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CARRION
Gary Brandner
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Also Available
Copyright
Chapter 1
On a cool Monday evening in February, McAllister Fain pulled heavy crimson draperies across the windows of his second-floor apartment. He put a tape of gutless organ selections on the stereo and lit a stick of jasmine incense. He dimmed the lights and lit candles at strategic locations. Then he stepped to the center of the room to study the effect.
Not too bad, he decided. He walked around, straightening the metaphysical prints he had hung over the Utrillo prints and making small adjustments in the positions of the occult objects he had placed about the room. Outside, a dog could be heard barking, and someone shouted in Spanish for the owner to shut him up or shoot him. Beneath the jasmine swam the peppery aroma of menudo being cooked by the family downstairs. The neighborhood could never be completely shut out.
The neighborhood was the Echo Park district of Los Angeles, a multiethnic backwater in the stream of progress. The architecture of Echo Park was such that it was employed as a locale for motion pictures looking for a 1930s ambience. The movie companies had merely to shoo the locals out of the way, hide the TV antennas, scrub off the graffiti, and they had a reasonable facsimile of Los Angeles fifty years ago.
The people who lived in Echo Park included old people who had always lived there, funky artists up in the hills, and young strivers who figured to make a killing when property values went up. By far the majority Echo Park citizens were the down-scale Cubans, Mexicans, Anglos, and Asians who lived in the four-unit apartment buildings and the chopped-up old houses and did not give a damn about the sociological makeup of their community.
• • •
Mrs. Viola Trowbridge arrived shortly after Fain had the room arranged to his satisfaction. For her the neighborhood outside the draped windows had no more reality than a stage set. She sat gazing across the table in rapt attention as Fain studied the tarot cards he had laid out in the Keltic Cross. Mrs. Trowbridge’s bosom surged up and down beneath the black taffeta dress as she fastened on his every word.
“Very definitely, Mrs. Trowbridge,” he said, “there is a gentleman about to become involved in your life. See the King of Cups here in the number-six position?”
“Yes,” she said breathily. “Will it be soon, do you think?”
Fain raised his head and looked at her. He had a bony face that looked rather pleasant in the sunlight, but when lit from below, as it was now, it had a mystical, almost satanic cast. His eyes, with irises of pale gray beneath heavy black brows, turned even a casual glance into a piercing gaze.
Fain studied the eager, hopeful face of the woman. “Yes, I would say soon. Possibly he is even in your life now. A substantial man of business. Perhaps connected with the law?”
“Could it be Mr. Inman? He’s my accountant.”
Fain studied the cards again. “The tarot is not quite that specific, but there does seem to be some connection to figures. To ledgers.”
“He does it all on computers.”
“Exactly.”
“Can I trust him? He won’t cheat me, will he? Do the cards tell you that?”
McAllister Fain smiled at her, softening the flat planes of his face. He leaned back, lessening the satanic effect of the underlighting. “My dear Mrs. Trowbridge, I have to remind you that I don’t tell fortunes. The Los Angeles police are quite diligent about enforcing the laws against fortune-telling.”
Mrs. Trowbridge snorted. “Isn’t that always the way. Why don’t they use all that energy to catch some of the muggers and rapists who are walking the streets as free as you and me?”
Fain spread his hands and shrugged to show that he did not know the answer.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Trowbridge said, “can I trust him?”
Fain returned his attention to the cards. He turned another face up. “Ah, the Ace of Pentacles.”
“That’s good?”
“In the number-seven position it relates to your fears. Now, considering your question about Mr. — Inman, was it?”
She nodded.
“It would definitely look good. The Ace of Pentacles signifies the onset of a new prosperity. Yes, I would say that you can trust Mr. Inman. At least in financial matters.”
“What about … in other ways. I mean, say he wants to get romantic with me.”
A clock chimed softly across the room. Fain smiled wearily.
“That is another question, Mrs. Trowbridge. We can take that up in detail next time.”
She blushed under a layer of powder. “I hope I don’t have to get too detailed, if you know what I mean.”
“Of course not,” he said. “I’m not a therapist. You just tell me whatever you want to, and we’ll go from there.”
“You are a gem, McAllister,” she said.
He waved off the compliment, using his free hand to turn up the lights from a rheostat concealed under the table.
Mrs. Trowbridge pulled a checkbook from her oversized purse and began writing with a slim gold pen.
“You’ve given me such good news today, I’m adding a little something to the usual fee.”
“That’s not necessary. After all, I’m not responsible for what happens to you. I merely do my best to read what’s in the cards.”
“That’s all right,” she said, signing with a flourish. “It makes me happy to do it.”
“Well, in that case …” Fain accepted the check and made it disappear.
“I was wondering …” she said tentatively.
“What’s that?”
