The Prince Of Deadly Weapons

by Boston Teran

  She grimaced. Having the physical need to do something she went to stub out the last half of her cigarette on the well stones and Dane said, "I'll finish that."

  He paced the brush, thinking privately, hands folded behind his back except for when he took the occasional drag on her cigarette.

  He stopped and looked up at the windmill. The metronomic clicking of those dry wooden slats sounded as if it were the very prose of existence stepping out the marks of time, reminding life of its brief seconds over the course of eternity. Without explanation or reason he asked Essie, "Are you familiar with that overly traveled proverb 'Am I my brother's keeper?'"

  "I was dragged to religion classes."

  "The phrase could probably use a little face lift to get it past the time warp. Am I my sister's keeper… my mother's…" He watched the tip of that cigarette burn…"Am I keeper to someone, anyone, even myself… I wonder." He walked back toward her and the briars cracked under his black boots. "Am I keeper to a human being I have never met, but who now holds meaning to my very existence… I wonder."

  He stopped where the shadow of that windmill wheel fell across the patchy, caked ground. He stared into that slatted man della where shadow turned to light turned to shadow turned to light. "And if I'm not my brother's keeper, then who could I depend on to be there for me when the time comes I am desperate and alone. Who?" His voice began to trail off considerably toward some intense corner of self. "Who will be there to make ends meet?"

  He looked up that windmill where sky and sun bled through the brown lattice framework. He watched the breeze's sudden effect on its wooden cadence. He looked back to Essie.

  "I threw my life away once because an idea like 'Am I my brother's keeper' meant nothing to me. And because it meant nothing, I was left with less than nothing. This is my way of telling you— no, asking you, to let me help find out what you want to know. As a means to paying back a personal debt."

  It took her a while to get past the fact she was unwilling to field this unexpected offer. And there were hard questions: "What happens if those little pep talks wear off and you get bored and want to move on and make money? What happens if I invest my trust in you and those catch phrases suddenly make better conversation pieces than pieces of reality?"

  "If you feel better off alone, be better off," he said. "I will stay and play sales promo for Nathan. But there is one thing I do know. Anyone…" He took off his glasses and stared at her. It was a stark look, almost too much so. "… Anyone can be standing on a subway platform alone, alone, when the express comes past carrying your worst nightmare."

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE HOUSE ON Disappointment Slough still belonged to Nathan. Essie hadn't been there for two months, not since Nathan had asked her to box Taylor's clothes and take them to Goodwill.

  While they opened doors and windows to clear out the stale odor of mold and dry, dead air, Essie began by telling Dane about those snippets of conversation she'd overheard that night between Nathan and Ivy. That, and the fact that Taylor's death had been immediately considered a suicide, had forced her to question everything.

  As they sat in the living room and smoked, Essie went into detail about Nathan and Ivy's relationship. She did the same with Charles and the General, Roy and Francie. She filled Dane in on their interlocking lives, their secrets, their drug use, their petty needs, frailties, backgrounds, dreams. From their strengths right through to the suspect edges of character she wanted him to know as much about them as she did, on the chance he had an insight about the human wilderness she was wandering through.

  Since Essie had graduated from junior college she'd been Nathan's secretary, and then his office manager. That was how she'd met Taylor and where she first heard those serpentine nasties people passed around the espresso machine. Those with money have always taken a hit from the trash whispers, and the more money you have, the more venal the ass swiping.

  She'd been told Nathan and the General might have been involved in clandestine activities during the Vietnam War, certain high-risk government moves that had made them influential allies, but which had rubbed off on their present lives. Certainly, no one ever said this to Nathan's face, and everything he did was marked by legal contracts and the terse air of the honest man. Taylor used to refer to all that claptrap as "minds that had nothing better to do than go malignant."

  But now, she was not so sure.

  "You think Taylor might have found out something about his father that made him vulnerable to suicide?"

