When my favorite uncle and namesake, Hring, passed on, he left me more than one thing of value. Along with his friendship and advice, he left me the duplex where we lived that was half of my real estate inheritance. The other address was a small but well-tended strip mall built in the 1950s, less than a mile from home. With room for six businesses, Hardigan Center was many things to me. It was a source of legitimate income. It was a place to see friends. It was also a direct connection to my past and the memory of a man who cared deeply for me when I was detached and disinterested in adulthood. The low, block building was full of tenants at all times, with the exception of the corner space, where my uncle’s television repair shop lay as it had the day he closed it in 1981. With faded Zenith and Curtis Mathis signs, the paneled counter and worn interior was a time capsule. The smell of the shag carpet in front and the lingering hints of electric grease and tools still hung in the motionless air, roasted by the Floridian sun for all these years. A Formica countertop was spalled with the use of three decades, where heavy televisions and awkward customers left a record of my Uncle’s success. It was a sort of church for me, so I left it untouched, the small office a sacrosanct part of my own history. Though this corner remained still, the other spaces in the Center were alive and humming with energy, and one of them smelled delicious. It was time for lunch.
On the far left of the Center was the Butterfly, a Thai kitchen run by a family that had become an extension of my own. Panit and Boonsri were second generation restaurateurs whose parents had moved to Virginia in the 1960s. Panit was four inches shorter than his willowy wife and spent the majority of his time in the kitchen or at markets when time allowed. He had the whipcord frame of a frenetic chef and the confidence of a successful cook who knew his food was great. Boon had a brilliant smile and long black hair that fell to her waist in an ebony curtain. She ran the front dining area with a graceful touch and a demand for cleanliness that kept the Butterfly filled during lunch and dinner. Bright aromas of pepper and Thai basil, with hints of peanut, wafted through the eatery. Gold and red trim accented the dark wooden tables and padded chairs that sat on a cream tile floor. The inviting space was crowned by a collection of elephants and tapestries that were exotic but friendly in tone. I smiled at Boon as I walked in and inhaled the smell, mouthwatering to my grumbling, impolite stomach. She hugged me and started towards the kitchen in a smooth loop, her gold bracelets happily jingling with each step.
“I was wondering if you would turn up. Panit has lots of little snapper to cook. Want one?” Boon asked, with a warm smile on her beautiful face.
Few people could make me feel as welcome as she. I nodded and sat down at an open table, the other patrons turning to me with a little jealousy at my preferential treatment. Panit was a wizard with the succulent little fish, frying them whole with red chilies and coriander and then topping them with cucumbers, key lime sections and tomatoes. It was heaven on a plate. I leaned into the chair and settled in to wait.
Beauty is indeed a good gift of God; but that the good may not think it a great good, God dispenses it even to the wicked. - Saint Augustine
France
Elizabeth stood with her elegant silhouette backlit by the city at night. One hand absently held an empty champagne flute; the other toyed with the heavy curtains that framed a view of the heart of Paris. Her brown eyes lingered over the city as she stretched her sculptured body in a feline motion that sent black hair falling down her snowy back in a silken rush. Over her shoulder, on the edge of the tangled bed, the girl dressed, pulling boots on her long legs. She was tall, young, and radiant, possibly Czech, a honey blonde in her late teens. Her looks were natural and fresh, but unfinished, where Elizabeth was a classic dark beauty with a commanding presence that only breeding and maturity could grant. Money could buy the appearance of wealth but not the assurance to wear it like a second skin. The girl’s beauty would command the eyes of men wherever she went, but Elizabeth’s would bend their will even as she entered a room. Even a fool could see that the blood of kings flowed in her veins. Standing in heels, the girl met Elizabeth’s height, eye to eye. Around the women, furniture of rich wood gleamed with the luster of wealth. Upholstery, flawless from disuse, covered the beautifully framed items that were tastefully scattered across the rooms. Each room of the suite spoke of money and taste. Even the single lamp that threw muted light from the corner was a model of understated style. The immediate area was in the disarray of harried intimacy. An empty wine bottle, berries on a bone china tray, and the scent of perfume and damp linen testified to the activity of the previous night. At least some Europeans still respected a Do Not Disturb sign, regardless of noise. The sign had also allowed them to sleep the day away, a dreamless sleep of joyous exhaustion. She looked at the girl, who now had her luggage near the door.
