Kiss Me Twice

by Thomas Gifford

  “Tash is keeping that one, pard. It’s his ticket out of here. I’m inside his mind.”

  “If I were you, I’d get outa there. I’m about to cancel his ticket and you don’t want to get in the way. I don’t like this place; I want to go home. Is that clear, Sam?”

  “We’re almost there. Just hang on. These folks are going to start spending lots of money. They’re the cultural underpinning of Los Angeles. But we’re going to take Tash, the minotaur, and all his records. We’ll let the Feds roll up the buyers later. Or not. It’s up to them.” He smiled, a good old boy. “Might put a crimp in the picture business for a while.”

  Harry Madrid and Karin made their way through the crowd and were standing beside them when Tash took his position behind the podium at the far end of the room. He picked up the gavel, rapped it a couple of times.

  “Ladies and gents,” he said, smiling with invincible aplomb, “my friends, thank you for coming. As you may know by now, it takes more than a cloudburst and a fire to keep this cheeky chap from his appointed rounds.” There was applause and cries of Atta boy, Tash! and Stout fella! “And now it’s time to separate you from your hard-earned money.” More good-natured laughter. “Rather than put up with a one-armed auctioneer”—he lifted his hand with a glass in it—“who might spill his whiskey, let me bring on my associate, direct from London, who will do the honors this evening.” He stepped back, clearing the way for a short, stocky man with a round, innocent face who came in from a side door and went directly to the podium, picked up the gavel.

  MacMurdo said: “Well, damn me if I ain’t seen it all now.”

  The auctioneer smiled benignly out over the crowd. As he smiled, the monocle on the black ribbon dropped from his eye.

  It was Not Me Nicholson.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  NOT ME WAS HANDLING THE bidding like an expert, but none of it was making any sense to Cassidy. Not Me and Tash Benedictus? There was no connection. There were no cards showing that mattered yet.

  MacMurdo watched Not Me knock down a Franz Hals to polite applause. Then a group of drawings by Van Gogh. “The twisty little shit,” MacMurdo murmured. “Gizmo. Little fella saved my life that time. … Who’d of thunk it, pard? Your old pal.”

  “I don’t get it,” Cassidy said.

  “That’s the thing about this kind of operation. All the cards in the deck turn out to be jokers. Pack of wild cards. You just never can tell, pard.” He stroked his hair back from his forehead, as if checking to see if it were still there. You couldn’t be too sure. The white scar where the Nazi had shot him lay like a brand on his scalp. “Nothing makes sense until the very end. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times.” He shrugged. “That’s the way people are. But what the hell? We’re damn near there. One lesson in all this, pard.”

  “Oh?”

  “Never trust a man wears a monocle.”

  Karin was standing close to MacMurdo, her eyes bright, listening to his every word. She smiled at Cassidy, the strain tightening the corners of her mouth. She nervously brushed her hair back. She was wearing a gold locket he’d never seen before. A gold heart on a gold chain against her black turtleneck sweater. It had been covered by the magenta scarf. She stroked it for a moment with her fingertips. Her nail polish matched the scarf. “Don’t worry, darling.” She took Cassidy’s hand.

  A Monet, a Dürer, a Tiepolo, a Fragonard … People made their purchases, there were smatterings of applause, and they carted them out to their cars or airplanes. It struck Cassidy as absurd. A war had been fought, innocent people had been murdered by the cattle-car load, their homes plundered, museums sacked for the collections of Göring and the rest of Nazidom, yet no one in the room seemed to have noticed it. Nobody had been reading the papers much since ’39.

  Harry Madrid caught Cassidy’s eye. “A picture is just a picture, Lewis. Neither good nor evil, just a lot of paint daubed on a canvas a few hundred years ago. Generations have lived and died, the art endures. I guess it’s a good place to put your money.”

  “It’s all stolen. They leave trails of blood and pain—”

  “Appropriated,” MacMurdo said. “Not stolen. Spoils of war. Don’t get worked up about it.”

  A Vermeer was sold.

  “I hope they’re fakes. Worthless.”

  “With Gizmo in the deal, hell. He probably painted the goddamn things himself.” MacMurdo looked at the room again. Benedictus was standing off to one side watching Not Me Nicholson drive up a bid.

