Desperate Enemies 3

by Adam Carpenter

  “As is one of my associates,” Danvers said.

  “Yeah, because you pulled him in front of you as a shield,” Rich said. “Well guess what, you chicken shit fuck, there's no one left to protect you, not from any of us. Trust me, Eldon Court will remain with all of its present owners—I won't allow you to win, neither will any of our neighbors.”

  “Does that include Mr. St. John?”

  “Parker can suck my cock for all I care about him.”

  Danvers raised his eyebrows. “A telling statement, Mr. North.”

  Just then the waitress interrupted the tense moment, Rich's meal at the ready. She placed the plate in front of him.

  “Enjoy your meal, Mr. North,” Danvers said, “you never know when it's your last.”

  Danvers pushed on, choosing to get out of the glare of the sun by taking a table inside. Lauren of course had no choice but to join him. Business. . . Rich knew that people used business as a way to excuse any kind of sordid behavior. He was guilty of it himself, the scandal back in New York having cost him nearly everything, and all in the name of so-called business. The move to Wonderland was supposed to have been a fresh start, for him and Marc both, for their relationship, but a simple job as a bank branch manager in his hometown had presented him with his biggest challenge, and his biggest enemy. Danvers Converse was dangerous because he had no morals. He saw, he took. Not this time, Rich thought..

  He drained his mimosa, but pushed the food away.

  Appetite gone, he considered his next move.

  The ringing of the phone was almost like the hand of fate had dialed the call.

  “Rich, it's Edgar Newcastle.”

  “Edgar, hi, how goes it?”

  “I knocked on your door a bit ago, no one was home.”

  “I'm Down Wonder, Marc. . . he should be home.”

  “Haven't seen him,” Edgar stated, and then pushed forward with the reason for his call. “Can you come over tonight, you and Marc? Jack and I think it's time for us all to get together, there's been a development?”

  “Does it have something to do with that woman I saw hugging you last week?”

  “Yeah, you saw that, huh?”

  “Who is she?”

  “All in good time. So, seven o'clock?”

  “Should I bring some wine?”

  “Oh, I think we're all gonna need something stronger than that,” Edgar said, his tone serious. “Oh, and can you bring over that book you checked out of the library?”

  “The one about Wonderland's history?”

  “That's the one.”

  “What's this about, Edgar, really?”

  “Gold.” As though that one word explained it all.

  “Uh, okay, see you then,” Rich said, and then the call ended. Rich was a businessman, a banker, he knew the power of money, the seductive pull of wealth. And with the idea of gold, that rich, elusive mineral perhaps held an allure all its own, more valuable than cash to some, more valuable than life to others.

  Rich North was suddenly ravenous, the food on his plate drawing his hunger to it. He felt virile again, determined, sexually alive perhaps for the first time since he'd been shot. Staring again at his phone, he wanted to call Marc and have him meet him at home, Rich wanted him with such power he could feel his cock thickening inside his jeans, thought of his chest sprouting thick new tufts of hair, imagined Marc's lithe body beneath him as he readied to be pounded by his thick cock and with new love, the kind of love and commitment Rich had promised him before the gallery opening and failed to deliver on. But Marc wasn't home and he hadn't picked up his cell phone earlier, which only led Rich to wonder just what was going on with his lover?

  * * * *

  Paolo wasn't up for a social visit, but the phone call earlier from Edgar was not something he could avoid, not after what happened to Aaron and what still threatened to steal their livelihoods out from under them. He owed it to Aaron's memory to find out just what Edgar and Jack had discovered, and what it had to do with that fiery-haired woman.

  “Will everyone be there?” Paolo had asked.

  “Rich and Marc, yes, Parker too. Not Dane or Sawyer, they're still out of town.”

  “Why I do think this is no pool party?”

  “Because it's serious,” Edgar had said.

  “Yeah, I'm familiar with serious issues,” he said.

  “Hey, Paolo?” Edgar said, his voice laced with concern.

  “Yeah?”

  “It will be good to see you.”

