The house he’d already prowled before checking the bedroom—making sure he was truly alone—and had seen enough slate floors, knotty pine, rush-matting, and cane-seating to last a lifetime. But back in the kitchen a pile of unopened mail on the counter tweaked his interest; among various bills, he found one from the phone company.
Within seconds he was staring at the Graces’ monthly Ma Bell damage—which included ten long-distance calls to the number of the Smith family in Tucson, all in the last two weeks, juxtaposed beside dollar-and-cents figures sure to dismay the Graces when they got home…unless four-hundred-buck-plus phone bills were the norm around here.
He helped himself to some sandwich meat in the Amana fridge and settled for a can of Tab to wash it down. Then he gathered his daughter’s overnight bag—carrying it in his left hand to leave his right free for the .45 if need be—and returned to the Lincoln in the driveway. He stowed her bag in back with his Samsonite, which he opened, withdrawing a white shirt and a dark blue tie, putting them and his gray sport jacket on; he stuck the dirty clothes in the suitcase and snapped it closed.
Poised to get in on the driver’s side, he looked at the sky. Dusk had given over to night, and the same clear starry tapestry with full moon that accompanied him across the desert was waiting for him at Tahoe.
He said silently to the sky, This isn’t a prayer. But if Pat was wrong, and you are out there, not dead like some people say…I could use any help you want to give me, getting Anna out of here to safety.
Dispensing with the “amen,” but this time not giving God the finger at least, he left the Grace home and Pineview development and headed for Crystal Bay. Driving up the pine-framed “strip” of Lake Tahoe, the familiar glowing garish neons—crystal bay club, nevada lodge, bal tabarin, cal-neva—welcomed him home; but they seemed unreal. Was he asleep behind the wheel of the Lincoln, out in the desert, dreaming and about to run off the road…?
The Cal-Neva lot was brimming with luxury cars; but here and there a Chevy II or Plymouth Fury or GTO nestled between vinyl-topped Eldorados and Rivieras—one indication of the prom going on in the Indian Lounge tonight. Another was the steady stream of sideburned guys in tuxes (red or white or light blue, never black) with ruffled shirts and bow ties the size of small aircraft, arm-in-arm with shellac-haired gals in frilly pastel Guinevere gowns heading into the A-frame lodge under a banner shouting: welcome class of ’73!
Near the front a Mercedes pulled out and glided off, and Michael slipped the Lincoln into the spot, gaining a perfect clear path to the front entry; then he sat in the dark watching teenage couples go in, and considered his options.
If Anna and Gary weren’t back from Reno yet, he could simply wait for them, and grab the girl on the Cal-Neva doorstep. But that Reno reservation was for five, and the two kids could have eaten and made it back to the Cal-Neva by as early as six thirty or seven.
And it was almost eight o’clock now.…
Michael exited the Lincoln, his manner seemingly casual, but keeping his right hand ready for the .45 in his waistband. He strolled around the side of the building where fir trees and darkness conspired with a recession in the building, between added-on sections of the lodge, to allow him to climb a drain pipe to the slanting roof, walking Groucho-style up to where it flattened out.
Sinatra’s most grandiose excess awaited Michael—a rooftop heliport atop the Celebrity Showroom that had not been used since the days (and nights) when the Chairman of the Board had flown Jack and/or Bobby Kennedy in from Sacramento, or Dino or Marilyn or the McGuire Sisters from Hollywood. As the moon lengthened Michael’s shadow across the rooftop, he ran on those quiet crepe soles to the dormer housing a doorway to a stairwell.
Padlocked on the other side, the door had panels so weathered and thin that Michael tapped one with an elbow and it splintered.
The unlighted stairs were not difficult to navigate; they led to a landing with off shoot stairs down to performer dressing rooms as well as a side door to the Sinatra Celebrity Showroom. The main stairs, however, took Michael below to the cement-block-walled tunnel with its indoor-outdoor carpeting and nest of overhead pipes. From this juncture the tunnel snaked under the kitchen, casino, and Circle Bar, coming back up to provide a pathway to what had been Michael’s office.
