Onyx removed the blindfold and looked out the window to see Ulrich standing next to a convertible sports car. Ulrich had apparently lost his mind.
“This is not just any sports car,” Ulrich said when Onyx stepped out of the lighthouse. “This is a Mercedes Benz 540 K Special, made in Berlin where I grew up. It has 180 horsepower, Onyx, can you imagine? No other car made has even half that. What I wouldn’t give for my old friends in Berlin to see me cruising down the autobahn in this!”
“What then, Ulrich? If they could see you in this car, what then?” Onyx asked.
“Then they would see what a success I have made of myself.”
“No, Ulrich,” Onyx said, shaking her head. “What they would see is what a fool you have become. Tell me, how much did this special car of yours cost us?”
Ulrich said nothing.
“Tell me, Ulrich!” Onyx yelled. “I am your wife, and I have a right to know.”
“Ten thousand,” Ulrich said finally.
“Dear God, Ulrich,” Onyx said as the shock of such an enormous amount washed over her. “You didn’t win this money in a card game. How did you get this money? Tell me.”
“Okay, you are right,” Ulrich said. “The truth is I stole it.”
“From those men who came to our room in San Francisco?” Onyx said.
Ulrich nodded.
“If you did not meet these men in a card game, then where did—?”
“They are mobsters, Onyx,” Ulrich said.
Onyx sat down on the front lighthouse stairs. “How much did you steal from them? Really?”
Ulrich sat down on the stairs next to Onyx. “A little over $32,000.” Ulrich said, finding himself oddly relieved at having finally shared the truth with his wife. “But you must understand—”
“What if they come after us again?” Onyx asked. “Here? To our lighthouse?”
“They’re from Las Vegas, Onyx, a thousand miles away. They’ll never find us here.”
“How much of this $32,000 do you still have?” Onyx asked.
“I’m not sure,” Ulrich said.
“Where is it?” Onyx asked. “Where do you keep it?”
“It is in a box—under our bed, beneath the floorboards.”
“Show me,” Onyx said, pulling herself to her feet. “This very instant, Ulrich. Show me the money.”
“And this is all of it?” Onyx said once the cash had been retrieved from its hiding place and counted.
“Yes, Onyx, that is all of it,” Ulrich said, suddenly wishing he’d hidden the money in two places rather than just the one.
The amount left in the box was $8,915.
Ulrich found himself feeling sick at how little cash was left. But when he thought about it, the expenditures added up pretty fast since they left the hell-hole of the Open Arms Orphanage. Between food, gas, hotels, and the occasional card game after Onyx had gone to sleep for the night, they’d run through at least $5,000 by the time they’d arrived in Crimson Cove. Add to that the $5,800 Ulrich had put down on the lighthouse, and a third of the money was gone.
Then Ulrich went on his spending rampage, topped off by the $10,800 for the Mercedes Benz, and the amount was quickly reduced by half.
When Onyx closed the metal box and began to leave the room, Ulrich asked, “Where are you taking it, Onyx?”
“Somewhere you can’t get your hands on it,” Onyx said. “Where do you think?”
Chapter Five
Wheeling, Illinois
November 29, 1962
Crooner Eddie Fisher was halfway through his opening act, with Dean Martin scheduled up next, followed by Sammy Davis Jr. Then, after the crowd was loud, loose, and liquored up, the evening’s headliner—Frank Sinatra, the Sultan of Swoon—would take the stage.
Fisher finished singing one of his hits, “Shalom,” then launched into a boisterous version of “Arrivederci Roma” as a waitress arrived with a tray of appetizers and two bottles of Chianti.
“Smart guy, that Eddie,” Sal Tombo said. “Got the Jews and the Italians all wrapped up with just two songs.”
“Too sappy for my tastes,” Chuckie Bags said as he turned to the waitress. “But the chickadees, they eat it up. Ain’t that right, doll?”
“Can I ask you gentlemen a question?” the waitress asked. “The guy that was here before, the tall thin one. Is his name Milwaukee Phil?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Phil Spilatro. Why? You got business with him?”
