Deceit (Part 1)

by L. A. Shorter

Chapter Seven

  Duke

  I hate funerals. They're dour, miserable affairs filled with weeping women and men trying to maintain their composure. I guess most people feel the same - who would admit to actually liking a funeral? - but still I feel as if I have a special dislike for them.

  My shrink, of course, would say it's all down to my mother. Again, wonderful insight there Doc. But then I defy anyone attending the funeral of someone they barely know to not start thinking about someone they lost who they actually loved. Around me right now, I'd imagine at least half the people's thoughts are with their own lost loved ones, not the fat rich guy currently being lowered into the grave.

  I met the man once. That's all. A handshake and a nod of the head. Perhaps a polite word or two. It was a couple of years ago, and I can hardly remember him. A business associate of my father's, one of many hundreds I've met in my time.

  So right now, it's my mother on my mind. I'm not watching the fat guy slowly descending six feet under, but my mother. I remember how remarkable they made her look. For months I'd only seen her with these sunken cheeks and pale skin, ravaged by her cancer. She never wore any make up in hospital, for obvious reasons, and I forgot what she looked like all made up and in an elegant cocktail dress. But when it came to her funeral, they'd done a great job of bringing her back out of the cancerous shell that had engulfed her. Like a phoenix sprung from the ashes, she looked beautiful.

  The standard etiquette must be observed, though, as the funeral runs its course. Then onto the wake, which is a far more appealing prospect. At least there will be alcohol there.

  To my side stands my father, dressed in a dark suit and tie, just like everyone else, and with his head dipped in respect. He knows so many people that he seems to attend a funeral every month, and half the time I'm dragged along with him.

  “It's about showing our support Mason,” he'd always tell me in his deep, precise voice. “At times like these we all need to stick together.”

  That was always his official spiel, but there was always something behind it. The strengthening of ties was one. The chance to discuss business opportunities another. Sure, my father is an important member of the community and our family is written into its fabric, but still, there's a time and place for that sort of stuff.

  Around me are several other men and women whose deaths appear imminent. I've met a lot of them before, although I doubt they remember me. I'm rather known as Roger Farrell's son, rather than a person in my own right. Sucked into his world without really having a choice. Sure, it's a world of money and power, a world where everything is handed to me on a plate, but it's fucking boring as well. It's hard to accept something when you're given absolutely no choice over it. I never even went to college because it was assumed I'd join the family business and work to build my father's interests.

  But what if I'd wanted to be a Doctor or join the military? What if acting had been my passion, or I loved the idea of traveling and actually building my own life. Nope. Sorry son. Not gonna happen. You're part of this family, and you're going to be part of this business.

  My father hadn't actually said that – not in so many words anyway - but he might as well have done. It's certainly what he thinks and the way things have turned out. No choices for me. Just business, spreadsheets, suits and meetings.

  My rebellious side, though, is hard to contain. My father knows this, and that's why he tolerates some of my indiscretions, as long as they're kept behind closed doors. So I go out, get drunk, have fights. I just do it discreetly without drawing attention to myself.

  That side of me is unleashed on weekend nights when I get the chance. During the week I let off steam by working out. I go to an underground gym with bodybuilders and tough guys because, by the end of a working day, I'm fed up of spending time with the elite classes. The rich gymgoers with their posh saunas and swimming pools. Their fancy equipment and yoga classes. I prefer steel. Steel and sweat and swearing. It's helped me craft a body I'm proud of. The sort of body that makes me feel like I fit in down there. I'm not huge like some of the guys, but I'm torn up enough to look good in a pair of swimming shorts.

  The funeral begins to draw to a close as people step forward and drop flowers into the grave. I suppose this is a particularly tough one, not like others I've been to. Mostly I've attended those of the elderly, octogenarians whose time has come. If you die at that age you can have no complaints, and the family have no real cause to mourn for long. Those funerals often have lively wakes, where people chat happily and celebrate the newly departed's life achievements. Usually, they're long and distinguished in this company.

  But not today. Today the wake will maintain this sombre feel. When a man is murdered, taken before his time, it puts a whole different spin on things. He didn't die peacefully in his bed with his wife by his side. He was shot through the brain as his house was raided. Not the most graceful exit.

  When the crowd around the grave begins to disperse, I find myself walking with my father towards our car. Our driver, Preston, waits patiently behind the wheel as we spend a bit of time mingling with other well wishers and associates. Then we're driven off to the wake, held in the house of a close friend of the deceased. Unfortunately, the deceased's own mansion is still off limits due to the investigation into his death.

  The wake is unlike most society events I attend. The usual decadence has made way for a more tasteful set up, given the tone. There aren't even any waiting staff and caterers. Just home made sandwiches and finger food with a good selection of alcohol to sooth those aching hearts. As always, I feel for the immediate family most, in particular the guy's two kids. They look about the same age as I was when my mother passed. Old enough to remember every last minute of the day. It'll be etched in their minds forever now. There's no escaping it.

  Before long I'm itching to leave. It's been a week now since I walked out of hospital and, thankfully, I've managed to remove the bandage around my head. All that's left now is a small series of stitches along my hairline and the lightest bruising on my knuckles. It's like my body's become efficient at clearing up minor scrapes and injuries. It's certainly had the experience.

