The Sixteen Burdens

by David Khalaf

  Smoke and steam billowed and they waited until most of it cleared out. Everything was drenched. The kitchen was a blackened hole. The dining room was soggy and tables had been overturned. Both portraits were ruined.

  And Herrera was gone.

  “This is your fault!” Panchito said to Gray. “You’re trying to keep me from doing anything.”

  “You woulda regretted it,” Gray said.

  “Says who?”

  Panchito felt the barrel of a gun against the side of his head.

  “Says me,” Herrera said. “Hands up.”

  Panchito and Gray lifted their hands. Herrera backed away, but kept the gun pointed at Panchito.

  “I apologize for the needless destruction of your establishment,” Herrera said. “Tell the police it was an accident and I’ll gladly pay for the repairs.”

  He took two more steps backward.

  “You’re not going to kill me?” Panchito said.

  “Kill you! Why would I kill someone so valuable to me?”

  Two more steps backward.

  “When you’re ready, come pay me a visit,” Herrera said. “I have a job for you.”

  Panchito tried to spit in his direction but it spattered on his own clothes.

  “I’d never work for your gang,” he said. “And I’d never, ever work for the man who killed my father.”

  Herrera stepped farther backward, until he was at a safe distance from Panchito.

  “You keep getting hung up on that issue,” Herrera said. “I became the most feared man in Mexico after your father died. It launched my career. Most people won’t even look me in the eye because I’m the man who killed the infamous Pancho Villa.”

  Herrera pocketed his gun.

  “The problem is, I didn’t.”

  And with that he was gone.

  CHAPTER

  T HIRTY-TWO

  THE SMELL OF sizzling chorizo woke Gray up. It was a welcome change from the stench of smoke and burnt grease that had taken up residence in his nostrils. He opened his eyes and saw Panchito’s hunched grandmother moving deftly through the kitchen, conducting a symphony of pots and pans.

  Gray sat up from the living room floor of Abuelita’s one-bedroom apartment. She had a decorating style something akin to a church rummage sale. The shelves and tables were loaded with paintings of the Virgin Mary, statues of Saint This and Saint That, and enough crucifixes to slay a vampire army. Whatever Abuelita prayed for, the real miracle was how she kept all that clutter clean.

  Panchito lay on the couch, snoring with the same vigor he had employed throughout the night. It appeared to be his normal sleeping spot. Before last night, Gray hadn’t given any thought to Panchito’s life or his living conditions. Panchito had never complained about the cracks in the walls, the chipped and faded furniture, or the creatures that scurried across the floor the moment the lights went out. Gray was raised without a family, but at least he had a bed to sleep in.

  “Eat, skinny.”

  Abuelita saw Gray had risen. She pointed at him and then at the small dining table. He stood up, his undershirt and tuxedo pants wrinkled, and sat down at the table. The spread consisted of huevos rancheros, chilaquiles, refried beans, rice, and sweet pastries. It was more food than Gray usually had during the Christmas banquet at the boys home.

  “Sorry about your restaurant,” Gray said, pointing downstairs.

  The woman shrugged, and he wasn’t sure if she had understood him or not.

  Gray was halfway through the second plate Abuelita had forced upon him when Panchito awoke and took a spot at the table. He loaded up a plate.

  “This is why I’m fat.”

  They were the first words Panchito had spoken to Gray since last night. He had been angry about the fire, and about Herrera, and he had chosen to take it all out on Gray.

  “You were right, you know,” Panchito said.

  “Huh?”

  “I would have regretted it,” Panchito said, “if I had…pushed any harder on Herrera.”

  Gray recalled the fury in Panchito’s eyes as he was squishing Herrera like a bug under his thumb. There was pure destruction in that stare, a vortex of hate that Panchito seemed barely able to control.

  “That’s a line you don’t wanna cross,” Gray said. “There’s no going back after that.”

  Panchito shook his head. Gray clearly didn’t understand.