“You know my William has been gone four years now.”
Fain lowered his eyes. “Yes, I know.”
“Sometimes I wonder if he would, well, approve of, you know, me and Mr. Inman.”
Faint shrugged again. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“William was a jealous man when he was alive. Do you ever do those seance things?”
He hesitated before answering. “I have. It’s not what you’d call a specialty of mine.”
“Do you think you could do one for me? Contact William, wherever he is?”
“Many things are possible, Mrs. Trowbridge. It would take some preparation, mental preparation, on my part.”
She stood up, tugging her skirt into place. “No hurry. I just thought I’d mention it.”
“I’ll give i
t some thought,” he said. “Same time next week?”
She touched her pewter-colored hair. “I might want to make it sooner. Things could happen fast with Mr. Inman.”
“Just give me a call,” he said.
He walked her to the door and stood outside at the head of the steps, watching as she descended to the street and got into her Cadillac Seville.
Next door his neighbor was swearing in Cuban Spanish at the hulk of a Volkswagen van he was perpetually trying to restore to life. As he worked, he kicked halfheartedly at a chicken that pecked the ground at his feet.
Mrs. Trowbridge leaned over to look up through the window of the Cadillac and wave at Fain as she drove off.
He waved back, then reentered the apartment. He strolled around the room, yanking open the draperies, dousing the incense. He killed the taped organ mush and replaced it with Kenny Burrell.
He swept up the tarot cards, pausing to make the Queen of Swords vanish, appear in his other hand, vanish again, then rise slowly from his breast pocket. He nodded, satisfied, and put the deck back into a table drawer. In the bedroom he changed from his working clothes — dark blue slacks and black turtleneck — into tan slacks and a soft brown shirt. He went into the kitchen, poured himself a shot of Jose Cuervo, then returned to the living room and sank into his soft vinyl recliner.
Jillian Pappas arrived twenty minutes later. As usual, she sailed in without knocking, dropped her tote bag at the door, and moved ceaselessly about the room as she recited the events of her day. She was a limber five feet seven, with a startling combination of midnight-black hair and electric-blue eyes.
“So I told this guy if he thought I was going to start putting out for a lousy part in some equity-waiver theater, he was out of his freeping mind.”
Jillian did not use any of the common obscenities; she substituted her own colorful euphemisms.
“I mean, I’m practically thirty. Well, all right, I am thirty, and I’m not about to go for that kind of schmeiss.”
“You didn’t get the part,” said Fain.
“I don’t think so. There was some blond babe there with bajoomies out to here. No way was she right for it, but I could tell she was going to get it.”
“The bajoomies,” Fain said.
“The director couldn’t keep his eyes off them. Or wait to get his hands on them.”
“Speaking of which, are you going to come over here and say hello?”
She skipped across the room and flopped into his lap, knocking the breath out of him. She took hold of his head and kissed him firmly and thoroughly on the mouth. Both of them were breathing a little harder when she finally drew back.
“More like it,” he said.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” She jumped up and danced across the room. She dived into her tote bag and came out with a copy of the L.A. Insider. She carried the tabloid back and handed it to Fain.
“I stopped at the supermarket on the way over and picked it up. Your ad’s in this week.”
He took the paper from her, glancing briefly at the front page: “I Am Elvis’s Son, Claims Downey Teenager” … “Born Legless, Mother of Three Enters Marina Marathon.” He flipped to the back pages. There a bordered two-inch ad read:
SECRETS OF THE SUPERNATURAL
Seer — Mystic — Oracle
M. Fain, Master of the Occult
Readings by Appointment
His address and telephone number followed.
Jillian put her head close to his as he read. “It doesn’t say very much.”
“It’s not supposed to. Just enough to intrigue a client who is looking for some metaphysical edge in the battle with life.”
“I love it when you talk like that.”
Fain raised his empty glass. “You want a drink?”
“Got any beer? I’m thirsty as a horse.”
“Sure.” He walked into the kitchen, with Jillian behind him, and took a frosty can of Coors from the refrigerator and poured it into a mug. Jillian accepted it gratefully and drank a quarter of the beer before pausing.
“Where are we going for dinner?” she said.
“I thought Chez McAllister.”
“Again?”
“Business has been slow,” he said. “Besides, I found a great new recipe for marinara sauce in Penthouse.”
“Penthouse? What kind of a recipe could you get from Penthouse?”
“You’ll see.”
• • •
The linguini with marinara sauce turned out to be more than passable, helped along by a cabernet sauvignon from what McAllister called a small but obscure winery in Mendocino County.
When he raised the bottle to refill their glasses a third time, Jillian said, “Aren’t you getting an awful lot of wine out that one little bottle?”
“I thought you’d never notice,” he said.
“Oh, Mac, it’s one of your tricks.”