“Before you go, are you ready? Do you need anything?”
In the girl’s purse rested a first class ticket to Miami and credit cards, all with no limit. Elizabeth’s tone was light but warm. The girl reddened slightly from the remembrance of the previous week and the life that she was about to begin. She was also flushed from her internal struggle as her body began to change.
“No, I have everything. Thank you. Thank you a thousand times. This is . . . ,” she trailed off as Elizabeth gave the smallest of frowns.
“Something is missing. Here. This.” She held the girl’s hand and slipped a delicate ring on her finger. The diamond was framed on either side by a strange stone deeper than oxblood. Light swirls of silky color danced in the gems. The antique platinum setting was graceful and worn, like an heirloom.
“I cannot--,” the girl started.
Elizabeth shook her head slowly. “It was my daughter’s. Wear it, and, when you have a daughter you love, give it to her.”
To a girl of such youth and beauty, children were far away where she was going.
“But what if I have no daughter?” she asked. Elizabeth looked briefly at the window.
“Petra, your life will be one of gifts, giving. And receiving. Men will want you. They will try to own you. All of them, drunk with lust, an endless line of their eyes shining with greed,” Elizabeth gave a wintry smile. “You will appeal to their vanity even as they feed you. Savor it. There is no other feeling like it.”
She kissed the girl on the cheek in dismissal and turned to the champagne bottle settling in the silver urn. “Whether you want to or not, you will be a mother of sorts. Many daughters, I think. And when you find one who meets your mettle, you will give her the ring as a gift. In the meantime, the gift you will give is yourself.”
The Forest
His hands posed, considering the delicate square of amber that he had polished until luminous, its angles catching the mellowed light of his work area in a buttery hue. His long but sturdy artisan fingers held a tiny ball-peen hammer that was tapping delicately along a border of brilliant silver. Within the hem of the metal was a deep red beryl gem, cut in a square. It was seemingly lit from within, a design that caught the radiance and mystery within the stone. He hesitated for a second and then seemed satisfied with the rhythmic stippling that gave the ring a worldly elegance. Framed by the squares of amber, he considered: Another accent stone? A leaf shape of beryl tailing away, adding fluidity and a graceful curve to the setting? Perhaps a pair of them. That was it, he decided. His hands moved deliberately to carry out the delicate work. Spring was only a short time away, and one could never be unprepared for the season of gifts. He bent with extra care and began to form the next tiny frame for the stone. This ring would be given in the spirit of desire, and he wanted its beauty to match the purpose.
Florida
The Tradewinds Steak House is an artifact where one can dine. Built in the early 1950s, it is a time capsule, lovingly maintained by Sid Blume, Jr., whose father opened what was an upscale eatery in the halcyon days of the first Florida Boom. Serving small charred steaks, good wine, and a requisite array of seafood, the Tradewinds was the last place
anyone under the age of 40 or even 50 might be found, on most nights. That was exactly why Risa and Wally and I loved it. I wore a navy blazer over a linen shirt, and the women were wrapped in mildly garish cocktail dresses far too old for their calendar age. We wanted to blend in. In the valet area, a deluge of Cadillacs, Lincolns, and other testaments to a successful life disgorged couples dressed much the same as we were, although these were men and women who had built lives over decades. They hailed from the North, the Midwest, and Canada, and they stood next to each other in their dinner dress with the comfort and familiarity of a long life together. The men had silver hair if they had any at all, and the women had style that melded every era since the Korean War into an unofficial look that signaled We Made It. The entire atmosphere celebrated the dream of Rockwell in a gentle manner fueled by years of hard work. I reveled in it. With my loafers squeaking perfectly, the three of us made our way into the lounge and ordered cocktails from Danny, a 60-year-old professional bartender who had left the chill of Rhode Island in 1988 and never looked back. At the piano, a bony Brit in a blonde pompadour coaxed “Canadian Sunset” from the faux baby grand, his silk banner proclaiming behind him that Sir Barry Lyle had entertained diners nightly since 1967. The entire lounge was comfortably full.