  MacMurdo said: “I think this shindig is just about over. Now’s the time for us to make a fairly obvious departure.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m not leaving—”

  “Relax, pard. We’re coming right back.”

  MacMurdo pulled the car off the road a couple of hundred yards from the gate. Cassidy turned to his wife: “Karin, I wish you’d—”

  “I’m coming with you.” She got out of the car and slammed the door, stood waiting. “Don’t you understand? I can’t let MacMurdo out of my sight. …”

  The rest of them got out and joined her. Together, MacMurdo and Cassidy in the lead, they walked back to the house. The last of the buyers drove past them. MacMurdo raised his hand like John Wayne halting the cavalry. They moved deep into the shadows.

  Not Me Nicholson was standing in the doorway under the light. He was talking with Benedictus, who had changed clothes. Now he wore lace-up boots, jodhpurs, a leather flying jacket. A costume for every occasion. What, Cassidy wondered, was the occasion? Another opening, another show.

  Not Me went to a black Packard, backed it around, and drove out through the gate. What did that make him? One of those peculiar supporting players, never out of work, on his way to the next picture, fitting smoothly into the next story? Maybe on another soundstage he’d be the lead’s best friend … or did Ronnie Reagan get that part? Well, there’d always be a part for Not Me. … The taillights blinked out of sight, like a dream ending.

  It began to rain. Softly. Cassidy heard it, the big soft drops, plopping onto the leaves. The front door was shut. Just behind the rumble of thunder there was the whirring grind of an airplane engine turning over.

  “Time to go,” MacMurdo said.

  They followed the edge of the driveway as far as the corner of the house, then cut across the wet grass until they reached the patio. The French doors stood open. It was raining harder. Across the landing strip the fog was beginning to form at the tree line, rolling slowly toward them.

  The plane Cassidy couldn’t identify, the one with the twin tail assembly, was feathering a prop. The pilot was barely visible in the cockpit.

  Tash Benedictus came out of the hangar. He was carrying something in a gunnysack, swinging it from a clenched fist. A fistful of minotaur.

  “Tash, old boy! Going somewhere?”

  MacMurdo stepped out of the shadows, huge, like an animal with mayhem in mind.

  “Why, yes,” Benedictus said, calling through the rain spattering the leather jacket. “I’m going somewhere.”

  MacMurdo slowly shook his massive head, the light shining on the dark blond waves. “No, my friend. You’re gonna have to change your plans.”

  Cassidy felt Karin tugging him back. “Stay here,” she said. “Let him do it—”

  He yanked free of her hand, stepped out of the shadow, the backup man. That’s what it said on the walking stick Terry Leary had given him. … Terry Leary. Cassidy’s hand was on the butt of the .38 in his pocket. It always came down to this. He hated it. It was enough to make you swear off the movies forever.

  “Can’t, old boy. Can’t change these plans.”

  There was a movement; Cassidy caught it just at the corner of his vision, a man coming out of the black mouth of the hangar. He raised his hand, another bit player, who came on at the end, pointed his finger in their direction.

  MacMurdo said, “Shit,” a long hiss of irritation, a regret, an inconvenience, and he was falling backward, landing on his back. As he hi
t the ground his automatic appeared in his hand, he rolled toward the gunman, braced his elbow on the ground, and squeezed off one shot.

  The man in the hangar’s mouth flopped over backward, his heels beating on the ground as he died. Only then did the two shots explode in Cassidy’s head. He’d recognized the man in the instant his face was in the light. Porter. The man from the castle in Maine, the man who’d wakened them that night in the woods, in the snow.

  “Same fucking leg,” MacMurdo said. There was blood staining his pants, a shredded hole in the fabric. He took a deep breath and stood up, waving Cassidy’s hand away. “Stop that bastard!”

  Benedictus was running for the plane. One propeller was only a silvery blur, the other cranking slowly. Suddenly he stopped, turned, set the gunnysack down, hampered by having only one arm. He drew the Luger. He fired at MacMurdo. Cassidy heard the slug smack into MacMurdo, saw him driven backward. Karin screamed and Harry Madrid pulled her down, sheltering her. Five, six, seven seconds since the first bullet had found MacMurdo.

