by Joe Gores
Overriding all else was a rich, dusky incense; underlying this, subtly emphasizing it, a bewildering mélange of perfumes, sweat, and smells Giselle could only think of as . . . emotions. Fear, perhaps? Even pain, physical or emotional? Or was she projecting because of the muffled cries from the dark interior?
The women ahead of them simultaneously reached up and swung their arms. There was a sharp cry of real pain. Giselle looked up and saw a nude woman in her 30s lying above them face-down in a hammock of woven hemp. The openings between the strands were a foot square; her huge, famished eyes stared down at them through one of them. Her bared breasts hung down through two others; it was those breasts that these other women had struck. She was staring at Giselle.
“Now you do it! Please! Do it! Do it!”
Giselle said coldly, “Pass,” and pushed on by.
Her guide led her down a central aisle past partitioned cubicles some fifteen feet square with floor-length red velvet drapes hanging from brass rings on ordinary curtain rods. From behind the drapes came the strange paddling and slapping noises she was hearing, along with the murmurs and low-voiced cries.
One of the curtains was not drawn completely shut and inside Giselle could just see, by a flashlight’s dim glow, a masked woman in a Gestapo uniform. She was whipping another woman with a riding crop. The victim’s hands were shackled; angry red welts crisscrossed the pale skin that could be seen through rents in her rags. There was blood on the edges of the torn cloth.
The victim cried out, “Auschwitz!”
The Nazi kept right on beating her.
“Auschwitz!” She screamed it this time.
Two husky women in slacks and T-shirts jostled by Giselle and the Gypsy and into the cubicle to grapple with the out-of-control dominatrix. One tossed Giselle a flashlight.
“Hold it steady so we can see what we’re doing!”
They subdued the dominatrix and removed her from the cubicle. They took back their flashlight. Another woman unshackled the sobbing victim.
“We must find the Undertaker,” said the Gypsy.
* * *
The large open area at the back of the building was softly lit by strings of small pastel lights. Gen-X music dripped from the speakers. Behind a couple of planks laid across two wine casks, a pair of women dressed only in black aprons served beer and wine. On a corner of the makeshift bar were a big coffee urn, cups, spoons, sugar, non-dairy creamer.
The women crowding the room were dressed in everything from outlandish costumes to wispy bras and panties. Some were masked. Others were nude. Because those around them were fully clothed, the nude women had a vulnerability that Giselle knew full well was deliberate.
Standing in one of the groups, dressed in skintight black leather, was Yana, masked but unmistakable. The women crowding around her were animated, competing for her attention. They all looked like potential victims. What was Yana doing in a place like this? Some of her family surely had died in concentration camps. Forget marime. For the first time, Giselle was struck by just how far Poteet’s wife had journeyed to the dark side. From crystal ball to the palace of evil.
Yana glanced toward them and turned away without the slightest flicker of recognition.
“The Undertaker will come to us. Follow me.”
When Yana saw Giselle’s vivid intent face she turned quickly away; was there still enmity between them? During the great Cadillac caper, they had been foes, outwitting each other turn and turn about. In a Gypsy encampment in Ohio she saved Giselle from a beating, perhaps worse; Giselle owed her for that. But Devla! What had she come to? When she needed an ally, she could trust only a gadja, and a former enemy at that.
Voices floated around her like detritus around a pier.
“Even I don’t want a baby that much.”
Laughter. “Maybe you can get Clinton to donate his sperm.”
“It would be better than the old turkey baster.”
More general laughter. One of the women touched Yana’s arm and said, “Please, take me into a cubicle. I need . . .”
“You do not need the level of pain I invariably inflict.”
Yana spoke in a guttural, indifferent voice, letting her contempt for this poor creature show through her words. Akoosh her! It was what she wanted, anyway. Abuse. Degradation.
The curtain’s brass rings made a bright metallic sliding sound on the rod. The Gypsy switched on a flashlight to show rugs, throw-pillows, even a couch. In this enclosed space, the incense and mingled perfumes were insistent, almost cloying.