“I cannot tell a lie. An ancient illusion called the Sultan’s Wine Flask.”
“How do you do it?”
“You know magicians never tell.”
“Okay.”
“Since you coax me so prettily, I will reveal the secret. Observe.” He stripped off the light jacket he had put on for dinner to expose a harness and bladder rig with a hose running down one arm to the wrist. “The Sultan’s Wine Flask.”
“It looks uncomfortable.”
He shrugged himself out of the contraption. “A little pain is to be expected for art’s sake.”
“Art my Adam’s apple,” Jillian said.
“You’re not impressed.”
“Sure, Mac, it’s a great trick, but aren’t you, well, a little beyond that sort of thing?”
“I thought you’d enjoy it.”
She came around the table and kissed him, running her fingers up the back of his neck in a way that gave him tingles.
“Honey, I do enjoy you, tricks and all. But tricks are for parties. You do them all day long. You’re smart, and you’ve got talent. You’re reasonably young and not bad-looking. You could do a lot of other things, legitimate things, if you put your mind to it. And make a lot more money, too.”
“I make all the money I need. And what do you mean legitimate things? What I’m doing is perfectly legitimate.”
“Fooling old ladies with this fortune-telling and psychic-reading stuff.”
“I make them happy.”
“And take their money.”
“Not much of it, as you point out frequently.”
“You could do better, Mac; you know you could. You went to college.”
“Oh, sure, a B.A. in psychology. That wouldn’t get me a job in a car wash.”
“You could go back to school.”
“Come on, baby, I’m thirty-six years old. Maybe I could come out with a Ph.D. at forty-two. Then what? Start out as an assistant in some two-bit clinic?”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not what I want to do. I dish out as much solid psychology right here as most of those ‘I’m okay — you’re okay’ guys.”
Jillian sighed. “You’re probably right. I suppose I wouldn’t want you if you were any different. Or you wouldn’t want me. I better leave well enough alone.” She started to pick up the dishes from the table.
“Leave ‘em,” he said.
“You don’t want me to do the dishes?”
“Not right now.”
“If we leave them, they’ll get all crusty and hard to wash.”
“Are you coming to the bedroom with me, or do I have to carry you?”
She looked up at him through thick sable lashes. “Carry me.
They undressed together in the glow of a soft amber lamp, thoroughly comfortable with each other’s body. When they were naked, Fain sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Jill toward him. He pressed his face to her small, yielding breasts, kissing first one, then the other.
“That director was crazy,” he said. “You’ve got the finest pair of bajoomies in Southern California.”
“Southern only?”
“You know I never go north of Santa Barbara.”
She pushed him down on the bed with little resistance and kissed him lightly on the knee. Her tongue moved slowly up the inside of his thigh.
He groaned.
She raised her head. “A funny thing happened today.”
“Jesus, you’re not going to tell me a joke!”
“No joke. A funny thing really happened to me. Can I tell you about it?”
He groaned again, a different groan.
“You know how a month ago my aunt Rowena died. Well, I was waiting to cross Sunset today, and a bus came by. I happened to look up and saw Aunt Rowena grinning at me from one of the windows. She was as close to me as that picture of an Indian over there. I almost dropped my cookies. I ran after the bus to the next stop, right up to the same window, and what do you think?”
“Tell me,” he said.
“There was nobody in that seat. It was empty.”
After a pause, he said, “That’s it?”
“Isn’t that enough, for crumb sake? There’s my aunt dead a month, staring at me from the window of a bus.”
“Hmm,” he said.
“So what do you think?”
“Me?”
“You’re the fleeking psychic.”
“I think you saw a lady on a bus who resembled your late aunt. I think after the bus passed you, she changed her seat or got up to get off. Or passed out on the floor, for all I know.”
“No, really, Mac, couldn’t it have been a spiritual experience of some kind?”
He sat up and kissed away the tiny frown line between her brows. “Sweetheart, if there is one thing I have learned, it is never to deny the possibility of anything. All the same, the chances that it was Aunt Rowena’s ghost are slim. In all my experience, it has been the tendency of dead people to stay dead.”
Jillian was pensive for a moment; then she sighed. “It sure did look like Aunt Rowena. Where was I?”
He lay back down and pointed. “Right here.”
Chapter 2
While McAllister Fain slept happily in the arms of his lady, another man sat wearily wakeful across the city. In the moneyed atmosphere of Holmby Hills, Elliot Kruger sat alone in one of the forty rooms of his Spanish-castle home. His head hung forward, supported by his long, bony hands. There were dark purplish smudges under his eyes. A funguslike stubble clung to his cheeks. His white hair hung limp and stringy. Elliot Kruger, who had always looked younger than his years, now looked the full sixty-three, and ten more.
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