  “I would have regretted it because he wasn’t the one who killed my father,” Panchito said. “Next time I have to be careful. Next time I have to be absolutely sure.”

  Somewhere, deep in those eyes, that fire still burned unchecked. Gray wondered if Chaplin had made a mistake by bringing the two of them together, accelerating Panchito’s talent so quickly.

  “Maybe there’s a better way,” Gray said.

  “Like what?”

  Gray shrugged.

  “I dunno. Maybe the bravest thing isn’t killing the bad guy. Maybe the bravest thing is forgiving him.”

  Panchito stuck half a sausage in his mouth and chomped on it while he considered that.

  “No. That doesn’t sound right.”

  After breakfast, Panchito found some old clothes for Gray that were too short in the leg and too wide in the waist. Gray had caught him up on everything that had transpired the previous evening.

  “So now what are you doing?” Panchito asked. “Are you going to get the Eye?”

  Panchito had put an emphasis on the you. But Gray had already made a decision. Without Chaplin and Fairbanks, he felt adrift. He wanted to believe he could handle anything on his own, but this felt too big, too important.

  What he had seen in Panchito had frightened him, and if turned toward Atlas and his gang, maybe it would frighten them too.

  “Actually,” Gray said. “We’re going to get the Eye.”

  Panchito’s face lit up.

  “First let’s make sure D.W. Griffith knows about Mr. Chaplin,” Gray said, “Then we’ll go to Elsie’s.”

  They rode the red car west to United Artists, and found a crowd of reporters clambering over themselves like ants on a sugar cube.

  “Looks like word has gotten out,” Panchito said.

  They pushed their way through, and no one gave them a second look.

  Inside, the office had gone from feverish to full-on frantic. Phones were ringing up and down the hall, and people were running about as if German troops were about to blitzkrieg Hollywood. The poor phone operators were on the verge of hysterics.

  “Mr. Griffith is unavailable right now for comment. Not today. Maybe next week.”

  “Yes, production of One Million B.C. is proceeding as normal, as are all of our projects.”

  “Mrs. Pickford is ill. She is not missing. No, that’s just a rumor. That’s completely untrue!”

  They walked about upstairs and found the door with Griffith’s name on it. Gray popped his head in and found Griffith sitting at his desk, his face a deflated tire. When he saw Gray he let out a slow exhale, as if he’d sprung a leak.

  The phone rang on Griffith’s desk. He picked up the receiver and then dropped it back down.

  “It’s been like this since six a.m.,” he said. “Everyone wants the scoop on whether or not Charlie is a cold-blooded killer.”

  “He’s a patsy,” Gray said. “Darko Atlas did it.”

  “I know,” Griffith said. “Charlie called me last night from jail. He told me to kill the story before it got out, but somebody leaked it to the press.”

  Gray could think of one man.

  “Chief Stoker. He’s out to make Mr. Chaplin the fall guy.”

  Griffith downed the last of his coffee and loosened his tie. The man who had seemed so proper and wise to Gray before, now looked more like the unemployed migrants he saw on Skid Row.

  “There are rumors going around,” he said. “With Mary missing, people are starting to wonder if Charlie killed her too—maybe in some bitter fight over the future of the studio. We’ve told people that she’s sim
ply been ill, but we can’t produce her to make a statement.”

  “We’re going to try to rescue Mrs. Pickford,” Panchito said. “We’ve got the Eye.”

  Some life seemed to come back to Griffith’s face.

  “You’ve found it? That’s marvelous! Now what?”

  “I dunno,” Gray said. “I thought you’d have some ideas.”

  Griffith rubbed his eyes and sighed. He seemed so old, so fragile.

  “Among the four of us who founded United Artists, I’m the only one without a special talent,” he said. “Even so, I quickly discovered that I was no less valuable. I operated the nuts and bolts of the operation while the other three looked at the big picture. My job is here, at the studio. The best I can do is keep United Artists from collapsing while we determine how to free Charlie and save Mary. You two are the ones with the special talents. You figure it out.”

