Death of a Pirate King

by Josh Lanyon

  His hand rested on my shoulder. “I want to watch your face.”

  “Closet romantic too, huh?” I said, but I let him guide me over onto my back, and I bit back the other things I could have said, pulling my knees up, opening for him.

  Taking my cock in his big hand, he said, “You’re the most beautiful guy I’ve ever had.”

  I snorted, thinking he probably said that to all the beautiful guys -- assuming there was time for talk between the beatings.

  Then his slick fingers circled my hole, pressed a fingertip inside, and withdrew.

  I gulped.

  Watching my face -- though he couldn’t have seen much in the soft darkness -- he pressed in again, a little further, and I closed my eyes, wanting to focus on the feel and forget the emotions of it. A second finger followed, and then he flexed his hand, and I felt that knowing press on the spongy tissue of prostate -- too knowing, but I focused on that sensation and shut out the rest of it, letting him stretch and stroke me as though it were my first time, giving into his strange pretense that I was fragile and terribly precious to him.

  His cock entered me slowly, pushing with great care. I tried to rush him, tried to push back and capture his prick with my body -- reduce it to basics: a fuck. But he wouldn’t be hurried; he took his time, kissed my collarbone, the hollow of my throat, all the time shoving slowly past the ring of muscle, making it last and last, and then he was in, and we were sharing the same body, adjusting to the fit, trying on for size this being one. I wrapped my legs around him, pressed my mouth to his shoulder, bit him -- paying him back for earlier. He grunted.

  Pushing against him, I urged him to action, and we began the seesaw of push and pull, rock and roll, lock and load -- physical sensation -- and I didn’t want to think more closely about it than that.

  His hand wrapped around my dick -- and astonishingly enough, he was right: I was getting hard. Weeks of nobody home and suddenly it was like I was sixteen again and my parents were gone for the weekend. And there was no need to say what I liked, a little tighter, a little faster -- because he knew exactly what I liked -- memory or just very good instincts. His hand slid up and down, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure, that smooth, knowing skid of skin on skin. It could have been my own hand, but it was so much better because it was Jake’s.

  He thrust into me, pumped me, we found the old rhythm, the pattern, the old steps, the way through the wood -- and it moved beyond words or coherent thought, just skin and warmth and that hum of exquisite tension as it built and built, his hand jerking me off, his cock lancing past my gland, fast and faster -- and a little frantic --

  I felt him stiffen and then heard him shout.

  He kissed me again.

  We lay there for a while and then he slid out of me.

  After a time he said, “I can’t stay.”

  “I know.”

  He didn’t move and then finally he sat up, wearily. He went into the hallway; the light came on, throwing a golden bar across the floor and bed. I listened to him dressing.

  He came back in -- a broad silhouette -- and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Adrien…”

  I smiled. “I know.”

  But I didn’t, because what he said was, “I want you in my life -- you can set the parameters.”

  “Oh my God.” I pressed the heels of my hands over my eyes. “Jake.”

  “What?”

  “What? You know what. We can’t pick up where we left off. And I can’t be pals with you.”

  “Then what the hell was this?” The anger and hurt in his voice was painful to hear.

  I sat up, forcing him to retreat. “You know what the hell this was, Jake. This was us saying good-bye properly.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  When I was sixteen I managed to catch rheumatic fever -- no easy feat, by the way -- and it left the valves of my heart damaged; the mitral valve in particular, which was the culprit in my current predicament. Lisa was convinced I’d never see eighteen, and I spent several months convalescing in bed like somebody in a 1920s novel, before I finally put my foot down -- both physically and metaphorically.

  But in addition to reading everything I could lay my hands on during that long enforced period of inactivity, I watched a lot of TV, so I was very familiar with Marla Vicenza’s work -- and “work” was probably the right word for it if running around like a maniac under the blazing Etruscan sun was anything to go by.

