by Athanasios
The man’s even-tempered tone calmed Brian, though he stayed hidden.
“You’re dealing with things you do not understand and I can’t explain. Forget about what you think you saw. Let it remain a nightmare, which you’ll occasionally have. The reality is far worse than what you could imagine.”
- Fight, Fight -
TIME: FEBRUARY 10TH, 1963. IN FRONT OF WHITTIER MANSION, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, U.S.A.
Kosta sat in his Chevy cab, watching Whittier Mansion a Victorian monstrosity in Pacific Heights. For the past three hours, no one went in or out of the building. The tan brownstone was at the top of a hill and its walls looked like they had been carved from a single colossal stone. A portico was centered in the façade, framed by Corinthian columns and supporting a second storey balcony. Spaced on either side, and by the four corners, were turrets, spanning all three storeys. The roof was red tile and five chimneys randomly punctuated the roofline.
At the hall of records, Kosta discovered that since 1956 the California Historical Society looked after the Whittier Mansion. As officer of the same society, a Balzeer McGrath handled the society’s funding and all correspondence.
Kosta glanced behind him and saw only brown eyes and hair visible over the backrest of the front seat. Earlier, the boy showed enough courage to turn on the radio and they spoke above the low strains of hey-la-day-la my boyfriend’s back.
“So that’s it, huh?” The voice was plain, questioning. “That’s where these guys live? The guys who have been after us?” He’s gonna save my reputation, hey-la-day-la my boyfriend’s back. If I were you, I’d take a permanent vacation.
“Yes, that’s right.” Kosta remained focused on the structure as he answered the boy’s queries. “Are you scared? What are you feeling?”
“I feel like they’re calling me,” the boy answered honestly. Little Ronnie Specter quickly followed the Angels and pleaded, so won’t you please, be my little baby.
“It’s okay if you feel drawn to them. The choice will be yours. I can answer your questions, but I can do nothing more. Do you have any questions?”
“About them, you mean?” Adam nodded his head toward the mansion.
“Yes, about them. Who they are and why they’ve been after us?” Though he could not take his eyes off of the house, he hoped Adam would see that he was earnest about answering his questions.
“Why do they want me so badly? I don’t know them, so how do they know me?”
“You’re more than family, to them — you’re the reason they’re alive. They want to serve you.” Kosta was completely honest with Adam as he listened to the Crystals singing, Yes I’ll make him mine, da doo ron-ron-ron, da doo ron-ron.
“That doesn’t sound bad to me. Why are we running and hiding from them?”
“You know, you’re right. It doesn’t sound bad, but it is. They want you to act according to their prophecies.” Kosta wished that the da doo ron-ron-ron, da doo ron-ron would just end, but he resisted the urge to switch off the radio. Adam always seemed more comfortable when it was on.
“What’s prophecy?”
“It’s what people, a long time ago, said would happen.” Mercifully, the song ended and was followed by commercials, prompting Kosta to lower the volume.
“But it hasn’t happened, right?”
“Right.” Kosta knew that as soon as the music started again, unconsciously, Adam would turn up the volume, even amidst a deep conversation.
“So, how do they say it will happen?”
“They have, or their masters, like the Seekers, have made plans and believe it will happen.” Kosta waited as he listened to both Adam and the radio.
“Since it hasn’t happened, how do they believe this?”
“They believe without having to see it.” Kosta held up both hands in front of the boy. “Now, look at this.”
He opened both palms and showed Adam that he held a box of matches in one hand. Then he balled up each hand and turned his palms over, showing both fists.
“Now, where are the matches?” he asked.
“What are matches?” Adam asked, confused.
“The blue box that I was holding in my hand.”
“Well, they’re still in your hand,” Adam replied.
“How do you know that? You can’t see it.” The Exciters came on with knowing something about love, got gotta show it and make him see the moon up above, go out and get him.
“It was just there, so it must still be there.”
“You’re only saying that because you believe that it’s there, not because you can see that it’s still there.” Kosta watched as Adam turned up the radio.