  Paolo felt tears spring into his eyes. “Thanks, that means a lot, Edgar. See you then.”

  That conversation had taken place around two this afternoon, and now the sun had waned and darkness was beginning to settle over the rocky bluff of Eldon Court. It was just after seven and Paolo knew he was going to be late, not that he could help it. As the time had ticked ever closer to the appointed meeting time, a constricting fear had taken command of his mind and his body. Could he handle the sympathetic nods of his friends, their tender embraces? Did he really want to be involved with whatever plot was cooking over at Number Four? No doubt the tension in the room would be so high he wasn't sure he'd be able to look anyone in the eyes, not without revealing certain facts within his own brown eyes. How could he possibly face Marc and Parker and Rich, knowing what he knew, knowing what they knew and guessing who didn't know? When had life gotten so complicated?

  Paolo finished off his second shot of tequila in an effort to settle his nerves, fortifying himself for a night expected to be filled with surprises. He contemplated a third shot, staring at the bottle on the counter, then decided wisely against it. Before he changed his mind, he then made his way outside and into the surprisingly cool night. A strong wind blew off the ocean, chilling him to the bone. He was still dressed in shorts and T-shirt, flip flops, like he refused to let go of summer, even as autumn made its determined way toward land. As he approached Number Four he saw that blazing lights inside and a heard the unusual sound of laughter; since when was this a happy occasion? Doubt again crept inside him and he nearly turned around.

  The sound of his name being called out stopped him. “Don't leave, please.”

  It was Marc, standing in the open doorway of Edgar and Jack's house and it wasn't just his words that had Paolo reversing his direction and walking up the stairs of the house, it was the soft tone behind them. He took the final step and found himself face to face with his friend, who just reached out and embraced him, not saying another word.

  Paolo felt the fresh warmth of friendship wash over him.

  Maybe he had been judging Marc unfairly this past week, given what he knew.

  But we all have hidden pains; we all deal with them in one way or another.

  Paolo had chosen to shut himself off from the world. Marc had chosen Parker to alleviate his stress.

  As the two men parted, Marc said, “I've missed my friend.”

  Paolo almost said, “But you've made a new one, haven't you,” but let it drop, this was not the time, not the place. There were other issues to settle first among them all, that's why they were here. So, with a quiet smile, he said, “Shall we go inside and find out what the hell is going on in this neighborhood?”

  Marc led him inside the house, where he was instantly greeted by Edgar and Jack, their familiar presence bringing a strange level of comfort to Paolo, as though this sudden circle of old friends had magically brought Aaron back to life; a quick look to his side told him that was pure fantasy, wishful thinking. Both men expressed how glad they were he could join them, ushering him into the living room where he came face to face with Parker St. John, his strong arms crossed, standing in the corner almost like a sentry. Before him was the regal red-headed woman, situated in a high-backed chair, a Queen on her throne. Now that he saw her up close he felt his jaw drop.

  “But wait, you're Rose Emerson. . .”

  “Ah, yes, my late, lamented career,” she said with a casual wave of her well-manicured hand, “what would it b
e without the gays. They're the only ones who remember me.”

  “But what do you have to do with. . .”

  That's when Rich North emerged, seemingly out of the darkness, shadows upon his face, an enemy in Paolo's mind, the man behind Aaron's tragedy. He'd come from the kitchen, a tray of drinks at the ready, as though nothing had happened. “That's what we're all here to find out, Paolo. You're just in time—I've mixed up some Black Velvets. In honor of our guest.”

  A mix of champagne and stout, it was a bubbly, frothy, yet hearty drink. Also the name of the last film Rose Emerson was ever to make, a low-budget thriller from two decades ago in which she wrapped her garroted male victims in swaths of black velvet before drinking down a glass of champagne in celebration of her conquest. It was camp at its best. Her infamous line, “Killing may be in my blood, but I'll take the bubbles any day,” had been uttered by many gay boys during celebratory toasts and assorted trivia-led drinking games at gay bars across the country. And to think, here was this glamorous icon from yesteryear in Wonderland... on Eldon Court, and seemingly with some kind of connection to this whole mess.