We were led to our table in the midst of the main dining room. Our waiter was a taller, thinner version of Tony Orlando, who synthesized New York and Floridian charm into his entire persona. With wine on the way and a basket of crispy rye bread on the table, we began to really relax and let the room envelop us. Risa smiled into her menu and pinched Wally’s forearm.
“If I order the filet will you get the lamb?” she offered as the table negotiations began in earnest. They had to share, so they could not willingly order the same item at the risk of depriving themselves of anything. I decided on Florida lobster and clams casino with a double anchovy Caesar salad. While we slathered the rye with whipped butter, we drank in the room and tried not to talk shop, but we failed.
“Why don’t they hunt here?” Wally asked, looking around. “It seems odd that we’ve never even caught whiff of anyone unusual in the years we’ve been here.”
“No singles. Everyone here is married or has lifelong friends,” Risa answered around a mouthful of warm bread. “These people have real families. Too many ties. Too many smart people here who have just enough city sense to be passed over.”
She was right. This would be a challenging place to peel someone away from a group. Why take the risk? It made grim sense. I ordered another bottle of wine as our dinner arrived. The plates were decadently beautiful and sizzled invitingly. We dove in, and, for a while, we were the quietest table in the restaurant.
After a dessert of Key Lime pie, we made our way to the valet at a sedate amble, laden with the meal and wine. The night was a touch cool, the breeze perfect. The beauty of it all made us smile with content as cars were brought up in a line for departing diners. Wally gave the ticket to the young valet, who returned a breathless moment later with her black Toyota Highlander. She rarely waited for anything, and tonight was no exception. It’s an excellent reason to let her drive, despite her constant stream of profanity in even the most manageable traffic.
“Here you are, ladies,” the valet said, as he opened the door with a gallant flourish, studiously ignoring me. We all turned at a sharp bark of anger behind us. Two women were being separated by their husbands and shooed to their respective cars. They had argued over something important enough to disrupt the afterglow of dinner. The other valet, a tall kid with blond hair, watched them go their ways and shook his head ruefully while smirking. Old people, his expression read.
The couple closest to us hurried past to their waiting car.
“She just reached out and touched my earring and pulled at it!” The indignant victim told her husband. He took a diplomatic tone and tried to soothe her.
“Maybe she just wanted to feel it. They are unusual. It wouldn’t be the first time someone admired them.”
The effect on her was immediate as she touched her earrings while waiting by the open car door.
“True. I do love them. Even your sister mentioned how they look on me, and she never wears jewelry at all,” she said, her tone thick with pride.
As I got in the passenger side of Wally’s SUV, I noticed the glimmer on her earlobe. It was a gold teardrop stone, deep and rich. I knew that gem. Carnelian.
From Risa’s Files
Dear Parent of Camper,
Here at Camp Tamiami, we take pride in our safety and commitment to the children. Unfortunately, due to the continued vandalism and attacks on the horses, we can no longer include riding lessons or trail excursions as part of our curriculum this summer. We will gladly refund the extra stipend paid for this activity and substitute another fun time on the camp property. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause and look forward to your visit on Family Day.
Sincerely,
Director Margorie Lewis
P.S. If you have any information about who has been harming the horses, or the whereabouts of former employee James Bath, please do not hesitate to call us or the Florida State Police.