“I understand. Ok, fine, so they believe they’re supposed to serve me, in order to be my family. That still doesn’t sound bad.”
“No, you’re right again. It doesn’t. Those people want to hurt other people. They want to hurt everybody.” The girls continued to echo Kosta with ever since the world began, it’s been that way for man.
“No! Why do they want to do that again?” Adam was upset by this answer. He could not understand why someone would want to hurt another person.
“They like to see the hurt and pain of others. They enjoy making others hurt.” Kosta tried to simplify the concept as much as possible.
“Why?” Adam was becoming increasingly alarmed by Kosta’s answers.
“When the fat businessman said that one day you would understand, why did you become so angry? Are you really sure that you want to hear more of this?” Kosta did not want to continue this discussion and hoped that Adam would agree. “This is making you feel bad inside and I don’t want to see that. Do you want to stop talking?”
“Yes, but when it doesn’t feel bad, could you tell me more?”
“Whenever you want to know, I’ll tell you, though I don’t want you to feel bad.” Kosta reached forward and turned off the radio, sighing at the quiet he knew would be all too brief.
“Ok, I’ll tell you,” Adam said, relieved. “Thank you.”
“What are you thanking me for?” Kosta was confused.
“You stopped the bad feelings.” Adam looked downcast. “Can I get a hug?”
“How do you know what a hug is?” Kosta was surprised at the question.
“I saw other kids getting them and giving them to their families. I know what they are.”
“Ok, if you want.” As soon as Kosta acquiesced, the boy flew at his neck and squeezed with an insistence that took their breath away. Kosta hugged him back, then pulled him into the front seat and held him in his lap for as long as he wanted, patting his back reassuringly. Several minutes passed before Adam let go, though he continued to sit in Kosta’s lap. He continued to cradle Adam and the boy didn’t mind at all.
TIME: FEBRUARY 17TH, 1963. BIG FOUR RESTAURANT, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, U.S.A
Sam Charon was waiting for his dinner companion who had failed to show. He took the liberty of ordering for both of them, so now he was stuck with two specials. He could probably finish both, but he didn’t want to. The half chicken was enough to satisfy him, but the whole, which would equal two specials, would be too much. He got the waitress’ attention, pointed to the empty scotch glass in front of him and held up two fingers, to which she nodded a yes.
Sam got respect from anyone with whom he spoke or dealt. He never demanded this respect — it was simply given. He got as good as he gave.
Once he finished his newly refilled drink, he called the waitress over and said politely, “Listen, sweetheart, I’m gonna pay for my order and you can go ahead and give it to somebody who can use it. I could stand to lose a few. Thanks, doll.”
Sam stood up, straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket as he walked away from the table. He headed towards the front door, but before he exited, he approached the hostess. “Pardon me, honey. If I may trouble you for a second, would I be able to use your phone?” The hostess smiled and answered with a swift, “Yes, you may, Mr. Charon,” then backed away from h
er podium to allow him a measure of privacy.
Sam dialed the number of his absent dinner companion and waited for three rings before someone on the other end responded, “Whittier Mansion, how may I help you?” The man’s voice was very professional and sterile. For some reason, Sam liked that. It pleased him that he did not have to engage this man with pleasantries. He went through most of his days, blowing smoke up peoples’ asses, so he welcomed any deviation from this routine.
“I want to talk to Balzeer McGrath. This is Sam Charon, phoning for Balzeer McGrath.” Sam waited through a few seconds of silence before hearing the expected rebuff. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. McGrath cannot come to the phone. Perhaps…”
“Perhaps not. To whom am I speaking?” Sam was prepared to unload his annoyance over the failed business meeting and didn’t care one iota about the poor sap on the other end of the line.
“My name is Floyd Sandiford, sir,” the voice responded with a tinge of cold distance, which Sam had not noticed earlier.