  I'm no believer in fate, but just as my mind turns to the highlight of that night – and the next day – I feel a buzzing in my pocket. I lift my cell and see a text from a number I don't recognize.

  “I'd like to see you. Can we meet asap? Lily.”

  Among the sea of forlorn faces around me, my smile must look completely out of place. I quickly wipe away the grin, though, and set to work on my reply. Although her eagerness is somewhat off-putting.

  “You finally came around did you. Where, when?”

  I slip my cell back into my pocket and turn back to the conversation about interest rates and inflation. Even at a funeral, the topic of work and business is never far away.

  Another buzz and I reach back in to check my phone.

  “Right now. Rocko's cafe.”

  Rocko's cafe. I know the place. It's a well known cafe near the Den. I've been there once or twice the morning after.

  “I'm a bit busy now. Make it an hour and I'll see what I can do.”

  “Sure. One hour.”

  Her reply is so quick I have no time to even turn my eyes from my phone. The strange thing about reading text messages is that the inflection is lost. She sounds extremely brief and desperate. It's not particularly attractive. I preferred it when I was chasing her.

  I spend the next 20 minutes saying goodbye and making excuses. My father glares at me, probably wondering what seedy enterprise I've got going on, but doesn't say much.

  When I leave the mansion grounds I see that Preston is still in the car, reading the newspaper and sipping coffee from a thermos. He almost spits up when I knock on the window.

  “Preston, I need you to take me into Brooklyn.”

  He opens the door a crack. “Where's your father?”

  “Still inside. He won't be out for a while. You'll be bac
k before he's done.”

  He stares at me a moment. “You sure he's OK with this?” He's concerned my father will want to leave and he'll be gone. That'll be a sackable offense and being a driver for Roger Farrell is a pretty cushy job. Not one to lose lightly.

  “Of course I am. It'll only take 30 minutes to drive there.”

  “If you're sure Mason...”

  I jump in the back seat and we set on our way. While Preston and I have always got on well, ever since he started working for us a couple of years ago, I'm not the one paying the bills. And my father has shown people the door for a lot less. He runs a tight ship.

  It doesn't take as long as I thought to get there, and I tell Preston to pull up down the street for me to get out. Despite my early arrival time, however, Lily is already there. The winter has come on fast over the last week, and she's snugly dressed in a thick black coat and nursing a large cup of steaming coffee.

  When I go in I'm ready to flip back into cocksure, playful mode. But the look on Lily's face suggests there's something more at play here. This, it seems, isn't a date at all.

  The bell on the door flutters as I walk in, and Lily's eyes lift quickly to mine. There's an intensity in them that wasn't present during our brief encounters before. Gone is the smile and twinkle. Now she seems darker, more brooding. Like she's hardly slept for the last few nights.

  A faint smile creases at the corners of her mouth as I approach. I drop into the chair opposite her, still trying to work her out. If this girl's got issues, maybe this wasn't the best idea. I can't stand girls like that. The ones that turn emotional on a whim, flip out over nothing. Even during one night stands they can go from sexy as fuck to mad as a hatter in the blink of an eye.

  “Nice suit,” is the first thing she says. “What were you, at a funeral or something?”

  “Yes, actually. Well, at the wake.”

  “Sorry to hear that? Anyone close?”

  I shake my head as a waitress comes over. “Just some business associate. Got his head blown off in a robbery. You might have seen it on the news.”

  She recoils at my words, turning her eyes from me for a moment. “What'll it be honey?” says the waitress. I raise my eyes up her stained white apron and past her heaving breasts.

  “Just a coffee, large.”

  She wanders off and I turn back to Lily. Her face seems even paler now, even more screwed up. It's a far cry from before. The pithy banter. The little jokes. This is a fucking drag.

  “Soooo,” I say. “What's up?” It's a leading question. A chance for her to explain what the fuck's going on.

  She scratches her head and takes another sip of coffee. “I kinda need your help with something.”

  “OK. What?” I say blankly. I'm ready to dart out of here if she says the wrong thing.

  “You go to the Den a lot, right?”

  I nod.

  “Well, I'm trying to find some information about someone down there. A guy.”

  “Information? What sort of information?”

  “Just where he lives, what his name is. It's important.” There's a steeliness growing in her eyes. Some dark intention.

  “Why? You forget something at his place?” I say jokingly, trying to lighten the mood.

  She doesn't react. “Not exactly. It's about a friend. I just need to know, OK. Can you help me or not.”

  The waitress comes over with my coffee and I set about tailoring it to my tastes. Two sugars, plenty of milk.

  “Sure, I can help you. But you need to tell me why first.”

  I take a first sip to give her a moment to think. She seems to be weighing things up in her mind, evaluating the pros and cons. Meanwhile, I'm now completely interested. This is hugely intriguing.

  “I have a friend who he hurt,” she says eventually, her voice low and quiet. “I want him to suffer like...she has.”

  “What did he do?” I ask. But I already know the answer. I know what happens down there.

  Her green eyes are burning now, like a peaceful forest suddenly ravaged by a bush fire. She swallows, as if struggling to say the word, but I can already hear it echoing in my head.

  “Rape,” she says. “He raped her.”