by Neil Russell
I wanted to say something prescient, perhaps historic, but it is the height of hubris to speak when what you are seeing is beyond words. I nodded, and Wal-Mart opened the cage. The big female didn’t even pause. She bolted out, down the ramp and splashed into the river. Fat Cat looked at me as if to reassure himself, and I nodded. Of all the mammals in creation, there are probably no better swimmers than tigers.
When the last had been released, we once again went topside. My associates and the crew stood amidships watching the nine striped swimmers race toward their new home. New Guinea has no history of tigers, no myths, no religion built around them and no commerce that requires them. And here, in this final frontier, is the last major collection of un-contacted peoples. The tigers couldn’t fare any worse than they had under the contacted ones.
As I looked down at their rippling orange and black muscles, I was reminded of my father. He never released any tigers, but he was a keen observer of life. Our Derbyshire home is filled with books, art and the remnants of his conquests and failures. As a young boy, these mementos had been fascinating. A piton from his scaling of K2..The screw from a sunken liner he’d owned. The deck of cards that had won him a kitchen slave in some sheikdom who he’d brought back to London and now ran Black Group’s hotel division.
He had constantly sought out the most difficult challenges and conquered them. He gave great sums to rescue the less fortunate, but his trophy room contained the most-sought-after of big-game prizes. He was always clear that men were men, and animals were not. There was no doubt he would have done what I had done, but I wondered what he would have said about killing so many men to do it.
There was no answer, so I would have to wrap myself in the cloak of the evils Kingdom had perpetrated. That and that I had been trained to kill, which is exactly what I had done.
I walked forward to the prow of the Samudra and saw the female make landfall. She shook herself violently for a few seconds, then turned and looked back at the ship. Those watching cheered, and she swung around and bolted into the jungle.
Several stories below was the gray water, and I reached into my pocket and brought out the gold band Regina had given me. I noticed for the first time that it had several strands of her hair caught in its clasp. I kissed it and tossed the band toward the water as the last of the tigers disappeared into the bush.
“A thousand miles,” I said.
* * * *
47
Pink Cats and Yellow Stearmans
We gathered on the main deck an hour before dusk. The Sanrevelle was parked at almost exactly the same spot where we’d said good-bye to Bert, but this time there was no wind, and the Pacific was as placid as its name. To accommodate the crowd, Mallory had slid the curved wall of glass between the salon and afterdeck all the way open, creating one grand space. I’d also suspended the shoe rule, so the ladies could dress all the way up. Dominick, my deck-refinishing guy, was probably out shopping for a BMW.
Cheyenne was wearing something lacy, white and split high up the side, capped by a fragrant, flowing tiara made of hundreds of miniature rose petals the floral artists at Black Iris had spent the better part of a week weaving. At a natural six feet, extended several more inches in heels, she was a vision.
“She looks like a Renoir, doesn’t she?” said Brittany Rixon; who was clutching my left arm. She did, I just didn’t know what Pierre-Auguste would have made of the acre of silk and matching shoes Fat Cat was sporting. He claimed the color was coral. Eddie, who’d been with him when he bought it, thought it looked more like salmon. They were both wrong. It was pink, but I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.
I made a survey of the guests. Coggan had flown in from Mississippi with his latest girlfriend, Missy, a grad student who looked a little seasick. They were standing with Liz, Eddie’s wife, along with Wal-Mart, who’d somehow located a suit that almost fit. Manarca, not surprisingly, was escorting one of his UCLA angels of mercy. Nurses and cops. Professions that should probably steer clear of each other but can’t.
Yale Maywood, in dress blues and polished brass, had brought Mrs. Maywood, who looked like she spent most of her life pretending to be deaf every time her husband launched into a story. Yale, who I had forgiven, had conveyed the chief’s regrets about having a prior commitment, and I couldn’t have been happier. There’s only so much pomposity even a large yacht can hold.
Julius Watson, not in uniform, had graced us with his presence and stood with Jake, who was squiring Vivian DeLamielleure, supposedly the world’s highest-paid foot model. All I could say was that if her dogs were half as alluring as the rest of her, they were worth every penny.
And Birdy. The trainer of next year’s Derby favorite and Triple Crown contender had been all over the papers lately. But not for her handling of MrSaturdayDance. Her ascension to gossip prominence was because of the romance between Saturday’s-owner and the best-looking horse whisperer to ever stroll through a paddock. They made a lovely couple, though the thirty years difference in their ages was going to be interesting as time went on. But that’s why there’s a Vegas.
I caught a glimpse of Astaire Cañada’s pretty face. She possessed an air of dignity rarely seen anymore, and I counted meeting her and Fabian as one of the better moments in my life.
The minister was my find. When I feel the need to regroup spiritually, I wander over to Hoag Hospital and sit in the chapel. Usually, it’s just me, my thoughts and maybe somebody worrying about a patient, but the last couple of times, a young man in jeans, flip-flops and a clerical collar was there, praying quietly with anybody who asked. He looked more like a surfer than a pastor, and I got curious.