“You could say that,” the waitress said. “Creep slid his business between my legs seven years ago and left me with a kid. Is he coming back?”
“What’s your name?” Fat Sal asked.
“Mary Ann. Mary Ann Mungehr from Wisconsin.”
“Well, listen up, Mary Ann Whatever,” Fat Sal said. “I got no reason to doubt you. Everyone knows Philly ain’t no angel. But don’t go making a scene, okay? Not tonight. This is Sammy Giancana’s night, with the grand reopening and all, so there’s not going to be any show goin’ on other than the one on that stage, capiche?”
“Yeah, well if he comes back, tell him not to leave,” Mary Ann said and then stormed off.
“Jesus, Phil’s got another kid?” Tommy asked.
“What does that make, six? Eight?” Chuckie Bags said.
“Frickin’ kid is going to be the death of me,” Sal Tombo said.
Tommy had learned to tolerate most of the shenanigans committed by his fellow mobsters, including lying, cheating, stealing, and even the necessity for the occasional hit. But kids born out of wedlock? Single moms on their own? Nothing pissed him off more.
An instant later, Tommy wasn’t thinking about Mary Ann, Milwaukee Phil, or anything else. Because standing by the side of the stage—dressed in a dark blue suit—was a man he hadn’t seen in almost twenty years.
The years hung from the guy’s shoulders a bit, and his face had a few new lines. Besides that, he looked exactly as he had the last time Tommy had seen him.
It was Declan Mulvaney.
Declan couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw Tommy Bilazzo winding his way through the sea of tables toward the stage.
“Holy crap. Tommy?”
“In the flesh,” Tommy said, reaching his hand toward Declan. “Long time, huh?”
Declan ignored the outstretched hand and gave Tommy a big bear hug. “What in the hell are you doing here, Tom?”
“Me? I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“I’m with Frankie,” Declan said.
“Frankie?” Tommy said. “You’re with Sinatra?”
“Yeah, I’m working a gig as part of his security crew,” Declan said. “I’ve been with him going on ten years now. What about you? God, you look good.”
Tommy turned and motioned toward the booth in the rear of the club. “I been doin’ pretty much the same thing as you—for Sal Tombo.”
“Jesus, don’t tell me you’re running with the mob?” Declan said.
“What, like you ain’t?” Tommy said.
“You got a point,” Declan said. Rumors that Sinatra was connected with the mafia had circulated, including the suggestion that Frankie’s career-changing role in From Here to Eternity, had come about only after a bit of arm-twisting.
“I don’t get involved in the dirty stuff,” Tommy said. “Just odd jobs here and there. So how’d you hook up with Sinatra?”
Declan explained that when Sinatra had been offered the role in From Here to Eternity, the studio ran an ad in Variety looking for someone with military experience to help Sinatra bring authenticity to the role.
“After the war, I was working in the San Fernando Valley cleaning pools,” Declan said, “and I see a copy of Variety lying on one of the chaises. I flipped through the magazine, just for the hell of it, and I see the ad.”
“And what? You just called and they hired you?”
“Pretty much,” Declan said.
“So, I gotta ask. Whatever happened to Mohawk Joe? Last time I saw you, you were handcuffed
and being dragged away by Military Police with the drunken Injun from that bar at the train station in Helena, Montana.”
“Long story for another time,” Declan said, dodging the question. After all, how many people did Declan want to admit to having murdered?
Tommy and Declan were interrupted by thunderous applause as Eddie Fisher wrapped his set and Dean Martin took the stage.
“Come on, I’ll introduce you to Fat Sal,” Tommy said.
Tommy walked Declan to the back booth and said, “Sal, this is my good friend, Declan Mulvaney.”
Fat Sal laid his fork down and reached his beefy hand toward Declan, who shook it.
“Good friend, huh?” Phil Spilatro said, walking up with a drink in each hand. “How come we never heard of you?”
“I’m guessing it’s for the same reason I don’t tell people about Tommy,” Declan said. “We’re both trying to leave the past behind us and start anew. That and the fact that we murdered a Catholic priest and don’t want to implicate each other in the crime by talking about it.”