Monday mornings were as close as we ever came to an official company function. All four members of our unusual family drifted to the kitchen after sleeping late. Gathered over breakfast to discuss any ideas or plans we had for the coming week, we hatched plans, discarded them, and came to life gradually with coffee. Our unusual occupation was dangerous but profitable. A certain moral flexibility was required when it came to liberating the belongings of thieves who stole far more than simple material goods. We three possessed that quality in spades, although I must admit that it was somewhat of an acquired stance.
The more we shared the less risk we were exposed to, either from citizens or our adversaries. Risa idly stirred her coffee as Wally sipped orange juice while opening her laptop.
“I think we should look into a new club on Las Olas in Ft. Lauderdale. It’s been open for three weeks, and there hasn’t been a single crime reported within two blocks.”
Risa arched her brow at that, knowing full well that a late-night club crowd fueled on alcohol and sexual tension would be highly unlikely to remain on the good side of the law.
“Nothing?” I asked, thinking. “That is . . . unusual.” In our experience, a bubble of calm meant that something was causing criminals to look elsewhere for their prey, perhaps using a close, personal method of persuasion.
We were quiet for a moment, ruminating on the tedium of loud nights at a club filled with the self-absorbed, drunk, or desperate.
“What’s the hot night?” Wally asked Risa.
“There are two. Thursday and Sunday. We could all go at once. The place holds over 500 people. Big. It’s on the water, so we could drive or water taxi in at different times and meet in the middle. The music is supposed to be killer. It might even be fun.”
Risa was oddly optimistic about this place, but, then, she loved standing by the water at night in Fort Lauderdale. We were nodding together now, so it seemed like this was the focus of our week.
I broke the silence. “Gyro has to get his nails clipped today. I’ll take him.”
I volunteered to chauffeur the beast often because I always took him for ice cream, which then gave me an excellent excuse to have ice cream. Ours was a mutually beneficial relationship in this respect.
Wally piped up, “We got a message board contact from Hayseed last night.”
Message boards were our link to others like us who were careful about not revealing too much of their identity. I had always surmised that anyone who sensed they were being hunted could use the very same tools we did to discover who or what was threatening them. It seemed that discretion could only enhance our ability to harry the ranks of the immortal. Over the years, we had obliquely built a network of contacts who shared our rare occupation. Hayseed was one such compatriot, operating in the American heartland. We knew he was a male, a bit older, an
d that he had spent the better part of a decade chasing one particularly vile creature that he would only describe as a Feeder.
When he got drunk one night after discovering the remains of a pair of teen girls, he sent us a picture of the crime scene. It was a charnel house on the edge of a wheat field. Blood and tissue hung from cut stalks, and there was so little of the girls left that the next rain would wash them into the thirsty soil, lost forever to their grieving families. Light indentations of shoeless female feet dotted the site, where a splash of rusty blood indicated the killer had planted her feet to lunge and tear. Hayseed had written of the stench, old and sour, a scent that stitched death and gore with the violating tone of ammonia. A ghoul, I thought instantly, looking at the hideous images. Only a ghoul would rend a human in such a gleeful and desperate manner, skipping birdlike around the victim as it bit and slashed, mumbling and tittering around a prize of warm flesh. Ghouls were the last stop on the train of immortality, often even being killed by their own brethren, who reviled their less cultured cousins. Their descent was often marked by hysterical violence and a complete loss of control. It was easy to see why their indiscretions could lead to other parties taking an interest in eliminating them from the world. Crudely put, they were bad for business and brought the one thing to immortals that they would not brook: visibility. They were not always alone, often paired with a human we branded helper or friend, both terms used as a slur to describe a truly puerile, complicit being devoid of morality. Often, a helper would act as a traitorous assistant in hopes of gaining inroads to her own immortality. Helpers became indentured servants, slaved to an amoral beast that used them for as long as they could. Rewards were never free, as even the sexual pleasure showered on them inexorably turned them into shadows. Their lives with their masters ended as they began: with deception and lust. And then death. Always with death.
The Forest Bull (The Fearless) Page 2