It turned out the thirtysomething Reverend Rudy Hilton had OD’d on Presbyterian politics, left his Oregon church and begun traveling up and down the coast in an old VW van, conducting services on whatever beach he happened to land. He said he met a lot of people who hadn’t been near organized religion since they were kids, and the work renewed his spirit as much as theirs. Exactly my kind of guy, and exactly right for this event. His shaggy, curly blonde hair and bare feet didn’t get a second look, except from the foot model, who might have been weighing his Madison Avenue prospects—or more likely, how to shake Jake for half an hour.
The rest of the forty or so guests were an assortment of cops, Vegas types, my better-behaved friends and a few fellow boaters from the club. A rough check of ethnicities would have gratified Justice Sotomayor but had forehead veins bulging among the Beijing secret police. Far too many freedom-loving Chinese.
Someone had suggested inviting Suzanne Chang, but I’d stopped the conversation in its tracks. The tragedy that had befallen her family was grievous, but that was the point. When her turn came to be counted, she’d wrapped herself in self-pity and opted out. I don’t like contests where no one keeps score or where spectators are invited to the team banquet. After I gave that speech, Astaire looked relieved.
I’d spent the morning at Jake’s office. It was the day after Christmas, and the firm was technically closed, but I wanted to wrap up Chuck’s and Lucille’s affairs before the tax laws changed with the new year. Jake had persuaded the Brandos’ estate lawyer, Ernie DeHoff, to give up his golf game at Hillcrest by promising double fees and a chance to meet me. I’d have paid more to have been spared the leering, garlicky grin and nonstop sales pitch. Jake also hauled in a paralegal and his secretary, Stella. I knew they’d show up on my bill as well, and I wondered how generous I was going to be.
My plan was straightforward, but the mechanics were going to take time to sort out; the politics even longer. The good news was that Astaire had taken the reins firmly, and it appeared she intended to make a career of it. To help her, I commandeered a willing Brice and Molly Fleetwood, whose contacts would be invaluable.
After providing for some special people, Chuck and Lucille’s property would be liquidated and the proceeds, along with Chuck’s ongoing publishing and movie royalties, would be placed into the Brando Childre
n’s Trust. The trust would open its first free clinic in Hu-Wei, then expand into small villages throughout the country.
To secure Beijing’s cooperation, everyone agreed that the baby-smuggling business would end—immediately. From this point forward, the trust and the Interior Ministry would work together to place all unwanted children with families in China. Only in extreme cases would adoptive parents outside the country be sought, which Astaire guaranteed would happen the first time a disabled child was involved.
To prove her point, she made two phone calls, and suddenly, the four-year-old with the missing leg that Sherry Huston would have been carrying home to Chuck and Lucille was on a plane to Los Angeles. Astaire was now speaking with community leaders in Chinatowns around the world and assembling a list of eager parents for similar children who would follow.
Until suitable quarters were found, I offered Black House as the trust headquarters. The place sat empty 90 percent of the time, and a few crying infants might get rid of the ghosts.
I was brought back to the present by murmuring behind me, then a smattering of applause that built until it swept the ship. Special Agent in Charge Francesca Huston, wearing a white sundress trimmed in teal, straw hat festooned with teal flowers and teal heels parted the throng. In her left arm, she carried Cheyenne’s baby, who was wide-awake and taking in everything. Cheyenne had named her Sherry, and Dr. Hadley Carson at Children’s Hospital of Orange County had gotten one of his colleagues to perform surgical magic. Her new smile embraced everyone.
Holding on to Francesca’s right hand was the little boy, dressed in a sharp white coat, razor-creased white shorts, white socks and shoes. He looked like he was on his way to his yacht, and he walked on his new prosthetic leg like he’d been born with it. That’s the thing about kids. They adapt. With Brittany’s help, Bert’s old company had fitted him with their best. He’d get a new one every six weeks, and all he had to do was let the technicians shoot some digital footage every now and then and maybe come out to cheer at his Little League games.
Francesca handed Sherry to Cheyenne, and Fat Cat reached down and swept his new son, Davey, into his arms. David Saleapaga II. Hopefully, somewhere, Fat Cat’s father was watching.
The man in pink beamed as he placed a meaty paw around Cheyenne’s waist. Davey put his hand on Sherry’s head, and she immediately reached up and grabbed her brother’s wrist. I heard catches in throats, including Brittany’s, and saw people dab their eyes. Birdy begged a tissue from a woman next to her. My eyes were a little damp, but I’m allergic to rabbits, so somebody probably had one in their pocket.
United States District Judge Federico Cavalcante stood off to the side. Lords of the courts, federal judges can do just about anything they want, and bureaucrats usually scramble to help or scramble faster to get out of the way. Thanks to Cavalcante’s jutting jaw and a compliant immigration official, the newest citizens of the United States were about to watch their parents get married.