  Rich passed around the drinks and they all toasted, “to having bubbles any day,” and they drank, Paolo doing so while noticing a slight hesitation on Parker's part, lips to the rim of his glass but not really partaking. Their eyes locked for a moment, with Parker uncharacteristically blinking first and looking away. Okay, there must be some story there about the toast and this woman and Parker's new role as wallflower. That's when Paolo raised his glass and said, “Also, to good friends who are always there for you, even when you don't want it.”

  “And to Aaron,” Marc added, and they drank, all of them, the toast serving as reminder of why they were gathered here, and before long the pregnant pause led to a shift in the tone of the meeting.

  It was Edgar who took the lead, starting with formal introductions.

  “We found Rose just about the same time she arrived in Wonderland, and the connection was a surprising one,” Edgar said, “an old contact of mine from my days at the Chronicle was helping me in my research for my book, Fool's Gold, and I mentioned to him the trouble we were having with Converse, how desperately he wanted our land and how he was willing to do anything to get it. Well, Miller—he's no fan of our dear friend, Converse, especially since he'd just been beaten, a message of sorts, for nosing around. But we did find out one thing: a connection between Wonderland and Rose Emerson—or should I say Rose St. John?”

  Paolo and Rich stared suddenly at Parker.

  “You mean?”

  “I'd like you to meet my mother,” Parker said. “She's quite something isn't she?”

  “You said your mother walked out on your father years ago,” Rich said, “you never said she was. . .”

  “The famous B-movie actress with the arched eyebrow and the catty lines?”

  “Parker thought I was an utter embarrassment,” she said, “and it wasn't really my acting he objected to but. . .”

  “All the men,” he said.

  She shrugged with indifference, like sleeping her way through Hollywood was so odd. “So what, I liked the attention of men. . . you sure do, too, don't you sweetie?” she said to Parker, who looked away again, embarrassed. Paolo noted how closed off Parker appeared, from his jeans and sweater, to the distant look in his eyes. Rose's wide eyes darted about the room, landing on Rich, on Paolo, on Marc, as though daring them to question her choices. None of them had any right to judge.

  Just how much did Rose Emerson know about her son's sexual proclivities? Seemed like she was fully briefed, she knew what a stud her son was. Regardless, Paolo found the dynamic between over-the-top mother and conflicted son fascinating; the usually self-assured Parker St. John reduced to a simpering little boy who didn't approve of his mother's wandering eyes. Parker was one to talk, the way he'd gone through the men of Eldon Court since his arrival, he was more like a thorn off the old Rose.

  “Okay, let's not get off topic,” Jack said, taking over from Edgar's beginning. “Both Edgar and I had an interesting conversation with Rose last week, and we've been trying to figure out how best to work with the information. As we know, our main goal is in stopping Danvers Converse from taking our homes, and we've already paid way too high a price for it. So we cannot go down in defeat, not now.”

  “Okay, that's fine,” Rich said, “but what does Rose have to do with Danvers?”

  “As we've always suspected, the key to taking down Danvers Converse is the events that happened at Number Two all those years ago, and I think we've finally got our first, real lead. You've noticed that the lawn has been dug up a bit over the last week or so?”

  “Yes,” Paolo said, “we've all seen our shirtless Parker digging away, wiping sweat from his brow and his chest. He's put on quite a show.”

  Parker was about to protest, but his mother's hand suddenly pressed against his, calming him.

  “Okay, boys, leave the libidos for later. I think it's my turn to talk,” Rose said, standing up and taking center stage. She wasn't known for live theatre, but an actress like her knew it was all about the entrance, getting the attention of the audience. “It's a complicated story you're about to hear, the sordid pieces of our pasts, but let me lay the groundwork first by naming the players. George Saunders, who owned Number Two Eldon Court, and his wife, Elissa, their almost-teenage son, Troy; Danvers Converse was a part of the mix by that point, as he had been carrying on a supposed secret affair with George—which everyone in town knew about; myself, I'd already left Wonderland behind, leaving Parker in the care of his step-father. Back in my less than honorable days, I too had had a fling with George—back then he was the most influential man in Wonderland, not only because of his wealth, but his status in the community. Were it not for his great-great grandfather, Drew, Wonderland might never have been settled as it had.”