Sal Tombo and Chuckie Bags broke into immediate laughter. “That’s a good one,” Fat Sal said. “Tommy’s the biggest pussy on my crew. I can’t get the big palooka to so much as beat anyone up, let alone kill ‘em.”
“You FBI?” Milwaukee Phil asked.
“What in the hell kind of question is that, Phil?” Tommy said. “I walked him back here, didn’t I? That means I’m vouching for him, so he ain’t FBI.”
“Phil’s not talking about the bureau, Tommy,” Chuckie Bags said. “He’s asking if Mulvaney is Foreign-Born Irish.”
“Some people like the Irish,” Phil said. “Me? I personally don’t care too much for the shamrock waving—”
“Did I mention Declan is here with Frankie?” Tommy said, interrupting Phil before he said something he might regret.
“Frankie? Frankie who?” Milwaukee Phil asked.
“Sinatra, you dumb shit,” Tommy said. “Who do you think?”
Fat Sal realized the potential mess he was in. Mulvaney was a member of Sinatra’s inner circle, and Sinatra was thick as thieves with Fat Sal’s boss, Sammy Giancana. If any of Phil’s stupid comments made their way back to Giancana or Sinatra, there would be hell to pay.
“What do you do for Frankie?” Chuckie Bags asked.
“Security, same as you, except I don’t carry. Frankie doesn’t care much for guns,” Declan said.
“Phil, do me a favor and get Declan a drink,” Fat Sal said. “Declan, what are you drinking?”
“I don’t give a shit if Paddy McClover here is bunking with the Pope, I ain’t—”
“That’s enough, Phil,” Fat Sal snapped. “I apologize for my associate. No friend of Frankie’s should have to put up with that kind of shit, Irish or not.”
“I don’t drink when I’m working,” Declan said, “but I’ll take a water.”
“Philly, go get Declan a glass of water,” Fat Sal said. “Now.”
“Fine,” Phil said, knowing he’d pushed things a bit too far. But before he could slide out of the booth, the waitress—Mary Ann—walked up and blocked his way.
“Remember me?” Mary Ann asked.
Chapter Six
Lily Dale, New York
July 11, 2010
Dane Luckner’s funeral was not a typical funeral so much as it was a celebration of life, centered around a picnic on the lake, with food, speeches by friends and family who knew Dane best, and music—most of which Koda knew Dane would have hated.
Bruce Mulvaney found the atmosphere disconcerting, finding an excuse to leave immediately after lunch was served and having paid his personal condolences to Dane’s parents. Koda was not surprised. This type of thing was typical of his father. And, in truth, Koda was grateful his father had bothered to make the trip at all.
But Koda was surprised when Mika decided to leave, too.
“Flying back with your dad is a great opportunity to make plans for the Sip & Smoke charity event,” Mika said. “Besides, I don’t do camping. Sleeping in that excuse of a bed at the Leolyn Hotel was worse than sleeping on the ground in Rhodesia.”
“You’ve been to Rhodesia?” Robyn asked.
“No, but I can imagine,” Mika said, lighting a cigarette. “I don’t have to worry about leaving the two of you alone, do I?”
“What?” Robyn said, embarrassed.
“You know, some kind of rebound thing—having just lost Dane and all?” Mika said. “I’ve got all the competition I can handle with this imaginary girl in the mirror thing.”
“Jesus, Mika,” Koda snapped.
But Mika was already walking away, wisps of smoke filling the air behind her.
“I’m sorry, Robyn,” Koda said. “Mika can be a real—”
“It’s okay, forget it,” Robyn said.
“Thanks.”
Koda was relieved Mika was leaving, becoming tired of her constant demands—not to mention he was pretty sure that the mile of media vans parked outside the front gates of Lily Dale were there because Mika told them she and Koda were going to be there.
“Come on, everyone,” Ingrid Luckner called out. “It’s time to write messages to Dane.”
“This is different,” Robyn said as she and Koda were each given a pen, a piece of parchment paper, and two helium balloons.