The Reverend Rudy began, “We have come together in the presence of God ...”
* * * *
I’d been hugged by everybody except Jake, and if he tried, he was going over the side. Emilio’s staff had poured each guest a flute of Blanc de Blanc, and as people sipped, the pitch of the conversation rose momentarily, then began to drift as we waited.
Jody’s yellow Stearman was just a speck in the eastern sky, but the setting sun glittered off its windshield as he nosed the little biplane down below five hundred feet. The guests who were in the salon came back out and found places along the railing.
I’d asked Jody to make a circle around the Sanrevelle, then climb southwestward, and he did exactly that, slowing to what amounted to a crawl. Eddie sat behind him in the open-air cockpit, and they were close enough that I could see the tightness on their faces. Neither had ever done this before.
Jody gave the Stearman a wing waggle, then pulled back on the stick and throttled up. The scene seemed to stand still as they became a silhouette against the massive orange sphere sinking into the sea. Eddie’s arm went over the side and turned the canister of ashes upside down. They fanned out and trailed behind the plane for a while, then disappeared. I gave Fabian Cañada a final salute.
A handsome young navy bugler named Pettigrew had driven down from Port Hueneme, and his mournful “Taps” filled the gathering twilight. When the last note had died away, Mallory put Fred Astaire’s “One for My Baby” through the Sanrevelle’s sound system. Our copy was a little scratchy, but that somehow seemed right, and in unison, everyone lifted their glasses to the sky, held them there for a few seconds, then pulled them down and drank.
“Good night, Fabian,” Astaire said quietly. I took her hand and squeezed it.
And then, Sherry gurgled with laughter, and everyone smiled.
“I think she’s calling for you. Grandma.”
I took her flute and watched her stride purposefully toward her new family. A moment later, Astaire and Sherry, two people who had gone into the unforgiving sea almost seven decades apart—and survived in the arms of strangers— were putting their arms around each other. I had no doubt, each felt safe tonight.
* * * *
Epilogue
Eddie was in New Orleans with his family—Coggan included this time—so Jody had to find a stand-in right-seater for my trip. He selected a sharp-looking young lady who had just been laid off from Air Cañada. Dominique LaChapelle had a couple of thousand hours in 737s, not to mention a nicely tuned French-Canadian accent and a pair of beautiful brown eyes—not that Jody would have been influenced by them. I did notice the way he looked at her, however, and I didn’t think he was going to mind if we were on the road a few weeks.
Ms. LaChapelle passed muster with me as well. She answered my questions in a clipped, professional manner that imparted confidence. The last thing you want in a pilot is obsequiousness—or long explanations to yes or no questions.
Mallory was on his way to Rome to meet up with his paramour, Jannicke Thorsen. I’d arranged the trip as a surprise. Well, not personally. Somewhere in my holdings is a chunk of British Airways stock, and though it’s not likely to make me richer, I keep it for sentimental reasons. My grandfather was an early shareholder, and he always said it was his proudest startup. Someone at BA investor relations had done the heavy lifting and even sent a Bentley around to take Mallory to the airport. He did what I expected and rode up front.
A month ago, a package had come from Spain, Inside were twelve red grapes and a card:
On New Year’s Eve, we gather on Puerta del Sol Square and
eat a grape with each chime of the bell atop the Casa de
Correos. it’s supposed to bring good luck, especially if you’re
doing it with someone special.
Perhaps you’ll join me this gear.
Marisol
Mallory had freeze-dried the grapes, and they looked a bit haggard. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to answer any questions from Spanish Customs. But maybe they’d understand.
Just before takeoff, I made an overseas call. Lord Rittenhouse answered the phone himself. “Ah, Mr. Black. How are you?”
“Very well, sir, and you?”
“A continuing disappointment to my undertaker. I presume, you’re calling about the knighthood ceremony. You should be receiving the details shortly.”
“Lord Rittenhouse, I’m deeply grateful for the honor, but I’m going to have to decline. I sincerely hope I haven’t put you in an awkward position.”
I’d clearly caught him off guard. “Of course not, I was only the messenger. But I’m not sure this has ever happened before, and I expect it will eliminate you from future consideration.”
“I’ve taken that into account.”
“Then, if I’m not prying, would you mind telling me why?”
“It’s difficult to articulate, but you’re more likely to understand than anyone. If I become Lord Black, then my father is really ... how do I say this... I’m not ready to let h
im go.”
There was a long silence, and I thought I heard some roughness in the lord’s voice when he spoke. “It is said that a son cannot truly become a man until he has buried his father. You became a man long before you buried yours, and it was a great joy to him.”
“Thank you. I still speak with him every day. I’ll give him your best.”
“I would be honored.”
As I rang off, Dominique’s lovely voice came over the intercom. “If you’re secured, Mr. Black, we’re ready to begin our roll.”
I sat back, closed my eyes and felt LA drop away.