  Cassidy had his automatic in his hand. One part of his brain wanted to slow it all down because he was going to enjoy this next bit.

  He fired once at Tash Benedictus, hit him. He fired again, missed, fired again, and chopped him to one knee.

  MacMurdo took two steps, staggered, his face white with pain, dripping rain, fell, crawled to a palm tree, leaned back against it, breathing deeply.

  Benedictus was leaking blood that looked black. A chest wound was soaking through his shirt. The leather jacket hung open. Somehow he forced himself upright. He was half dead and fresh out of hope, but he didn’t seem to know there was no coming back now. Cassidy watched, sickened, disbelieving, as he lifted the Luger, drew a bead on the gasping MacMurdo.

  Cassidy shot Benedictus again, watched his face disappear. He was blown backward, the gun flying away, the body sprawling awkwardly, doubling back on himself.

  The plane was edging around, both props whipping the rain, the first wisps of fog, the pilot coming into view again.

  MacMurdo was on his feet again, somehow indestructible. From the shadows Karin broke away from Harry Madrid, grabbed at MacMurdo. He swiped at her as if she were yet another irritation on what had become a tough night. His paw knocked her down.

  MacMurdo hobbled out toward the body of Tash Benedictus. The rain had turned to blowing sheets, bouncing hard off the fuselage and wings, forming a blowing spray as it was caught in the propellers.

  MacMurdo was picking up the gunnysack, cradling the minotaur.

  What was going on?

  Karin was on her feet again. Harry Madrid was pointing at something. Cassidy turned, looked.

  A black Packard was moving out of the shadows at the edge of the airstrip.

  What the hell was going on? Who was in the car?

  Karin had run out toward the retreating figure of Sam MacMurdo. He was moving away from her, holding tight to the minotaur. The gunnysack was smeared with blood. The plane was broadside to them now, the door banging open midway down the length of the fuselage.

  Karin clung to MacMurdo; she was screaming at him, clawing at him, all the words drowned out by the roar of the plane’s engines.

  The Packard slid forward and as it rolled to a stop the door swung open. Not Me Nicholson hit the ground running. In the back of the car, almost hidden, was someone else, a man wearing a homburg, a shadow.

  “Lewis!” Not Me was shouting. “Stop him! Stop MacMurdo!” Not Me was holding a gun. Everybody had a gun these days.

  MacMurdo’s voice came from far away, near the froth blown back from the props. “Get back!” he screamed. “Get back!”

  Cassidy could barely hear anyone. He looked at Karin, caught in a tableau with MacMurdo. Was he trying to keep her out of the thrashing blades?

  “Stop him!”

  Rain sweeping across, bearing fog.

  MacMurdo, yanking away from Karin, turned and fired wildly at Nicholson. The slug spun off the radiator and smashed the Packard’s windshield.

  Nicholson returned fire.

  Cassidy screamed. “You’ll hit Karin!” He threw himself at Not Me, knocking him sideways.

  MacMurdo hurled Karin to the ground again and ran, hobbling painfully, limping and stumbling with an insane strength and will toward the plane, the beckoning door. He was close to it now, clutching the minotaur, ten feet of wind and rain to go.

  Nicholson fired again, drilled a hole in the fuselage.

  MacMurdo had reached the doorway, the hatchway; with a great swinging arc he threw the wrapped minotaur into the plane. Then he lifted himself with the power of his immense arms halfway into the plane. As he pulled himself aboard Nicholson fired again and put another hole in the fuselage.

  Karin slipped in the rain, fell, was on her feet again, running blindly toward the plane as it finally began to move slowly away from her.

  MacMurdo looked back almost casually from the doorway as if he were about to wave. Cassidy was running after Karin as the plane taxied away toward the fog. He heard Nicholson panting behind him, heard the explosion near his head as Nicholson fired again at the plane.

  It was moving faster now and MacMurdo, for some reason deep in the folds of his own psyche, turned and took one final careful shot.

  Karin stumbled, fell in the mud.

  Harry Madrid puffed past, following Nicholson, both of them still firing at the plane, hoping for one lucky shot. The rain was pounding down and the plane was gathering speed. Cassidy could hardly see it in the fog now.

  The moment he saw her face he knew it was all happening again. He was going to lose her. She was dying. He had seen it all before. The good-bye look.