  During the sixties, a very young Marla starred in a lot of those schlocky Italian historical dramas, and while I didn’t find her escapades as Amazon or Arabian princess quite as entertaining as I did the glistening and muscle-bound adventures of Steve Reeves and his ilk, I did have a certain fondness for her cinematic ventures. She made a truly chilling Medea, as I recalled.

  She still looked good for a woman in her sixties -- much better than either Ally or Nina did -- trim and fit. Despite those years filming in the sun, she had taken good care of her skin. Her hair was an unlikely brown, but it was skillfully done. She was surprisingly petite given how convincingly she had portrayed lady pirates and warrior queens.

  “I have to say I’m a little vague on why you wanted to meet,” she informed me, leading me through her spacious and lavishly decorated Santa Barbara hacienda. “You said you’re working in connection with the police?”

  “Er…yes,” I said. And to cover that unconvincing “er” -- and because I really wanted to know, I asked, “I’ve just realized -- they used your real voice, didn’t they, in those sword and sandal epics?”

  “Sword and skivvies, don’t you mean?” She was amused. “Yeah, they used my voice. I grew up in Little Italy. My grandparents were from Sicily. I spoke Italian like a native before I ever set foot in Europe.”

  “Did you meet Porter in Italy?”

  “I did. Jonesy was interested in the historical epic market. In the end, he decided he preferred America and American film making -- and I came back home with him.”

  We settled on the tiled patio beside the oblong pool. Marla’s garden was filled with tropical flowers and fountains and small-scale classical statuary. “How long were you married?”

  She gave me a quizzical look. “Over thirty years. Do you think I knocked Porter off because he dumped me for Ally Bally Beaton?” She poured pink lemonade from a pitcher on the table, and I noticed she wore wedding rings. As far as I knew, she’d never remarried.

  “It’s hard to believe you’d wait five years to do it.”

  “Well, you know what they say: revenge is a dish best served cold.”

  I had a sudden memory of her as Medea.

  “True, I guess.” I studied her. “But something tells me Porter’s life with Ally would have supplied all the revenge you needed.”

  She burst out laughing. “Very good, sport! Yeah, that little bitch made poor old Jonesy’s life a misery. Served him right.” But her eyes were sparkling with humor. “So if you don’t think I knocked my ex off, why exactly are you here?”

  I said, “I got the impression that you and Porter stayed friends despite everything.”

  She inhaled slowly and let it out quietly. “This is true,” she said.

  “Did you know he was terminally ill?”

  “Yeah. He came straight to me when he got the news.”

  “To you?”

  She lifted a slender shoulder. “Like you said, we stayed close. Or, I guess, we grew close again.”

  “Who else knew that Porter was ill?”

  “He didn’t take an ad out in Variety, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Did Ally know?”

  “Not at first. He told her after he decided to…” She didn’t finish, lifting her lemonade to her lips. “He shared it with a few trusted friends.”

  “Was he going to divorce Ally?”

  “In the end, no.” Her smile was tight. “In the end, she convinced him that she did love him.”

  “That must have taken some doing.”

&
nbsp; “I always told him she was a better actress than he gave her credit for.”

  “But he knew about the affair, right?”

  “With the health nut? He knew everything. He hired a private dick to follow her. But she broke off the relationship, and she was willing to k --” She swallowed hard.

  “She had an abortion, I know. She got pregnant with Duncan Roe’s child, and then terminated the pregnancy.”

  Marla looked at me, and I was dismayed to see the glistening in her eyes. “We didn’t have children,” she said. “I wanted them, but we weren’t able to have them.” Rather hastily, she retrieved her glass and sipped more lemonade. “Ally wanted to stay married. I give her points for resolve.”

  I tried my lemonade. Lots of ice and the pink was nice, but it tasted like the regular kind of lemonade as far as I could tell. “You were on the yacht the night Langley Hawthorne died, weren’t you?” I asked.

  Her sloe eyes flashed to mine. “Now there’s an interesting leap of subject. Yeah, I was there. We were all there. The old crowd.”