  “He’s got the talent,” Gray said, thumbing at Panchito. “I ain’t got nothing.”

  A woman stuck her head inside Griffith’s door.

  “The art director needs a budget extension for the parade float.”

  Griffith looked at her with wild eyes.

  “A float? I’m trying to keep this blasted studio afloat! I don’t have time for some silly flower parade. Now get.”

  He shooed her away. The phone rang again. Griffith yanked the cord out from the wall.

  Griffith took a deep breath and calmed himself. He then ripped off a scrap of paper and scribbled a phone number on it.

  “Call Howard Hughes,” Griffith said, handing it to Gray. “If anyone would have a sense of how to use the Eye to your advantage without giving it to Atlas, it would be him. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  Gray and Panchito nodded and walked to the door.

  “One more thing,” Griffith said. “I’d be irresponsible if I didn’t say it. You are walking into danger. I’m not going to prevent you from doing so, but I want to make sure you understand. You have something for which Atlas has already killed. He’ll do it again. People will get hurt. People on our side. When all is said and done, it’s almost inevitable.”

  Gray stuffed his hands in his pockets and nodded.

  Thanks for the pep talk.

  CHAPTER

  T HIRTY-THREE

  A BLANKET OF gray clouds wiped the color out of Los Angeles. Without its blue skies and golden sunshine, Hollywood was dull and brown, a tired lounge singer after wiping off her makeup.

  Gray and Panchito arrived at Elsie’s just as a late lunch rush was clogging up the boulevard. Despite a chilly breeze, they came upon Lulu sitting out on the front steps of the girls’ dormitory. She bolted up to her feet as soon as she saw Gray.

  “She’s gone!”

  “What do you mean?” Gray asked.

  “Mr. Siegel took her. I was listening outside the door. He said he’d cut off her fingers.”

  “But why?”

  “He took something from her. Said she had to show him how to use it.”

  Gray and Panchito exchanged a look.

  “She doesn’t know how to use it,” Panchito said. “That means it’s probably safe.”

  Gray nodded, but kept his thought to himself.

  What does that mean for Elsie?

  Lulu grabbed Gray by the hand and began dragging him down the sidewalk.

  “She’s at the dance hall. I followed them. Come on.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Lulu contorted her face into a look of exasperation.

  “Rescue her, dummy!”

  The Bali Ballroom was four stories of tacky tropical. The dance hall itself, with its high ceilings, took up half of the height. Then, as Lulu explained, there was a floor of offices for operations, and Siegel’s own apartment on top. Elsie could be anywhere in the huge space.

  Gray knew from his previous visit that the only way in was through the front. They loitered by a rare book store across the street until dusk approached, hoping to see Siegel or catch some sign of movement up above. There was nothing.

  “We’ve got to make a move,” Gray said. “If only we had some kind of distraction.”

  As if on cue, the answer presented itself. A green Packard pulled up front, along with other cars arriving for the evening. A man in a sharp white suit got out from the driver’s seat. He was limping a little and had a bandage over the bridge of his nose.

  “Fairbanks!” Gray said. “He knows Elsie has the Eye.”

  Sugar slid out of the passenger seat, graceful as a snake. She was scowling, as if on her way in to see the dentist.

  “That rat!” Panchito said. “He really is working with them.”

  Panchito jumped up and Gray had to grab him with both arms around the waist to hold him back.

  “Ease up, Lone Ranger,” Gray said. “They must be going to see Siegel. Let’s see if we can follow them inside. We just need to get past that doorman.”

  “I have an idea,” Lulu said. “Trust me.”

  She led them across the street, and up to the doorman Gray had encountered last time he was there.

  Frankenkong.

  “What’re you doing here tonight, little lady?”

  “Enzo, I caught the guys who were stealing from Mr. Siegel.”

  Gray looked at Panchito. Panchito looked at Gray. They turned to Enzo and gave an abashed nod.