  He held her and kissed her in the tears and the rain and she whispered into his ear. “I’m almost out of time, Lew, it’s getting dark. … I’m so cold, so wet, hold me, and listen. … Elisabeth, Elisabeth … the locket … MacMurdo hid her from me. … That’s why I had to stick with him, that’s what he had of mine, listen to me, I’ve got to tell you this, Lewis, it’s important, it’s more important than my life. … It’s all up to you now, you have to find her now. … That’s why he tried to kill me, he didn’t want me to tell you, he knew you’d never stop looking. … That’s how he made me do all this, he said it was the only way I’d ever see her again. … Now it’s up to you. … It’s all right now. … Don’t cry, Lew, I’m so tired, Lew, and we did find each other again. … It’s all right now, I love you, you’re alive, you’ll find her, I’ll be with you, promise me you’ll find her and you’ll tell her I loved her. …” She lapsed into exhaustion, dead weight, Cassidy held her, knelt rocking her in his arms, feeling the life and the blood pumping out of her.

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, yes,” she sighed. “Take my hand.”

  “Elisabeth? Who is she?”

  Karin smiled, eyes closed. “Our daughter, my darling … Elisabeth is our daughter. … I couldn’t tell you then, you’d have tried to come to Germany and you couldn’t. … She’s yours and mine, Lewis. … Now hold me, Lew, help me get through this last part, you’re not losing me, we’re together, now just hold me while I let go. … Kiss me, Lew. …”

  He kissed her and got her blood all over his mouth, tasted her, tasted her for the last time as the strength left her and by the time he realized Not Me Nicholson and Harry Madrid were kneeling beside him she had slipped away, she was gone, Karin was gone, truly dead and gone at last. …

  And Lew Cassidy was alone.

  But not quite.

  As she’d left, Karin had passed him another life in trust. A reason to live. A reason to try to understand what it was all about.

  Elisabeth.

  Their daughter.

  Someone, the man in the back of the Packard, had come to stand beside them. He was offering a blanket, shyly, diffidently. “Here,” he said. “For your wife, Mr. Cassidy.” He handed the blanket to Cassidy, who spread it over Karin’s body.

  “Who the hell are you?”
>
  Cassidy blinked at the rain and tears. Somehow he had come to hold the gold locket in his hand. He looked at Not Me. “Who is this guy? I’m on the wrong goddamn page.”

  None of it made sense, but none of it mattered, not anymore. Elisabeth. She was all that mattered now. “Who are you, pal?” He looked up at the man in the homburg and the shapeless gray topcoat. He couldn’t see any face at all.

  “For the moment,” the man said, “think of me as a man called Vulkan.”

  CASSIDY

  ANOTHER NEW YEAR’S EVE. THE LAST hours of the last year of the war. 1945.

  The clock was running out and the brave new postwar world was waiting and later on that night someone was dropping by with a message for me. It seemed to me that I had to prepare myself. I wanted to be ready. I’d better be ready.

  The rest of my life, such as it was, depended on my being ready.

  It was snowing again. It wasn’t Maine and it wasn’t a Connecticut country house with the bad guys coming through the snow crust with guns. It was Manhattan this time and it wasn’t a blizzard. It was just a soft, thick snowfall on a crisp December night. I was looking down at Park Avenue, watching the headlights probe at the snow and the streetlamps growing exquisite, fragile halos. It was very pretty.

  I’d given up my place in Washington Square. It was full of memories of Cindy and Karin and besides old Terry needed me. Oh, sure, Terry Leary made it. I should have known he would. He lived through the operations and got out of a couple of the casts and we flew him back from Los Angeles, got him home on Christmas Eve.

  Dr. Lang worthy’s fears came true. I said my prayers but I prayed for him to live. I couldn’t pray for him to die. Not Terry. I prayed for him and he lived: I loved him and I didn’t want to go on without him. There’s a moral in there somewhere. Probably something like Don’t Screw Around with Prayer Unless You’re Prepared to Be Right. It would make a good sampler for out at the county home.

  He wasn’t going to be winning any dancing contests. He wasn’t going to be standing up much anymore, for that matter. But maybe, in time, we could get him into a wheelchair. If we were lucky.