HIS OTHER SON

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  “I can find my own way to the library, Bert. Don’t trouble yourself.”

  “It’s no trouble, sir, I assure you,” Edwards said, his voice heavy with irony.

  “No, I’m sure it’s not,” Ray said, and started to follow.

  The main staircase was shaped like a horseshoe with the stairs coming down on either side of the hall. At the top was a landing with a long corridor leading from it. As he passed under it Ray glanced up.

  “This isn’t a fancy dress party, is it?” he said.

  “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

  Stock shook his head but walked back to the centre of the hall where he could get a clear view of the landing. The landing was brightly lit and empty, yet just before he passed under it Ray was sure there had been a figure standing there. A figure wearing a robe similar to a monk, complete with cowl to cover the head. He stood for a full minute staring up at the landing but no one appeared. He shook his head and followed Edwards through to the library.

  The room was just as he remembered it. A large dark room, the air pungent with the smell of stale cigar smoke and musty old books. There was an unlit fire made up in the grate and over in the corner a small bar, a touch totally out of character with the room. Books covered two walls while a third was given over to a six-foot by three-foot oil painted portrait of Ray Stock’s father, Randolph Stock.

  Stock left Edwards by the door and walked across to the portrait, standing before it, his hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his Levis in a subconscious gesture of defiance. “Hello, you callous old bastard,” he said quietly. He heard a click behind him and turned to see that Edwards had gone and had shut the door.

  Ray poured himself two fingers of Chivas Regal at the bar and sat down in one of the two club chairs that flanked the fireplace. On a side table next to the chair was an ashtray with a half smoked Havana cigar, lying in a small nest of grey ash, and a magazine folded open on an article about diamond mining in the Transvaal. Evidence that his father had recently occupied this seat.

  He shifted uncomfortably then rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. The library was far enough away from the ballroom to render the sounds of the party almost inaudible. If he concentrated he could just pick out the melody of the tune the band had moved into. Evergreen. He sipped his whisky, put the glass down on the table next to the ashtray, and let himself drift for a while.

  It had been a long tiring day. At seven o’clock that morning he’d been out on the ocean with a group of Minnesota businessmen, schooling them in the art of game fishing. They’d been slow learners, and poor sailors. Three of them had thrown up over the side before they’d even left the harbour. He’d brought them back just after five in the afternoon, collected his money from the leader of the group, a small skinny man with a receding hairline and a more deeply receding chin. His name was Herb Whitehead; the rest of the group called him Sir, so Ray guessed he was their boss. Whitehead had wanted to book him for the following day and had been very put out when Stock told him no. It seemed that Herb Whitehead wasn’t used to people saying no to him. He offered Stock double the fee, but the refusal was the same and they’d parted company on less than amicable terms.

  He went back to the room he rented above Eddie Meeson’s chandlery and showered, then went down to the Red Snapper bar and got quickly drunk on a lethal mixture of bourbon and tequila. He remembered the blonde girl’s approach but remembered nothing more until the hotel room and the hour of passionate, but slightly desperate, sex that followed.

  A long tiring day. He hoped the night wouldn’t be so demanding but that, he knew, was just wishful thinking.

  “God, you look a mess.”

  He opened his eyes to see his older sister, Caroline, standing over him. He hadn’t heard her enter the room; he must have been dozing. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and got to his feet. “Hello, Caro,” he said yawning.

  She glared at him. “I thought you could have at least made an effort to look somewhere near human.”

  “You know your trouble, Caro, you’re a snob. Always judging people by the cut of their clothes and their Gucci shoes. I always felt you only married Martin Devereaux because he wore Armani suits and had his toupee trimmed at Vidal Sassoon’s.”

  She aimed a slap at his face but he caught her wrist mid-flight and lowered her arm gently. “I think, in the circumstances, we should at least try to be civil to each other, what do you say?”

  She wrenched her arm away and turned her back on him. “Christ, you’re impossible. I knew it was a mistake to invite you back here.”