  "Not to suicide," she said defensively. "To something else maybe, but not suicide."

  "You don't think his father—"

  "Nooo. Not that. He couldn't hurt his son, if that's what you mean. But I don't trust Nathan anymore. I'm not sure who he is and that scares me. It keeps me from confiding in him, or confronting him about what I heard."

  She got up and began to pace. One hand worked the other for support. She looked at the empty desk in the bay window alcove where Taylor would sit and make his calls, where he'd lounge with a beer and just watch the Slough. The light coming through the window was beautiful muted shades and Essie suddenly realized she could no longer truly hear Taylor's voice. Not the pitch or tone, not his soft caustic laugh. All that had been Taylor was drifting out to sea on the blind curse of time.

  Essie went on to explain how since the funeral she'd been collecting information: letters, documents, contracts, any and all correspondence that passed between Ivy and Nathan, between Nathan and Charles, Nathan and the General. She made copies of Nathan's travel receipts and phone bills. If there was a number she did not recognize she'd call the phone company and have it checked. She logged the names in her computer and alphabetized them. She carried a backup of that list in a briefcase in her car trunk. There were so many boxes of information stored in her garage, she told Dane, the Falcon had taken up permanent residence on the street.

  Essie took a long breath, rubbed her lean throat and standing motionless by the desk told Dane how she had begun breaking into Nathan's office computer late at night. How she'd raided his e-mails, drafts of notes, personal correspondence. If he wrote it, she stole it and made copies. She'd done the same with his home computer as Nathan had years ago given her a key to his house and when he was out of town he'd have her check to make sure things there were… safe.

  She had Dane follow her to the screened-in porch which had been used as a second bedroom during the summers. One wall was lined with boxes stacked three high. Everything in that house the night of Taylor's murder she had photographed then packed away. What was on the desk, what had been in the desk drawer, in the desk trash can, what had been strewn about the living room, was meticulously labeled and numbered with a corresponding master list.

  She was staring at the bed while she spoke. What dreams had been created there with the white salt of their sweat and a touch of consuming passion. The need for meaningful physicality that she had been keeping at bay pressed out suddenly against her ribs and into the slender lift of her breasts. She closed the door and walked out of the house and went down to the dock.

  Staring at the water she thought of the stiff procession moving toward the grave site in the rain and realized in the dark wire of her feelings the act of filling in the truth about Taylor was her way of separating from the past, it was her stumbling process on the path to getting well.

  As Dane joined her on the dock the wooden frame shifted a bit under their weight.

  "Remember I told you the Fenns were in Taylor's hangar picking up an antique cabinet Charles ordered?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, two days after that the man who rented the hangar next to Taylor's called me. He'd seen my confrontation with the Fenns and told me they had trashed the cabinet. That it was in a Dumpster behind his hangar."

  "What was that about?"

  "I don't know." Her cellular began to ring. "But I took the cabinet out of the trash. It's in my garage with everything else."

  As she went to an
swer the call Dane said, "Good thing we're not in The Burrow."

  Her eyes danced a bit. "Yes…" Then, "Natha n…" Surprised, she looked at Dane. "How did you know?"

  "I was with Roy this morning at The Point. He saw you. He was apologizing to you, through me, for his behavior last night."

  "I hope you made him do some serious groveling."

  "He left quite a long trench across that gravel parking lot, I can promise you."

  Nathan did not confide in her about Taylor's conversation with Ivy. He never even considered it. "Listen, Essie. I guess you know Dane is going to be staying here a while, for when I talk to investors and such… He doesn't have a place to stay, not really. I was wondering…"

  She turned away from Dane. She knew what Nathan was going to ask. The awkward blips in his conversation gave it away. "I think it's a good idea."

  Caught off guard he said, "What?"

  "Letting Dane stay at Taylor's house. That is what you were thinking?"

  "Yeah… well. It was a thought… the house is empty."

  "You'll have to get some propane up here, and have the electricity turned back on."