  “What did you think about that accident of Hawthorne’s?”

  She stared at me for a long moment. “I thought it was very sad. He was a charming man, Langley. A real gentleman. And it was a tragedy for Nina. She was a very troubled young woman.”

  “How did it happen?”

  She shook her head. “They were playing cards. Langley, Al, Paul, Jonesy. And drinking. We always drank too much when we got together for those weekends. All I know is Langley went on deck to get some air. He didn’t come back, and when they found him, it was too late.”

  I’d read a bit about Langley’s accident so I knew that he had apparently hit his head going over the side -- although exactly where and how had never been determined. However, it was the single inconsistency in the case. Langley’s blood alcohol content had been high enough to sink an armada.

  “I think I read you were in your cabin asleep?”

  “Yes, Nina and I had turned in earlier. It was just the boys being boys. I woke up when I heard the commotion on deck…when they were searching for him.”

  A butterfly swooped down to a feeder hanging from one of the silver dollar eucalyptus trees. I watched it for a moment, its fragile wings opening and closing languidly in the dappled sunlight.

  I said, “Did you ever wonder whether Langley’s death might not have been an accident?”

  After a moment, she said, “That’s another one of those odd leaps. What are you getting at, Mr. English?”

  “I have a suspicious mind,” I admitted. “Hawthorne’s death left two people very wealthy. And it was the kind of accident that can be…something else.”

  “Those two people loved Hawthorne.”

  But the interesting thing was the way she said it -- like it was something she had often puzzled over herself. She didn’t reject the notion of Hawthorne being murdered -- in fact, it was something she had considered.

  I said slowly, “Did Porter ever mention anything about writing his memoirs?”

  Marla was very still. Her gaze rested on the glass-smooth surface of the pool. The sunlight through the tree leaves speckled the water with snakeskin shadows.

  She said at last, “Jonesy was always saying he was going to write his memoirs.”

  “But did he actually ever start them?”

  She nodded. “He was working on them. He wanted to finish them before he…” She sipped her lemonade. “You know what you’re suggesting?” she asked when she could.

  “Yeah.” I said, “Do you know what happened to those memoirs?”

  She shrugged her shoulders -- very Italian in that moment. “At home in Bel Air, I guess. If that little bitch didn’t dump them with everything else of his.”

  “You don’t think he would have taken some precaution to keep them safe?”

  She stared at me. “It wouldn’t occur to him. Jonesy wouldn’t be thinking along those lines. He wouldn’t consider…” She smiled, and I recognized that smile from many a candlelit cinematic moment. “Jonesy was no Machiavelli,” she said.

  We talked a little more, I finished my lemonade, and then I left her in her lush suburban paradise with the sound of the lawn birds and pool generator filling the silence.

  * * * * *

  When I got back to the bookstore it was after closing and Natalie was sitting inside with the security gate drawn and the lights off. She was crying.

  “What happened?” I questioned, grabbing the box of tissues from beneath the counter. “Did something happen to the cat?”

  “To the cat? I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. I’m crying because --” I lost the rest of it as she sobbed the words into the Kleenex.

  “Sorry?”

  She looked up with red, swollen eyes. “I said, I asked Warren if he wanted to move in together and he said no.”

  That was the best news I’d heard all day, but I said, “Oh. Well…”

  “Well what?”

  So many things I could have said, but none of them would be conducive to peace, love, and harmony. I said, groping, “Uh…did he give you a reason?”

  “He said he wasn’t ready.”

  “Well…that seems…reasonable.”

  “After three months?”

  She was talking to the wrong person. I asked curiously, “Why do you want to move in with Warren?” I could just imagine what Warren’s pad was like -- what Warren was like in his own lair. What a shame parents couldn’t send their wayward daughters off to the Continent anymore to get them over these disastrous misalliances.

  “Why? Because I love him,” she said very clearly. “And because I can’t stand living in that house with Lisa.”