  “Drew Saunders—he's the guy I read about,” Rich said, “he and his male lover came to Wonderland from back east and settled it.”

  “And lived here on Eldon Court, each of them perpetuating shams of a marriage,” Edgar said, “even as they lived openly with each other, they sired children with the two women who acted as their wives. Together they built the first two properties on Eldon Court.”

  “So the gay gene goes way back to the beginning,” Rose said, “and I have to say, of all the times I was with George I always had the sense his heart wasn't in it. . . or maybe not his heart, if you know what I mean.”

  “Mother!”

  “Oh hush, Parker, be glad you inherited one thing from George,” she said pointedly.

  Parker actually blushed, even as he stood proud.

  It amazed Paolo to know how many people in this room were versed, first-hand, in the knowledge that Parker was well-endowed.

  “For years, George and his wife failed at having children, and I believe it was because he was gay and really couldn't get it up for her, probably took months before they consummated their marriage,” Rose said, “and so the questions started, the rumors. . . and I guess one night he went trolling to prove his virility. He found me; we had some drinks, then found our way to the Bayside. Parker was conceived that night, I'm sure of it, even though George and I continued to meet for another two weeks. Word had spread around town that he and I were having a torrid affair, and secretly I think George was thrilled at establishing this new reputation, even though it was impossible for it to last. I ended things, found out later that I was pregnant. I left for L.A. to have the baby, landed my first film, met the fine Alan St. John, and eventually we all returned to Wonderland to carve out our version of the American Dream. Across town, George and Elissa Saunders had finally welcomed their first child, Troy, and for awhile both families lived in the same town, carefully avoiding each other, even though I knew Elissa secretly thanked me for proving to George that he could father a child. It secured her place in the Saunders family fortune, producing the family heir.”

  “Troy Saunders,” Paolo
said, “I've met him. . . or at least, a man claiming to be him. He lives down at Danvers’ estate in Carmel.”

  “Yes, he's been a ward of Danvers Converse for more than ten years,” Rose said matter of factly. “Since George went cuckoo.”

  “Okay, so what does all this have to with the violence at Number Two? We all know George lives in San Francisco as a near-vegetable.”

  “He's crazy is what he is,” Jack said.

  “Oh, don't be so harsh on old George,” Rose said with a hint of fond remembrance. “Think about it, he's rich, powerful, but with a secret for his enemies to exploit. Life back then wasn't like it is today, boys, look at all of you, living out and proud, your own exclusive gay enclave up here on Eldon Court. No one cares what you do—or who you do. For George, it was so different.”

  “And for Danvers Converse.”

  “Yes, well, in a way Converse himself is a victim, but how he has dealt with it is what makes him such a dangerous enemy,” she said, “Danvers Converse and George Saunders were in love, their affair the worst-kept secret in Wonderland, and Elissa, well, she just turned a blind eye to it all. She had what she wanted—Troy—so she let the two tycoons screw each other whenever and wherever—with one exception.”

  “Number Two,” Marc said.

  “You got it, cutie,” Rose said. “Now, no one truly knows what happened that night, but I'll tell you this much—George and Danvers were there, as was fourteen-year-old Troy. There are conflicting reports about Elissa's presence; no one truly knows where she was.” She paused, the actress going for a dramatic effect. “And that continues to this day.”

  “So Elissa. . . she's the one who was murdered?”

  Rose nodded. “That's my belief.”

  “And if we can prove that,” Parker said, finally stepping out of his mother's shadow to take the lead, “and not just that she was murdered, but who did it, Rose and I may finally lay claim to the Saunders estate, the house at Number Two and all that comes with it. And if we get what we want, the Wonderland Palaces will not and cannot happen, Danvers Converse will have nothing to hold over us. Of course we would never sell, not when I finally claim my birthright as George Saunders first-born son.”