  "Could you, would you see to it?"

  Her mouth was dry. She had to wet it first before continuing. She smiled, as if that would help her in some way get through what she'd say. "Sure, and you know what else, Nathan, I think you were right bringing him here. It's going to be a good thing all the way around."

  "I'm sorry I was afraid to tell you, Essie. It's not like me, but since Taylor's death I don't seem to have the confidence I used to."

  "We're gonna get you your confidence back, Nathan. You'll see. We're gonna make that our number one priority."

  She clicked off the phone and turned to Dane. "You now have a place to stay."

  "Thank you."

  "You don't have to do this. You can stop now and forget everything I told you. You can."

  "But I can't."

  She shook her head. "I feel guilty. Lying to him like that."

  "In a way, you've been lying to him since the funeral, haven't you?" He started back for the house. "I'll bring those boxes into the living room so I can look through them."

  * * *

  I'VE GOTTEN a good lead on some information… it shows promise. That's all I can tell you… Who?" As he talked on his cellular Dane looked at all the boxes stacked up on the kitchen table he'd gone through since Essie left. "That I won't say." Dane reached for a faded section of newspaper he found in one of the boxes. "We're not gonna make this a struggle, are we?" The paper featured an article from the Sacramento Bee about the violent murder in Cayuma, California, of a Federal Reserve agent.

  "I will not… I will not… No… No… Listen to… Listen… List… Greene is dead, and your agent is dead. Someone at this end found out Greene had contacted him, or there is a leak at your end… That's right, at your end.

  "You need to know if there is a money laundering operation going on here as you suspect. The who, where, what, why, and if, but I won't jeopardize someone… That's the word… I won't 'jeopardize'…'Cause I know how you guys operate… I've seen your loyalty up close."

  Dane began to pace the room holding the article in his hand. "Who am I? I'm nothing, remember? Just a set of handcuffs with a body attached who cut a deal to save his ass.

  "While you're reading me what's left of my rights let me read you this… Yeah…" Dane read from the newspaper article he was carrying, "A Federal Reserve agent from the Los Angeles branch was murdered on Monday…

  "It's an article from the Sacramento Bee… All Greene's possessions have been saved… Everything… What was on his desk the night he was murdered was even saved… By whom?… I'm not going there… Now, of all the articles out of all the California newspapers what are the chances he'd save… That's a quick one-eighty change of tone…

  "You pressed me… do this or face hard time… You had cold-blooded down pat and I'm here 'cause I wasn't in a position to negotiate then…

  "Then as in then… If you think I'm trying to cover for someone so I can use them, think it…"

  Chapter Twenty

  DANE WORKED WITH subtle urgency to infiltrate a handful of lives. He needed to show results and keep showing results so he had an edge over his handlers negotiating the narrow limits of their patience. He also had to deal with the knowledge he was eminently expendable.

  Time was his enemy but he never let on as he went with Nathan to investor meetings where he was the perfect show and tell, shaking hands, replaying the night when a wraithlike figure on a speeding train flung chemicals in his face. His selfless dedication and story brought an almost metaphysical honesty to the project.

  It became apparent Nathan was growing genuinely fond of Dane. They'd meet for lunch and drinks just as he had with Taylor. Even Ivy saw how smoothly comfortable Nathan was becoming with his new life. Dane was filling in the shadow hole of a dead son, and she more than anyone, except possibly Charles, wanted the past firmly, and finally buried.

  And while all this played the bulk of the money for the center was being put together during short junkets Nathan took to San Francisco, L.A., and Mexico, meeting with contacts for drug money coming out of Colombia and diamond traders who clandestinely secured jewels stolen from war-torn Sierra Leone.

  * * *

  ESSIE AND Dane were in her garage going through the last of the material she'd boxed and collected. The door was open and music drifted on the night air from Sugar's Bar right across the alley on River Road.