“Can I get you something to drink? There is herb tea.” Giselle studied the face beneath the makeup and bangles: this was no Gypsy. She saw a round pleasant Mediterranean face and warm brown eyes concealing a lot of pain.
“Italian, right?” asked Giselle.
She might have blushed. “Geraldine. Geraldine Tantillo.”
“You are Yasmine’s contact person?” Geraldine nodded. “Give me your phone number. I might need to call you in the days ahead.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Geraldine did. They waited in silence. Yana did not come.
“ ‘Auschwitz’ was supposed to stop the beating, right?”
“Yes. The house rule is that you must have a word you can use when you’ve had enough—the most sacred word you know.”
“Why ‘Auschwitz’ for that woman?”
“Her grandfather was a guard there, so she wears prisoner’s rags and is beaten by a Jewish dominatrix in a Gestapo uniform. But most of the women who come here were abused as kids—maybe by a father, an uncle, sometimes with their mother’s tacit consent.”
“Shouldn’t it be the opposite? Wouldn’t you want to beat the crap out of somebody looks like the person who abused you?”
“No,” said Geraldine. “Deep down kids trust grown-ups even if they are abused. Even grown up, they feel they deserved the abuse. Being punished makes them feel less guilty— at least for a while.”
A new voice said, “You sound as if you have pity for these sick creatures.” And Yana was there, removing her domino mask.
“Yes,” said Giselle crisply, surprised to realize that she did feel pity, and at the same time finding herself miffed that Yana didn’t. “There’s a lot of pain here. Psychic pain.”
“Pah! What do they know of pain?” In the gloom, Yana’s eyes flashed sudden fire. “I spit on their pain! If they had to live even one day as a Romni . . . But epesèl, time is short.”
And she was suddenly loud and strident, her voice that of a dominatrix, vicious, cutting, full of contempt.
“You slut! You bitch! Did you think you would not be punished for your disgusting practices? Off with your clothes, you unspeakable whore, and down on your knees . . .”
By the flashlight’s glow, Geraldine grabbed up a Ping-Pong paddle and began beating the arm of the sofa with loud slapping sounds that covered Yana’s lowered voice.
“Thank you for coming. Only here could we meet safely. I know you have information for me.”
Geraldine interrupted with a little shriek, began panting very quickly like someone in pain. White noise, Giselle thought, like that thrown up against electronic surveillance.
“The San Francisco police have issued a Murder One warrant for your arrest,” she said.
“But . . . Ephrem died in Los Angeles.”
“This warrant is not for your husband’s murder. It is for the murders of two old men here in the Bay Area.” Giselle studied her, but saw only amazement in Yana’s face. “They believe Ephrem, calling himself Punka Mihai, and you, under the name of Nadja Mihai, were working together.”
Giselle thought she saw Yana stagger slightly, as if from an unexpected blow.
“I have no knowledge of a woman named Nadja Mihai,” Yana said almost formally. “Ephrem conned people, yes. Picked pockets, yes. Christ on the cross gave the Rom permission to scam the gadje. But murder? He would be in terror of the mulos. He would never—”
“Be straight with me, Yana.
Did you kill your husband?”
“No.” She paused as Geraldine beat the sofa vigorously and wailed. “I did not even know he was dead until my brother got word to me. I still don’t know the day of his death.”
“Easter Monday,” said Giselle, then added, “Nadja Mihai’s description from the police files matches yours exactly. So where were you Easter and Easter Monday?”
“Why Easter?”
“They have an eyewitness who saw the same woman at Ephrem’s house both nights.”
Yana met her eyes with a surprising directness. “On Easter I went to mass. That evening I was in my ofica, giving readings. It is like that on every religious holiday. People off the street, I don’t know who they are. I have no names. It would be impossible to find them now. I have killed no one, but without proof, I must flee.” She sighed deeply. “There is no rest for me.”
forty-four
Trin Morales let the truck glide to a stop a quarter of a mile from Xanadu, not too far from the place where Dan Kearny and the Baron had stopped when they had come here. The lights were off, the engine throbbed too quietly to be heard at this distance by the guards on the gate.