  “Look why don’t you go out and come back in, and we can try again. I don’t want a war with you Caro. It was the old man I fell out with, not you.”

  “You turned your back on the family when you walked out of here. Not only father, but mother and me too. Do you really expect to be welcomed back here with a laugh and a song?”

  He picked up his drink and drained the remainder. “No, but I didn’t expect a re-enactment of world war two either. Why don’t you fix yourself a drink, sit down and we can talk this thing through.”

  For a moment more she stood there with her back to him, rigid, stiff and straight, then her shoulders sagged and began to shake and he realized she was crying. He reached out and took her arms, turning her to face him, then pulled her gently towards him and let her cry on his shoulder. They stood like that for half a minute then she pulled away, wiping the tears from her eyes with a delicately manicured hand.

  “You smell of fish,” she said.

  “Gets into the fibres, difficult to shift. Sorry.”

  “Your room’s upstairs just as you left it. There are still clothes of yours in the closet.”

  He sighed. “How is mother?”

  “Doctor Cooperman comes morning and evening to give her morphine. He seems to be at a loss, says she’s on borrowed time.”

  Caroline went to the bar and poured herself a vodka tonic. Ray watched her, noting that the years were not treating her kindly. Caroline still had her slender figure, but her raven hair was turning grey at the temples, expertly masked by undoubtedly expensive colouring, and the skin of her neck was starting to crepe. And there was a certain slowness of her movements that seemed to add about ten years to her own forty-one. She was dressed elegantly tonight for the party in a black designer creation, but even that seemed to age her. He felt a genuine pity for her as he watched her take her first sip of the drink. She turned to him. “Can I get you one?”

  “Chivas Regal. Please.” He held out his empty glass to her. She poured the whisky into a clean one and handed it to him.

  “I’d like to see her, Caro,” he said, as she came and sat down opposite him.

  “She’ll be sleeping now. The morphine, you know. Were you planning to stay the night? In the mornings, before Doctor Cooperman comes, she’s usually pretty alert.”

  “I haven’t made any plans. All I know about this is what you put in your note...which wasn’t particularly informative.”

  Caroline nodded slowly and took another sip of her drink. “Yes, I’m sorry I did that. You deserved to be told properly. I suppose I was feeling angry, angry at the whole damned world, and especially at you.”

  “Why especially at me?”

  “Because you’re not here, damn it!” she snapped. “You’re not here to bathe her, to clean up after her when she’s sick or incontinent. You’re not here to soothe her when she’s screaming out in pain. And because, Ray, you’re not here to love her, you’re not here to care.”

  Ray lowered his eyes and blew softly between pursed lips. “Whew, quite a speech,” he said.

  “Oh Christ, you’re just impossible.” Caroline swallowed the last of her vodka tonic and slumped back into her seat, staring at the books on the opposite wall as if in some mystical way they could absorb the anger and pain she was feeling.

  “I saw a monk on the landing earlier,” he said.

  Caroline j
erked in her seat and stared at him, saying nothing.

  “I didn’t think it was just my imagination,” he said. Her reaction told him he hadn’t imagined what he’d seen. “What’s a monk doing here?”

  “It wasn’t a monk.”

  “Sure looked like a monk to me. Robe and cowl, unless you’ve been redesigning the maid’s uniforms again.”

  “Don’t be flip. I told you it wasn’t a monk. It was probably one of the sisters.”

  He looked at her blankly, waiting for her to continue. When she said nothing more he said, “Sisters? Sorry, I think I’m missing something here. What kind of sisters? Sisters as in nuns, or what?”

  “You’ll have to talk to father about it. They’re here at his invitation. They’ve got nothing to do with me. Martin is absolutely furious about all this. He’s taken legal advice, but John Bailey, his attorney, says there’s nothing we can do about it, as long as they’re here at father’s request.”

  Ray pushed himself up from his chair and began to pace the floor. “Look, Caro, could you please start from the beginning and tell me what the hell is going on here?”