  I blinked at her. “Oh.”

  Her face crumpled and she sobbed into the tissue some more. Then she said, muffled, “It’s nothing against Lisa. Really. I love her. But…it’s her house now. I don’t belong there anymore. And if Lauren moves home…”

  “Why would Lauren move home?”

  “She and Beavis are getting divorced.”

  Beavis? Oh. The Corporate Clone. When had all this happened? Where had I been?

  I said, “Couldn’t you just get a place on your own? Moving in with someone because you’re not happy at home doesn’t seem like the right --”

  “I just told you, I love him. Don’t you have any useful guy advice?” She glared at me -- and with those red eyes, it was pretty scary. Medea could have learned a trick or two from my stepsis.

  “Right. Okay. Well, here’s my guy advice. Drop it, Natalie. Don’t mention it to Warren again. Let him see that you’re okay with it. I mean, if you still want to keep seeing him.” Which I could not for the life of me imagine.

  “That’s it?”

  I nodded.

  “You don’t think we need to talk about it?”

  “Me and you?”

  “Me and Warren!”

  “God no, I don’t think you need to talk about it. Leave it alone.”

  She picked up the box of tissues and blew her nose. “I’m supposed to ask you if you’ll be at the house for dinner tonight,” she said in subdued tones.

  I’d totally forgotten, of course, but I said, “Yeah, I’m just going upstairs to change. I’ll see you over there?”

  She nodded and blew her nose again.

  I left her mopping up, went upstairs, showered, and changed -- and left a message on the snooty-sounding answering machine at Hitchcock and Gracen.

  * * * * *

  “Christmas in London!” Lisa announced.

  “Whatever you’d like, my dear,” Bill Dauten replied immediately, patting her hand. I had the impression he’d have said the exact same thing if she’d cried, Off with their heads!

  The rest of us were noticeably silent. Even Emma wore a little frown. Maybe she feared Santa wouldn’t be able to locate her across the sea.

  “London is lovely for the holidays,” Lisa insisted into that noncommittal silence. “Adrien and I spent the holidays there when he was
ten. Do you remember, Adrien?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  She looked a little hurt.

  Someone -- possibly even Dauten -- distracted her with talk of the opera season, and the rest of us exchanged looks of silent relief.

  Despite my complaints, I didn’t really mind the occasional family get-togethers at the Dautens. But I was distracted that evening with my thoughts of murders old and new. I was reminded of a quote by Camus: …habit starts at the second crime. At the first one, something is ending.

  I was thinking about this, thinking about the likelihood of truth in it as regarded the death of Porter Jones, while we sat around chatting after dinner -- and listened to Emma demonstrate the value of her much-hated piano lessons. She’d actually loved the piano before she started the lessons, which was probably a lesson in itself.

  Bill skimmed the paper while Lauren and Natalie were in a huddle in the kitchen, apparently reviewing notes on their love lives, when Lisa alighted on the sofa next to me.

  “Darling, are you feeling quite all right? You’re so pale.”

  Now how the hell could she say that when I’d been out in the sun all day Sunday? My nose was still pink. I made some answer.

  “Don’t growl, Adrien.” She gave me a disapproving look. “I think you should know I’ve had a long talk with Dr. Cardigan.”

  “You’ve had what?” I was too shocked to lower my voice. This was the very reason I’d changed doctors a few years ago. Doctor Reid had been too much the old family friend. He’d brought me into the world, ushered my father out, and was Lisa’s sometime escort to a lot of society functions.

  She ignored my astonished outrage. “Adrien, you must have that surgery. Why are you shilly-shallying? Do you realize -- do you want to die?”

  What the hell was the deal? Was she blackmailing these people?

  “Of course I don’t want to --” I interrupted myself. “This has got to stop, Lisa. You talked to my cardiologist?” I couldn’t seem to get past that. Even the ‘shilly-shallying’ barely registered. “Do you know how unethical that is?”