“Floyd, do you know who I am? I am the man who fixes Balzeer’s messes and I will speak to him pronto. Do you get me?” Sam did not raise his voice or change his tone, though he chose his words more carefully. “I don’t care with what horror you’ve been threatened. Put him on the phone, or you will be the next mess I fix.”
The voice on the other end did not respond to the open threat, but answered in the same non-tone that Sam had previously enjoyed. “Mr. Charon, I will see if he is taking any calls. Is there a number at which you can be reached?”
Sam replied, “Yes there is. It’s 666-you’re dead to me. That’s my number. You get him on the phone right now.” By this point, Sam was seething into the receiver.
“Just a second, sir. Mr. Balzeer will, in fact, take your call.” A silence followed, in which Sam could hear that the receiver was being handed to someone else, then the sound of a familiar voice, which quickly soothed Sam’s bruised ego. “Sam, what is so much of a problem that you must call me here?” Balzeer’s voice dripped with menace. In the past, he had repeatedly asked Sam this same question. “I contact you, Sam, not the other way around.”
“Hey, Balzeer, I know all that. You did contact me and I waited at the appointed place, but you didn’t show up for our meeting.” Sam knew this call was risky, and in explanation, he continued, “You always have urgent tasks for me, so I called to get further information. I wanted to begin my work without losing any time, setting up another meeting.”
“That’s very thoughtful. Your efficiency is matched only by your courage, but make no mistake, never call me again. Is that clear?”
Sam did not answer, but fumed. He did not lose his temper too often. In fact, he had not lost it in years. Control was very important to him, so he did not allow Balzeer’s haughty tone to anger him. He only fumed and kept quiet, trying to distract himself by watching the outside traffic. Fords, both old and new, and in many different colors, drove slowly past. Dodges and more Fords rumbled by, their drivers intent on the road. An old, grey and dusty Chevy cab stopped at a distance from where Sam sat, trying to soothe his bruised pride.
“Sam?” the voice on the phone brought his attention back to the conversation.
“Yes, Balzeer, you are clear. I understand and hope that you see why I had to go against something, about which you’ve already been clear in the past.”
“Sam, you’re at the Big Four?” Balzeer’s tone became searching, probing, in fact. “You’re looking at an old Chevy cab, is that right?”
Sam felt a chill run up his spine. Over the years he had spent performing unsavory tasks for McGrath, Sam experienced many unnatural, even extraordinary, events — people dying without apparent cause, as well as many other extraordinary things. Though there were no explanations for these events, there were indications of Balzeer’s direct involvement. Either through his presence, or through his knowledge of the person, or persons, he influenced and altered anyone and anything. This newest chill filled him with an accustomed dread and he waited for the voice to continue.
“Describe who gets out of the cab, Sam. I want every detail.”
“Nobody is getting out of the cab. It’s just sitting there. Now, could we go back to the reason why you needed to meet with me? I would like to get started right away.”
“In good time, Sam. I want you to tell me everything about the cab, down to the last detail. Leave nothing out.” Balzeer was being uncharacteristically civil with him. He usually used threats — bullying, at the very least — to get what he wanted. Since he paid well, Sam was willing to overlook his abrasive manner.
“It’s a neutral grey; looks like a 1956 Chevy. It’s a checker cab with single headlights, not the double lights that are out now. The grill has one massive chrome fixture that runs across the width of the front end. It’s got the old medallion on the front end that looks like the badge, not the new one that’s like the Caddie medallion. The bumper is the same as on newer models.” Sam rattled off a few more model differences, until he ran out of noticeable details.
“That is all you can tell me?” Balzeer asked, still waiting for more.
“That’s all I can see. The windows are dark, so I can’t see inside. As I said before, nobody is getting out.” Sam described all that he could observe, but still, the man wanted more.
“Sam, I want you to return to the table at which you sat and remove the box you find.” Balzeer spoke as an adult, talking down to a child. He focused Sam’s attention to where he formerly sat and directed him to the box.
“I see it,” Sam replied.
“Good. I told you to go and retrieve it, then return for further instructions,” Balzeer continued.
