readied after breakfast. Now, what else should I tell you about myself?"

  "I know! Why don't you tell us about your family and the source of their wealth?"

  Arthur asked innocently.

  Fabiano peered at him. "I see that I am not the only man who has been collecting information."

  Arthur smiled. "Doesn't it make you just the least bit uneasy," he began, "to make even more profit from land that was paid for with innocent blood?"

  "Since I am now in the business of saving blood instead of spilling it, Mr.

  Blauefee, I see nothing wrong with cultivating my, or should I say Mr. Tyler's and my, investments."

  "What's going on, Arthur?" Jeremy asked, wide-eyed.

  "Should I tell him or would you like to?" Arthur asked casually.

  The big man paused. "I'm afraid it's not a history of which I am proud, but it is a true one," h
e said finally, grasping his hands together atop the table. "My family was involved with the slave trade from the Congo to Brazil. We used this island, and its deep harbor out there"--he pointed and they all looked--"as a port until slavery was outlawed in the nineteenth century--and even after that, illegally. And with our money, my ancestors bought land for growing sugar and coffee beans, then used many of the slaves they brought in to work on the hillsides and the docks and in the warehouses."

  "Jesus," said Jeremy. "Your family actually sold people?"

  "And many died or were killed by his family in the process," Arthur added brightly. Then he drained the last of his sangria and toasted his host with his empty glass.

  Fabiano glared furiously at him; then his face glossed over. "But we have been completely removed from that sordid business for over four generations. Now we only grow the finest coffee beans in the world, on almost a million acres throughout Brazil. And we sell to countries on all seven continents."

  " A million acres?" Carlo asked. "Who works there now?"

  "Young men, young women, old men, old women. Anyone who wishes to escape the poverty of the favelas or the countryside, or who needs an honest job after being released from prison. But this means we must have a very strong method of managing the workers; some years ago they attempted to form a union and we had to deal with them forcefully. It was very ugly. And now, with technology, we use fewer people each year, so the workers are more appreciative of the opportunities we provide. no one speaks of unions anymore."

  "So where we sit right now, this was all a complex used for human trafficking,"

  Arthur stated.

  Fabiano nodded. "Yes, this very lookout point was the site of an armory, with cannons and a massive gunpowder magazine. And where the conference center stands was formerly a jail. There is even a cemetery on the island--I went there only once as a boy but have not been since; although I do not believe in the orixás, I do believe in ghosts, especially since my family is responsible for making many of them." He took a swig of his sangria, then signaled one of the boys for more. "I am not proud of what we did, but because it was nothing under my control, neither am I ashamed."