“Yeah,” Koda said. “I heard next we’re going to the lake at sunset and putting Dane’s body on a wooden raft and—”
Koda saw Robyn quickly look away. “I’m sorry. Bad attempt at a joke. And just when you thought it was safe to go to a funeral.”
“It just caught me off guard, that’s all,” Robyn said. “But since you brought it up, no one has said a word about where he’s buried. Has anyone said anything to you?”
Koda shook his head. “No, not a word.”
Koda and Robyn finished writing their messages in silence and tied the notes to the bottom of their balloons. Then they joined the group at the edge of the lake and released them into the air.
“People come here with an expectation," Paul said as he and Ingrid placed ceramic plates on the dining room table. “That’s why it works.”
“An expectation of what?” Robyn asked.
“That they will connect with a loved one,” Ingrid said.
“And do they?” Koda asked.
“Not always,” Paul said. “But even when they don’t, they usually leave with a sense of peace. Even if they haven't heard from someone who’s passed, they feel their spirit around them, and that’s enough.”
“You know I don’t believe in any of this, right?” Koda said. “And misleading people for the purposes of entertainment is cruel.”
“Yes, I know you don’t believe. Dane told us,” Ingrid said. “But if you think what Paul and I do is entertainment, then you don’t understand.”
“Ingrid and I are not psychics, Koda,” Paul said. “We don't tell the future by reading tea leaves or using tarot cards—not that there is anything wrong with either of those things in the right hands. We’re mediums.”
“And the difference between you and Vooubasi is…?”
“Yes, Mr. Vooubasi,” Paul said. “We know about what happened.”
“You don’t just know what happened,” Koda said. “You had Dane send me to him. You recommended him. I was like a lamb being led to slaughter—a very public, televised slaughter.”
Robyn placed her hand on Koda’s arm and gave him a look. “I’m sure that—”
“No, it’s okay, dear,” Ingrid said. “Koda has every right to be angry. And the truth is, some mediums—even a few who reside here within the assembly—are charlatans. The saddest part is, if the fakes and frauds among us put as much energy into connecting with the dead as they do perfecting their trickery—like Mr. Vooubasi—they could actually help people.”
“So why did you send me to him then?” Koda said.
“That was a mistake,” Paul said.
“You think?” Koda asked, his voice dripping with
sarcasm.
“We were sucked in by what we had heard. He fooled us, too,” Ingrid said. “We hope you can forgive us.”
Koda gave a slight nod.
“In any case, we’d like it very much if the two of you would be willing to stay the night. There’s someone special visiting the assembly tomorrow and we’d like you to hear her speak.”
Koda shook his head. “I’ve had the plane waiting all day, we’ve really got to—”
“I think you should stay, Koda,” Ingrid said. “You too, Robyn. You should both stay the night.”
“I’m off tomorrow,” Robyn said.
“Please stay, Koda,” Ingrid said. “Dane would want you to.”
Koda found himself in Dane’s room, sleeping in Dane’s bed for a second night, drifting from one disjointed dream to the next, as most dreams tend to be.
Then he felt the thump on the bed and woke up.
Koda sat up and looked at the foot of the bed and saw what looked like a dog, just sitting there looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for something. Koda reached out to pet the dog’s head—but his hand went right through it.
Koda pulled his hand back quickly, his heart pounding.
For a brief moment, Koda considered the possibility he was still dreaming, but he knew that was only wishful thinking.
No, he was awake.
And there was a ghost dog on his bed.
The dog tilted his head to the side, released a barely audible bark, and then jumped off the bed and ran toward the bedroom door—and directly through it.
“What the—”
Koda pulled the covers back and walked to the door and hesitated. What was he doing? There was no reason to pursue the ghostly creature, but Koda couldn’t help himself.
Koda opened the door and stepped into the darkened hallway and glanced in each direction. Sure enough, there was the dog, about twenty feet down the hall, sitting at the base of what looked like a bathroom or closet door.
“What do you want?” Koda whispered.
The dog reached his paw out and scratched at the door.
Onyx Webb: Book Three Page 3