The other three DKA men swarmed silently out of the truck. All of them wore Xanadu guard uniforms. All carried bulging stuff-bags. None was armed. None spoke a word.
By pale blue moonlight, O’B tapped the face of his watch. It read 12:33 A.M. They had synchronized before starting up the mountain. Thirty minutes to wait. Trin nodded.
Morales switched off the engine and settled back against his seat. The sounds of the night started up again, cautiously. Animals, birds, killing each other, who the hell knew what they were? Nature wasn’t his strong suit. But he realized that he was identifying with the predators again, after all those months of being only able to think like prey. Because of Milagrita.
Well, shit, what good had it done her?
He checked his watch. Twenty minutes to go.
By the dime-size disk of light from his tiny pencil flash, O’B worked his way up close as he dared to the brightly lit gate where two guards yawned and smoked their way through their graveyard shift. O’B moved away outside the electrified fence toward the left corner of the compound, unspooling a roll of Primacord festooned with strings of firecrackers. He hooked the fishhooks tied at intervals to the fuse over branches and bushes, and ran out of Primacord halfway down the left side of the compound. He checked his watch. Seven minutes to go.
Ballard and Heslip moved so quickly by the light of the failing moon that they came to near-disaster. They smelled the guards’ cigarette smoke just in time, veered off to the right. Just as the Baron had promised, no dogs. They’d have to be dealt with, but not now. Bart winked at Larry and preceded him down the right side of the perimeter fence away from the gate. Larry went more slowly, festooning the undergrowth with firecrackers. He ran out of Primacord halfway down the right side of the compound. He checked his watch. Five minutes to go.
The Baron had said the best place to go over the fence was at the back of the compound. Bart laid down his set of grappling hooks and coil of Gold Line nylon rope. From his stuff-sack he took the two toy guns and two darts. He very carefully inserted the darts’ shafts into the guns’ muzzles until they engaged the projectile springs with little audible clicks. No need to check his watch. The action would be loud enough to wake the dead.
O’B stared at the luminous dial of the watch on his left wrist. His right hand held an open cigarette lighter. The digital readout hit the mark. He flicked the lighter.
Larry stared at the luminous dial of the watch on his left wrist. His right hand held an open cigarette lighter, Mission: Impossible playing in his mind. The digital readout hit the mark. He flicked the lighter.
Sitting behind the wheel of the truck, Trin stared at the luminous dial of the watch on his left wrist. His right hand held an open cigarette lighter. The digital readout hit the mark. He flicked the lighter. He laid it against the end of the Primacord that led out of the window to the big box of fireworks in the bed of the truck. Flame ran along the fuse.
He floored it. The engine bellowed, his blazing high beams showed DANGER—HIGH VOLTAGE rushing toward him at warp speed.
Unseen by the guards, twin balls of sizzling flame raced along the Primacord fuses from both the left and the right sides of the perimeter fence. Unseen because the guards were leaping for their lives as the truck smashed into the gate at full throttle. They infiltrated toward the main building, running from tree to tree and bush to bush in evasive action as the strings of firecrackers around the perimeter began exploding with loud POPS! and spit flame toward Xanadu as if an encircling force was firing through the fence at the compound.
Trin rolled out of the open door and kept rolling right into the undergrowth flanking the track to a great BURST! of flashing electricity and ROAR! of destruction. The gates spronged wide open. The truck, going through, took out the circuit box for the electrified gate and perimeter fence with a huge burst of eye-searing sparks.
That should short out the fence, Bart thought. He let the grappling hooks fly. They arced up to tangle themselves in the barbed-wire rolls topping the fence. No sizzle. No sparks. No electricity. But he made no move to clamber up the Gold Line.
R.K. Robinson rushed to the window of the Security Control Center when he heard the crash. Electric starbursts showed him a truck rammed into his compound. As he stared, it erupted with a massive outburst of skyrockets, sizzlers, and Roman candles that looked like detonating explosives. Massed flashes and pops of gunfire came from both sides of the perimeter fence.
