Heart to Heart: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

by Don Pendleton

  Alvarez gave me a dumb look as he asked, "Who's that?"

  "That's your ancient man," I told him.

  "How'd he get there?" The cop was craning for a discreet look behind the piano.

  I said, "Save your eyesight. There are no doors or trick panels back there. Relax. You're going to enjoy this."

  "Enjoying it already," Alvarez replied, relaxing back into the cushions with a sigh. "Guy plays like a pro. That how he makes his money?"

  "He makes it easier than that I think," I told him.

  The music must have been a signal to Hai Tsu and her ladies. The two helpers whisked in and became very busy at the bar. One of them looked up directly into my eyes and seemed a bit startled to find us there, but went on with her chores.

  I put a hand on Alvarez and warned him, "Don't look at the girls. Keep watching the piano."

  He was saying, "I don't know what—" when again his jaw locked, his eyes flared, and his body stiffened beside me.

  In a flash—I mean faster than a fingersnap—the other guests appeared, and I do mean appeared. They came in talking a mile a minute, highly energized and having a great time, as though they'd already been partying some

  where else and were instantly transported to the center of this room without even being aware of the transport.

  Catherine (the Whore) was the first to spot Alvarez and me. She came swaying over with hand extended, clad in a gown that began off the shoulders and swooped to a vee at the belly button, and her eyes could not get enough of the cop. We stood to greet her and Alvarez stooped to kiss her hand as I introduced them. Her eyes flashed at me above that kiss and she cooed, "Heavens, you gave me a start. I did not see you come in."

  Alvarez was stone mute and a little muscle was flicking in his jaw. I am sure I voiced his sentiments exactly as I told Catherine, "You could be no more startled than we. That is a stunning gown, Catherine."

  She was looking at Alvarez while replying to that: "Perfectly befitting a whore, would you say?"

  The cop's eyes jerked.

  I told Catherine, "Perfectly, yes."

  Rosary (the Nun) joined us before Alvarez could come unstuck. I introduced them. She squeezed his hand and sweetly informed him, "Yes, I knew your grandfather well. Wonderful man, filled with true Christian humility."

  The cop croaked, "He worked at the mission at San Juan Capistrano."

  She beamed, replied, "Yes. Dear heart," and went on to the piano.

  Catherine urged, "Come sing with us."

  "We'll be there," I assured her.

  She swept Alvarez with another warm gaze then danced off behind the nun.

  Then the others crowded around us and the Chinese

  girls were spreading the drinks around as one and all took their turn at Alvarez. He was beginning to look definitely green below the ears and obviously working hard to regulate his breathing—especially when a serving girl placed another bourbon-seltzer in his hand.

  As they all trooped off to regroup around the piano, Alvarez leaned in closer to me and took a deep breath. "Jesus Christ!" he whispered.

  He was just cussing to release the tension, but I winked and told him, "You may not be too far off at that."

  What I was really wondering about though was whether they had been transported to us, or us to them. It was something worth thinking about.

  Chapter Twenty-Five: And the Angels Sang

  This time we had roast suckling pigs, three of them with Chinese apples stuffed into their little mouths, something that probably was squid but could have been anything, several other dishes that looked terrible but tasted great; all in all enough food on that table set for nine to easily feed four times that number. I thought about the abundant life offered by at least one great mystic of the past but still wondered how celestial beings—if indeed these were such—could justify such feasting in a largely hungry world. Jesus of Nazareth always had a ready reply for such criticism of course, so I was not really too hung up on the idea. Anyway, everyone was enjoying it so hugely that I would never voice such thoughts; I was, after all, a guest and eating for free myself.

  Even Alvarez found his appetite after the initial shock had worn off, and surprised me by taking seconds around the table and joining spiritedly in the free-flowing conversations. It would be difficult actually to not be drawn in by these people, so gregariously charming, interested and interesting, so full of life and the joyful expression of it.