  What began with promise had burned down in the process. That maze of papers and photographs they'd been through was still so much paper and photographs. If something there had any value it was, as yet, buried under plain sight.

  While Dane was checking the small antique cabinet that had found its way from Taylor's hangar to the airport trash Essie closed up the last box, put it to one side near the garage door, then used it as a place to sit. There was something on her mind she needed to get at.

  "I watch you with Nathan and I don't know if you're being genuine or it's just an intelligent lie since we're sneaking around behind his back trying to find out if he's done something wrong."

  "It's both," said Dane, without looking up from his scan of that pine side board. "And, unless you haven't noticed, I'm acting no differently than you."

  Under the trim fronting he felt raw nubs so he tilted the side board up on two legs to get a better look, as the garage was lit by a single overhanging bulb.

  He noticed small roundish discolorations the size of a quarter under the front trim where his fingers had felt the shrayed wood. These were matched by the same discolorations and splinters along the ridge of the bottom trim. "It looks like something was ripped from here. Dowels maybe, or decorative columns. Did you notice anything like that when you first saw it?"

  "No."

  "If it arrived damaged Charles would have sent it back and not trashed it, right?"

  "Right."

  Essie looked into the alleyway. She listened to music from Sugar's and watched the street where headlights flared then disappeared like simple thoughts that come and go. "I see the way Nathan relates to you, the easy joy he has when you're around, it makes me glad and angry at the same time."

  Dane looked up.

  "The way you can just hang with the Carusos and talk on their terms even better than Taylor ever could makes me glad and angry at the same time."

  He set the side board down slowly on its legs so as not to disturb her. Essie leaned her head back against the garage wall. "You're stronger than Taylor and more self-assured, I see it. And it seems to me, for better or worse, you're more calculating and resourceful than he could ever be. That makes me glad and angry at the same time."

  Dane stood.

  "I sense you have more courage, or maybe it's just a kind of audacity that comes with living and suffering. You certainly have lived and suffered more than he ever did, until the night he was murdered. All that makes me glad and angry at the
same time."

  Dane crossed through that bare throw of light and stood over Essie. She did not look up. She was just being an honest creature feeling and saying what she felt. She leaned her head to one side so she could watch that piece of space where headlights flooded then blacked away on their ride up River Road.

  "And the fact that I want and maybe even need your help, and that you have tried to help, makes me glad and angry at the same time."

  She finally looked up to let him know she was done. He leaned against the wall near where she sat. His jeans were covered with filth from dragging around that hole of a garage.

  "I don't have any neat or clean answers," he said.

  She rested her arms on her thighs. "I wish I was twenty-five without all the extra baggage."

  "I read that twenty-five and twenty-six are considered the crossroad years in a person's life. When you really begin to become who you will ultimately be."

  "I'd rather be twenty-five without all the extra baggage. And I don't want to do all this soul searching in a filthy, dark garage." She put out a hand. "Pull me up, dust me off, and buy me a beer."

  * * *

  SUGAR'S WAS a bastion of working class blues with pool tables. The drinks were cheap and it was notorious for its sway of California music from Spade Cooley and Rose Maddox to the Flying Burrito Brothers, Dwight Yokum and the infamous Bakersfield connection. Dane and Essie were in a back booth and they'd had enough beers to put a little perspective on any bad day.

  "My mother was married five times," said Essie. "Twice to my real father, three times to other men. And it seemed to me each had the same dire similarities.

  "One night when I was out my mom and me were sitting right there." Essie used an empty bottle as a pointer aiming it at a booth by the bar. "She announced she was about to lock up number five.

  "I said, 'Mom, what's with you? Don't you realize you've been marrying the same man over and over again?' And you know what she said to me?"

  Essie looked down the throat of that dead Corona as if a genie might appear. "She said, 'Es, honey'— I hate being called honey, even by my own mother— she said, 'Es, honey, don't you understand…'"— Essie's voice dropped dramatically—" 'there is only one man.'"