“Hit the alarm!” he yelled, whirling from the window. “Get out the guards! We’re under attack!”
He unleashed the dogs, yelled “Angreifen!” With a frantic scrabble of paws on the tiles, they sprang down the hall toward the stairs, R.K. hot behind. At the front door, he swung his arm in a circle. The dogs streaked off around the building.
Rose Bush, the duty officer, gleefully punched the red button he’d never had a chance to use before. The wall panel slid open. Guards tumbled pell-mell down the stairs from the third-floor barracks, still pulling on their uniforms. Rose Bush watched with satisfaction as the door swung shut behind them and the deadbolt shot home. His orders in attack mode were to not leave or open the door until the attack ended. Nobody could get at him in here. He studied the monitors avidly.
Bart Heslip waited with a toy pistol in each hand. The Dobermans came running in silent ferocity around the corner of the building. From six feet away they hurled their lean muscular bodies at the fence trying to get at him, deadly teeth actually biting at the steel diamonds of cyclone fence. Pfft! Pfft! Easy shots with the tranquilizing darts into their underbellies. The dogs spun away, puzzled and whimpering, then sprang again, but with less force. The powerful drug was taking effect.
Bart blew imaginary smoke from the barrels, thrust the toy guns into the pockets of his guard jacket as if into holsters at his hips. Inside the fence, the dogs had lain down and gone to sleep. Bart started climbing the Gold Line.
R.K. Robinson and his heavily armed guards fanned out across the grass, rushing from tree to bush to tree, dropping behind each bit of cover to fire at the muzzle flashes coming from the horde of attackers lining the perimeter fence.
Bart cut through the rolls of barbed wire topping the fence beside him so it sprung back, leaving an opening. Larry went over first, then O’B, panting heavily. They reversed and dropped down inside the fence. Bart followed, leaving the grappling hooks and the Gold Line in place for Trin. He dropped to the ground beside the gently snoring Dobermans, patted each dog on the head, then ran after the others, stuff-bag in hand. All three men were dressed like Xanadu security guards.
As the three DKA men got to the front steps of Xanadu, the two gate guards came panting toward them. When they were still too far away to see faces in the flickering light, O’B swung his arms at them.
“I’m the new Deputy Security Chief, Sergeant Rya
n. Captain Robinson wants you to take a long, slow turn around this building and see everything is secure. We’re in control here!”
They split up to trot away around the building. The three DKA men ran up the front steps of Xanadu, and ducked into an open doorway a few yards inside the entrance. In like Flynn!
As Trin crawled inexpertly through the frigging woods, tearing his clothes, getting slapped in the face with branches, buzzed by a slug a foot from his head, he felt like a Green Beret, for Chrissake. Those guys shooting out into the darkness at the firecrackers were using live rounds.
The grappling hook with the line dangling down on his side of the fence was there, all right. The frigging dogs were out cold. He’d be up and over before they . . .
Voices! He leaped back into the bushes. Two guards came trotting right up to the fence and stared at the grappling hooks.
“Jesus, some of them came in this way, too.”
“Do we report this to Ryan or to Captain Robinson?”
“Whichever one we find first.”
The bastards took away the hooks and the Gold Line. Trin looked longingly at the Jeep parked behind the building on the other side of the fence. So near and yet so far. But hey, the new Morales, forty pounds lighter, could probably jump up, grab the top of the fence, scramble over without the line.
And then the dogs started stirring.
To hell with it. He had to do it now, before they were awake, or not at all. Trin crouched—and sprang.
forty-five
R.K. Robinson was in the prone position behind a sturdy elm halfway to the front perimeter fence, peering through drifting smoke and popping gunfire. Their situation was precarious. They were taking heavy fire, and he could see by the attackers’ muzzle flashes that they were closing in on the bridged front gate. One of the gate guards dropped, panting, to the ground at his elbow. Good! He had made it! The guard held a set of grappling hooks.