  This was the way it should be, I was thinking, any time people sit down to break bread together; this kind of spirited communion was a celebration of life and went a lot further toward thanks than any hastily mumbled prayer or self-conscious oration to God at the dinner table.

  So what the hell—who is to say what angelic is supposed to be?

  If I threw a birthday party for my kid, and if he and all his guests spent the whole time solemnly thanking me for my largesse, I'd figure the party was a bust. I'd rather see those kids laughing and playing, having a good time; that would be thanks for me.

  I guess that was what Jesus meant.

  And certainly these kids at Pointe House wasted no time on solemnity. The banter was equal to anything in Neil Simon's plays and the brilliant diversity of interests was sometimes staggering. These were learned people, and they enjoyed talking about what they knew, but there was no pontificating or preaching at that table, let me assure you.

  Alvarez kept throwing me quick grins and nodding his head at things said. Sharp guy, quite a bit better dimensioned than I would have thought, a wide range of interests.

  Hilary (the Priest) said something about the duties of civilization, and Alvarez chimed in with, "Well sure, we have to carry the torch—right? When it gees out, it's dark around here, and maybe nobody'll know where the matches are."

  "Exactly!" Hilary cried. "Enlightment must be ever expanding. When it begins contracting, watch out—watch out!"

  Alvarez tossed me a grin as he replied, "The balloon blows up slow but it deflates pretty quick."

  "Adolf Hitler wanted to put a match to it," Karl (the Engineer) declared.

  "He was a sexual pervert, you know," Catherine remarked.

  "But a brilliant mind no less," said John (the Logician). "The pity is that he got so tangled up in those scatterbrained occult movements."

  "The Germanens," said Hilary, "were probably responsible for his master race thesis. All that preoccupation with racial purity was insane."

  "Not to mention," chimed in Catherine, "the Fraternitas Saturni."

  "Brotherhood of Saturn," Rosary translated for Alvarez.

  "Yes," Catherine said. "I think sex is magical enough as just sex; don't you, Rosary?"

  The nun scathingly replied, "Bite your tongue, young lady!" To Alvarez: "The Brotherhood of Saturn should have been called the Brotherhood of Satan. They practiced sexual magic."

  "Pardon me, Sister, but I have to go with Catherine," Alvarez told her with a wink at me. "All sex is magical."

  Rosary had no ready reply to that. But Pierre (the

  Chemist) came in on it at that point. He pointed a finger at Alvarez and said, "I like this man. He says what he thinks, even in the presence of sacred vestments."

  Alvarez grinned and told him, "I'm a policeman."

  "Indeed!" said Pierre. "Did you hear that, John? A policeman! A weary world cries out for better policemen. I would venture to say that you are a very good policeman, Bob."

  Alvarez smiled with a trace of embarrassment and replied, "I try to be. What do you folks know about the body on the beach?"

  Apparently no one but me heard that question.

  The conversation abruptly turned elsewhere. Alvarez gave me a sheepish grin and helped himself to some more pork, with no effort to get back to the body on the beach. Francesca came in after everyone else had finished the main course, filled her plate, and sat eating silently but attentively as the conversations swirled about her. She gave no notice whatever to Alvarez or to me.

  Valentinius ag
ain joined us after dessert. He had a brandy, and occasionally joined in the conversation, but spent most of the time in silence, just watching and listening.

  Presently, during a lull in the conversation, he gazed directly at Alvarez and told him, "Father Serra did only what he thought was right and holy."

  The cop's jaw dropped. He looked at me. I shrugged and shifted my gaze to Valentinius.

  "In the name of God," Valentinius continued, "errors are often committed." He raised both hands to shoulder

  level, smiled at me, dropped them back to the table. "Even in heaven."

  I smiled back, told him, "Then maybe I need to revise my ideas about perfection."

  "Given enough time," he told me, with twinkling eyes, "all is perfection."

  "But in the meantime...?"

  "All is error."

  I glanced at Francesca, replied to Valentinius, "Interesting concept."