  “I’m not going to talk to you while you’re prowling around like an angry lion. Sit down and I’ll start at the beginning, when mother’s illness was first diagnosed.”

  He stared at her for a long moment then shrugged and sat back down in the chair opposite her. “Okay, I’m sitting. Now start talking.”

  “It started when mother fell ill. Oh yes, and when mother decided Frank wasn’t dead after all.”

  “Guy’s a wiseass,” Carl Anders muttered. “If he wasn’t Stock’s son I’d…”

  “Carl, you’re full of shit,” Phil Ryker said amiably. “If Ray wanted to he could break you into little pieces and put you back together with your ears sticking out your ass. You’ve got an attitude problem, that’s all. You’ll grow out of it.”

  Anders glared at the older man, but further discussion was halted by Martin Devereaux, who appeared between them in the doorway.

  “We have a problem, Ryker. Three clowns who think it’s smart to snort some cocaine. They’re upstairs in the west wing washroom.”

  “You want them out?”

  “I don’t want filth like that in my house.” Devereaux was a small thin man, with a sallow complexion and cold blue eyes. When he was angry, spots of red appeared at his cheeks, giving him a fevered look, and his nostrils flared. They were flaring now.

  Ryker turned to Anders. “You deal with it, Carl.”

  “And for God’s sake be discreet,” Devereaux said. “Police Commissioner Marks looks like he might be leaving soon. I don’t want any unfortunate crossing of paths.”

  A slow smile crept across Carl Anders’ face. Perhaps it wasn’t going to be such a dull evening after all. He moved inside the house but hadn’t taken two steps before Phil Ryker gripped his arm and tugged him back. “Remember, Carl. Discreet. Be gentle.”

  Anders grinned satanically.

  Martin Devereaux watched Anders’ retreating back and frowned. “Do you think he’s up to the job?” he said. “I sometimes wonder why we employ thugs like him.”

  “With respect, sir, Anders isn’t a thug. And I take full responsibility for the men under my command.”

  Devereaux sniffed imperiously. “Yes, well you’re not in the army now, Ryker.”

  “Police, sir.”

  “What?”

  “I was in the police, sir, not the army.”

  Devereaux wasn’t listening. His attention was focused on a shiny black stretch limo that was cruising up the drive towards the house. “Yes, well, whatever,” he said absently. “Now who the hell is this?”

  Ryker followed his gaze and saw the car stop. The doors opened and two figures stepped out, both small, both dressed in white robes. They waited obediently at the side of the car, their heads lowered as a third figure emerged from the passenger seat.

  The first thing Ryker and Devereaux noticed about him was his size. The man was only short, about five eight but he must have crushed the scales at about three hundred and fifty pounds. His head was completely hairless and his neck was camouflaged by three great rolls of fat. His body was sheathed in a flowing white silk robe and he wore heavy framed dark glasses. He heaved himself out of the car and looked towards the house, though Ryker and Devereaux couldn’t be sure if he was looking at them because the lenses of his glasses were impenetrable. He made a quick birdlike flutter of his hands and the two robed figures fell into line behind him, then, with an almost ponderous grace, he started towards the house.

  “Looks like the circus has come to town,” Phil Ryker said, out of the side of his mouth.

  Martin Devereaux shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Have you seen my wife?” he said.

  “In the library, sir, with Mr. Stock junior.”

  Devereaux spun round sharply. “Ray Stock? Here, in this house? Has the old man been told?”

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  Devereaux glanced back at the unlikely procession heading towards the house. “Look, you deal with this. I’m going to find Mrs. Devereaux. I want to know what the hell is going on here tonight. This was meant to be a party to celebrate my daughter’s eighteenth birthday, and I haven’t seen her for the last two hours, let alone her mother. And now this.” He gestured towards the fat man and his entourage, who were within yards of the house. “There are some very important friends of mine here tonight and I’m not about to be humiliated in front of them. Ray Stock!” he said, and Phil Ryker stared at him in wonder that Devereaux could imbue two simple words with so much venom.