  “These are the two masterminds who robbed Siegel’s moneyman on the way to the bank last week?” Enzo asked.

  “They have no brains, I know. That’s how they did it. No one suspects a dope.”

  Enzo cracked the knuckles of his softball-sized fist.

  “If they got no brains then their skulls should crack easy enough.”

  Whatever joke Lulu was playing on Enzo, Gray thought, she better get to the punchline fast.

  “Hold on,” Lulu said. “Mr. Siegel said specifically to bring any suspects directly to him. They want to see if they can cut a deal with him.”

  Enzo laughed, a big bear growl.

  “Siegel don’t cut deals. He only cuts fingers. You go right ahead.”

  They passed through and entered the main room of the Bali Ballroom. It was a wondrous space, with support pillars disguised as palm trees and large murals of tropical beaches along each wall. On a stage framed with a grass roof, a ten-piece band was setting up.

  “Back this way,” Lulu said. She led them toward a dark corner of the room, down a dark hallway that led to a women’s dressing room. From behind the door came a scream.

  Gray charged the door and pulled it open. As he did, a man fell lifeless into Panchito’s arms. It was the casino doorman, and he had a knife planted squarely in his chest. Panchito dropped him unceremoniously to the floor. Gray shot him a look.

  “What?” Panchito said. “He’s dead. He doesn’t care.”

  They stepped inside, looking around. A cocktail waitress cowered by the bar like a puppy who’s been swatted with a newspaper.

  “Where did they go?” Gray asked. She whimpered, and pointed to an open door on the far side of the room.

  “Did you call the police?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “He asked us not to. He was very nice about it.”

  Gray knew who the “he” was. The three of them walked cautiously to the open door and peered inside. It was a small back room with a poker table, the kind used for discreet, high-stakes games. In the corner of the far wall there were steps going up.

  “There,” Gray said. “Let’s go.”

  “What are we going to do when we get there?” Panchito asked.

  Probably get captured, possibly get killed.

  “I’m not sure. But stay back. Don’t let Mr. Fairbanks see you or say anything to you.”

  They crept up the stairs, Gray testing his weight on each one to see if it would creak. They reached the landing at the top, a short hallway with a coat rack that led into the main room. They heard Fairbanks speaking from around the corner�
��his same confident, calm demeanor, as if he were at a cocktail party.

  “Mr. Siegel, please do take a seat and try to relax. What a lovely apartment you have.”

  “I’m gonna put a bullet through each of you.”

  “No, you will not. You’ll help us on our errand and then you’ll let us be on our way, with no trouble now or ever. Do you understand?”

  There was a pause.

  “Yeah, I understand.”

  Holding his breath, Gray peeked around the corner to assess the situation. Siegel’s living room was massive—a huge open space that ran the entire length of the building. The furniture looked expensive and gaudy, the movie-set version of an Italian villa. The gilded chairs and carved marble tables were trying their best to disguise the space as something more regal than an apartment above an illegal casino.

  The man Gray surmised was Jack Siegel sat nearby in an upholstered chair, wearing a neatly pressed pinstripe suit and a few massive gold rings on his fingers. A slim henchman of some sort stood at his side. Sugar leaned against a window with her arms crossed, and Fairbanks stood in the center of the room, as if he were the host of this awkward party.

  “Now, Mr. Siegel, would you be so kind as to tell your man to bring out Elsie?”

  Gray saw Siegel’s energy bend toward Fairbanks. The hate in his eyes softened, and he nodded to the man beside him.

  “Max, get the girl.”

  A few moments later, Max brought Elsie out by the arm and stood her by a fireplace, a rococo thing with white pillars and marble sculptures of Roman gods on the mantle. Elsie had her hands tied in front of her, all of her fingers still intact. She was in the same dress from the movie premiere, and she had dark circles beneath her eyes.

  “Thank you,” Fairbanks asked. “It’s Max, is it? Please stay where you are, Max.”

  The man’s energy bended and he nodded, eager to comply.