“Hold on.” Sam placed the receiver on the podium and then hurriedly picked it back up. “Hold on, ok? Hold on.”
“Just go get it, you moron!” Balzeer’s voice came through loud enough to put an end to the latest repositioning of the receiver and requests to hold. Sam scurried across the restaurant and returned with a nervous, satisfied smile
“Ok, I got it, now what?” Sam asked.
“Now you go, take it to the cab and say the following: We wish to parlay. Please come to the Whittier Mansion to discuss terms.’”
Again, Sam asked Balzeer to hold, then grabbed the box and proceeded to the checker cab. When he reached it, he knocked on the window and awoke the slumbering woman behind the wheel. Asleep, she didn’t notice Sam approach.
“Miss, excuse me. I was told to give you this package and ask you to go to Whittier Mansion to discuss terms.” Sam politely handed her the box and waited for a response.
“What? You must have me confused with someone else. You’re making a mistake.” She did not take the proffered box, leaving Sam standing there, holding it.
“There is no mistake, miss, I am to give this package to you. After that, you may do with it as you wish. Please take it.”
He was so insistent that the woman finally took the package and placed it on the edge of the open window. She adjusted her glasses and continued to argue through pursed lips.
“Well, how do I know that it’s not a bomb or something? This is really weird, I mean, I don’t even know you.” She exhaled the smoke of a newly lit cigarette.
“I don’t know you either, miss, but let me assure you, it is not a bomb. After all, it’s not ticking, is it?”
Sam was turning to leave when, with half-believing nod, she replied, “No it’s not ticking, so I guess it’s not a bomb. Who asked you to give this to me?” She was gradually warming to the older, but dapper, gorilla in a suit, smiling at his roughened good looks.
“I can’t divulge that information, miss. I’m sorry, but I have to go. Thank you for accepting the package.”
Sam turned and re-entered the restaurant, picking up the waiting receiver. “It’s done,” he said. “The woman in the car was a little confused about the package and the message. I’m sure you know what you’re doing though.”
There was a long enough s
ilence on the other end of the line that Sam began to think Balzeer had hung up. “You gave it to a woman? There wasn’t a man, dressed in tan clothing, and a boy?” Balzeer’s voice was eerily quiet.
“No. It wasn’t a man, just a thirtyish-looking woman, and there wasn’t a little boy. She was alone. I even woke her up,” Sam answered.
Before Balzeer could answer, Sam heard gunshots and screaming in the background.
“Balzeer, what’s going on over there? I hear shots; is everything alright?”
“I don’t know, Sam, everyone seems to be in a panic. I hear shots and screaming. I think we’re under attack.” Strangely, Balzeer didn’t seem too concerned about what he was describing, merely surprised and more than usually annoyed.
“Under attack? But by whom? Robbers? Who?” Sam was concerned, but unless it involved pay, he did not want to get involved. Considering that Balzeer was under attack, it didn’t look as though he was going to get any further information about his original assignment.
“I believe that the man, to whom you were to give the package, is here. I’ll have to let you go, Sam.” With that, Balzeer hung up.
TIME: FEBRUARY 21ST, 1963. WHITTIER MANSION, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, U.S.A
The butt of any shotgun is a serviceable club, especially if it’s been reinforced. Kosta had done just that, otherwise it might have splintered from the concussions he gave to a dozen acolytes in the Whittier Mansion. It was less noisy. A shotgun blast was quite jarring, reverberating off of walls. He also wanted to keep the body count low, especially in the lower ranks. Some of these people were only misguided, searching for truth, or just at a job. He came in with the hired help, half an hour before and left them bound and gagged in the kitchen.
Kosta walked, not ran, because he needed Adam to keep up. On the surface, bringing Adam seemed less than prudent, but he had weighed the options in his mind. Here, no one would harm Adam. In fact, many tried to protect him and restrained themselves around him. When he destroyed the Seeker at the farm Adam proved nothing from Hell or that served Hell on earth could disobey him.