  Devereaux glared back at Ryker challengingly, then spun round and headed back across the entrance hall. Phil Ryker shook his head slowly then turned his attention to the procession. He raised his hands and said, “Whoa, hold on there, folks. This is a private party; may I see your invitations?”

  “So who is this Dr Romodon? Have you ever met him?” Ray said, pouring himself yet another drink at the bar. The Chivas Regal on top of an empty stomach was having a mild anaesthetizing effect on him, and his thoughts were getting woolly.

  Caroline still sat in the club chair, poised, her hands folded in her lap. “He’s the head of the Church of the Divine Light, more than that I haven’t a clue. And no, I’ve never met him. When mother used to go to the meetings she’d leave at lunchtimes and come back a little after six in the evening. I questioned Henderson, her chauffeur, about her visits, but all I got from him was that he took mother to a large house just off Calemaro Drive, where he’d sit outside in the car while she went in.”

  “And these sisters, are they nuns of some kind?”

  “Devotees, mother calls them. Not nuns in the real sense, not Brides of Christ. They talk of Dr Romodon as the Holy Father.”

  “So you don’t think it’s Christian based?”

  “Not at all. From what little I’ve managed to learn, it seems to be a mish mash of Buddhism, Hindu, and a dash of Shinto thrown in for taste.”

  “Eclectic.”

  “A put on,” Caroline said vehemently.

  “Yet they’re here with the old man’s blessing. I find that hard to swallow. He’s got no time for the more orthodox churches. Why should he suffer a cult like this one?”

  Caroline rose from her chair and stood in front of her father’s portrait. “He does more than suffer it. That’s why Martin’s so concerned. Mother was diagnosed just over a year ago. Since then a six-figure sum has been diverted to a bank in Ohio. Checks made out in father’s hand payable to one Dr S Romodon.”

  Ray raised his eyebrows. “I take it Martin asked the old man about it?”

  “Yes, and, if you’ll pardon the expression, got his balls chewed off. Father just told him that as major stockholder in the Yellow Beach Corporation, he could divert funds as and when he liked and didn’t have to ask permission of a, and I’ll use father’s exact words, a pernicious little asswipe of a vice-president who only enjoys that exalted title because he humps a
member of the family.”

  Ray smiled but tried to hide it with his glass. “I see dad’s lost none of his charm.”

  “Damn it, it’s not funny, Martin almost resigned.”

  “Only almost?”

  “Don’t you start. Martin doesn’t only have himself to consider. There’s me, and there’s Paula to think of.”

  “I didn’t bring her a present. She’s eighteen, right?”

  “She wasn’t expecting one, not from you.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Right, well let’s stop all this sniping and try and decide what we’re going to do about it.”

  Ray walked across to the window, parted the drapes and peered out at the floodlit grounds. From the library window he could see a broad expanse of lawn that swept down to a kidney shaped swimming pool. On the far side of the pool was the pool house, built in a kind of pseudo-Grecian style. The pool house also housed a sauna and fitness room. The lights were burning inside, suggesting that someone had got bored with the party and was making use of the facilities. He could use a sauna himself, to sweat some of the alcohol out of his system. Maybe later.

  “Well,” Caroline said. “Have you any suggestions?”

  Ray shrugged his wide shoulders and drained the last of his Chivas Regal. No more for you tonight, Ray boy. “My only suggestion would be for everyone to butt out and let mother and father get on with whatever it is they are getting on with.” He turned to face his sister who was staring at him as if he’d just slapped her.

  “I don’t think I heard you right,” she said.

  “Think again.”

  “But you can’t mean you’re going to do nothing about this?”

  He rested his knuckles on the windowsill trying to quell the tide of anger that was surging inside him. Staring at his reflection in the window he leaned forward until his head was touching the glass. It felt cool. It was always the bottom line, even now, with his mother upstairs dying of cancer. He hadn’t been asked to come here tonight to give comfort to the sick; he was here to add his weight to his sister’s argument. It had been the family curse for years. The relentless pursuit of wealth.