  "Error is but perfection in process," he said.

  I got the idea that he was enjoying this.

  I said, "Sergeant Alvarez is concerned about the error on the beach last night. It's his responsibility to understand what happened."

  Alvarez shifted uncomfortably in his chair and gave me a stop-that look but it seemed to bother Valentinius not a whit. He took time to light a cigar, then said to Alvarez, "Your autopsy report should be ready for you now. You should find your responsibilities greatly lightened by it."

  Alvarez excused himself and left the room. He was gone for just a couple of minutes during which time Valentinius joined a conversation between Rosary and Catherine —something having to do with the sanctity of sex under the church versus the sanctity of not having sex under the church.

  Catherine was saying, "I just don't understand that position. If holy matrimony blesses sex within the church, then why can't you and Hilary have sex? Aren't you united within the church?"

  Rosary patiently replied, "I am the Bride of Christ, Catherine!"

  "Then why can't you have sex with him? How many brides does he need anyway?"

  Rosary turned to their host and sputtered, "Val! Will you tell this...this...?"

  Valentinius bit down on his cigar and chuckled merrily. He said to Catherine, "For whom or what would you forswear the sexual embrace, my dear?"

  "For no body or no thing I've seen yet," she replied soberly.

  "So you regard highly this idea of sexual embrace, I take it."

  "You take it right."

  "Then be happy for your sister that she has found something even more highly to be regarded."

  Catherine looked at Rosary with a changing light in the eyes and said, "Okay, maybe I understand that."

  "Thank you, dear heart," Rosary said to Valentinius.

  He bowed gallantly in his chair and said, "Remember me to your bridegroom."

  Catherine said still very soberly, "You know, that's really sweet."

  Alvarez returned at that point, his face a study in confusion and bafflement. He sat down and leaned against me to quietly report, "I called in. They'd just received the report. Natural causes, they say. Dead before he hit the beach, they say."

  Valentinius was looking at us.

  I stared straight back at him and asked, "What killed him?"

  He removed the cigar from his mouth and delicately flicked the ashes into a tray as he quietly replied, "What kills us all, Ashton?"

  "Error?" I ventured.

  "Of course."

  "But in this particular instance, this particular error...in one so young...?"

  He puffed on the cigar, glanced at Alvarez, told me, "Sometimes our own error is the most difficult thing to face."

  Alvarez growled in a low voice, "Whatever he faced scared hell out of him. That man died in terror."

  Valentinius smiled sweetly, asked, "How do you spell that word, Robert? With a T in front of error?"

  With that Valentinius flat disappeared.

  An instant later we heard him at the piano.

  Catherine leapt to her feet and clapped her hands. "Showtime!" she declared happily. "I think tonight I would like to do a striptease."

  I doubt that my friend the Indian, Bob Alvarez, even heard that interesting announcement.

  He was still staring with open mouth at the vacant chair of our host.

  "That man is a devil," he muttered.

  I thought of St. Germain, and the distress with which he greeted that same accusation by the old Countess von Georgy at Madame de Pompadour's in the middle eighteenth century.

  I leaned closer to Alvarez and whispered to him, "He's playing with us, so play along. And don't worry about the devil. There's no room for him at this inn."

  "How do you know that?" Alvarez growled back.

  I did not know how I knew, but I knew. Also I had never met the devil so had never experienced him.

  "Trust me," I said. "There's no devil here."

  Everyone else had gone into the lounge except Francesca. She paused between us and stared at the cop while asking me, "Who is your friend, Ashton?"

  Alvarez's jaw wobbled a bit as he reminded her, "We met this morning, Miss Amalie. I'm Sergeant Alvarez."

  "Where is your uniform?"

  "I, uh..." He looked at me for help. I just shook my head and held my peace.

  Francesca said, "Do you like the army?"

  He replied, humbly, "Yes, Ma'am, I love it."

  "That's nice," she said. Then she joined the others in the lounge.

  I lit a cigarette and toyed with my coffee. The sergeant of police just sat there, glowering at his hands. The angels in the other room were singing of good times a'coming.

  I quietly told my friend the cop, "Stop feeling bad. That's not her."

  "Not who?"

  "Not the lady you met this morning. I'm sure she knows who you are though, what you are, and why you're here. This one I mean, Francesca II. And she was rubbing at me, not at you. So don't take it to heart."

  "Thanks," he said with a tight smile. "I needed that. Even though I don't understand a thing you're talking about."

  "Is your case closed?"

  "It is not."

  "Okay," I said, "so let's go sing with the angels."

  He looked toward the lounge, stood up, asked, "That what they are?"

  "What do you say?"

  He smiled and held out a hand to me. "I say let's go sing with the angels. That's nothing new to my family."

  I knew that. The American Indians had been communing with the celestials for time out of mind.

  Sure, I knew that. And so must Valentinius.

  Chapter Twenty-Six: The Nether Stairs

  The superb collection of paintings and sculptures I'd seen the night before in Francesca's studio was now on display in the lounge, but nobody was paying them any attention. All were grouped at the piano singing their heads off and enjoying it immensely.

  I gave a nod toward the art display for Alvarez's benefit and told him, "There's the show I saw last night."

  He nodded back in understanding and went over to check it out. I was still working at my cigarette and did not wish to blow smoke upon the singers so I trailed along behind Alvarez to get his reaction to the artwork.

  He stood for a long moment before a portrait of Francesca—obviously a self-portrait—before commenting, "This is good."

  I said, "That, pal, is the understatement of the year. Call it uncanny. Can you figure those colors?"

  He gave me a sad smile and replied, "I don't know much about art. But I think it's good." He was moving along the display now, pausing here and there for a closer inspection of those he recognized. "They're all here," he told me a moment later. "Except the ancient man. Where's he?"

  I said, "He's everywhere," and looked pointedly at one of the sculptures.

  That gave my a friend a start. He moved from one to the other, inspecting several sculptures and then remarking, "They're all alike. I thought they were just decorations for the pictures."

  I said, "Maybe so."

 
He said, "No, no; I don't think so. This means something. It means something to the pictures. Look at this face here now." He was indicating the portrait of John the Ascetic. "Try to see the picture and the statue at the same time. See what I mean?"

  I saw what he meant, sure.

  My friend the cop was now quickly becoming an art critic, moving interestedly from portrait to portrait and checking out the different angles of view.

  I grinned and stepped away from that, then suddenly stopped grinning and walked quickly to the end of the line.

  A new portrait was proudly on display there—a double portrait—set slightly apart from the others and bracketed by a pair of Valentinius heads.

  Francesca was there and I was there, both of us swirling from the background of riotous color—but we were not together there; we were merely each present there and juxtaposed within the colors in such a way as to suggest that neither subject could be aware of the other.

  It was stunning.

  I was still staring at it when Alvarez caught up to me. He reacted with a start too, and stood there beside me without comment until I solicited one.

  "What do you think?" I quietly asked him.

  "I think she's in love with you," he replied without pause, "It's very obvious, isn't it?"

  I said, "Well...maybe...but how do you get that from the painting?"

  He said, "I guess I get it because she put it there. When did you pose for this?"

  I said, "Hey, Bob, I didn't pose for this." I put a tentative finger to the edge of the canvas—expecting very, very tacky but encountering entirely dry paint. It was a shock. Oils simply do not dry that fast, not any oils I'd ever encountered before.

  Alvarez was saying, "It's the same effect with the ancient man, Ash. I don't understand how that..."

  Somehow the observation irritated me. Maybe because I did not understand it either—or maybe I simply did not like the effect. Any of it.

  I told Alvarez, "Art is illusion, Bob. Francesca herself told me that."

  "Maybe so," he said, a bit mournfully, "but I'd say the lady is in love with you. I mean if she painted this. Let's see...how would I title it?"