As far as Michael knew, the last time the secret stone-pillar fireplace “door” had been used, an assassin had come into the office and got immediately shot and killed for the trouble. He hoped the new Cal-Neva manager, whoever that might be, wasn’t as quick on the trigger; at least he knew the Garand rifle wasn’t over the mantel anymore—it was in the suitcase in his car, in pieces.
The scraping of stone on stone was unavoidable, so Michael shoved it the hell open, and burst in the office, fanning the .45 around what appeared to be an empty room, illuminated only by the picture window filtering in moonbeams and their reflection off the lake.
The new manager wasn’t here, at least not in his office. Nothing much seemed to have changed, but for a wall arrayed with celebrity and politician photos; they were hanging crooked, which was nothing new for the politicos, anyway.
He cracked the door and looked out into a dark hallway of offices; busy casino noise, and the laughter of those high school kids, echoed down from the lodge—the Indian Lounge was nearby.
He recalled what Anna had said about their home in Paradise Estates—that she felt like a ghost haunting her own house. Michael had that same bizarre sensation setting foot in the Indian Lounge again—his ten years at the Cal-Neva had been his single longest stint at any one facility, and no job had pleased him more; no workplace could have been a better fit.
Now the most familiar face at Cal-Neva over the last decade relegated himself to the shadows of the lounge, which was suitably darkened for the occasion. That was why he’d put on the shirt and tie with sport jacket, to better fit in with the parent chaperones who would be staying on the sidelines, not bugging the kids.
The lounge had the usual streamers and crepe-paper balls in green and gold, the school colors, and another banner over the stage—where a cover band in pirate shirts and bell-bottoms bellowed, “Slow Ride, take it easy!”—said, prom ’73—highland fling! (the school teams were the Highlanders).
But the open-beamed lounge’s natural decor would have overwhelmed the most ambitious decorating committee, with its black California/Nevada state line painted on the floor through the massive sixty-foot granite-boulder fireplace, and natural wood walls arrayed with deer, elk, and bear trophies and Indian art and blankets.
At least fifty couples were out on the dance floor and at the round tables with gold or green cloths, and the sea of red, white, and light blue tuxes and froufrou pastel gowns made the kids fairly interchangeable in the dim green light. The cover band was doing a badly out-of-tune “Bridge Over Troubled Water” now, but the couples clutching each other out there didn’t seem to mind. He moved along the periphery, trying to get a better vantage point, hoping to spot Anna and Gary.…
“Mike!”
He turned and saw the father of one of Anna’s friends from chorus—Dan Miller, an insurance agent from Incline Village—grinning and shoving a hand at him like a spear.
“Dan,” he said with a smile, shaking the moist hand, “nice to see you.”
“So you decided to let Anna come back for the prom!”
“Yes—yes.”
“White of ya! Couldn’t just pull her out of school a few months ’fore the end of her senior year, and expect her to forget her whole damn life! You’re a good parent, Mike. Good parent.”
“Thanks.” Maybe the punch was spiked. “Have you seen Anna?”
“I think they’re up near the stage, her and Gary. Great to see you! Where are you folks again, these days?”
“Great to see you, too,” Michael said, working his voice up, as if having trouble hearing over the band.
And he edged down the wall, getting nearer the front.
There she was.
His beautiful daughter, looking so much like her mother, her head nestled against the chest of blond athletic Gary, one of the few boys here with shorter hair. They stayed in one spot, moving in a barely perceptible circle, both with eyes dreamily closed, lost in a loving embrace.
Anna wore a white dress with none of the silly frills of these other girls, adorned only by a sheer shawl and the orchid corsage at her wrist, her long brown hair braided and ribboned here and there. Gary’s tux was white with slashes of black lapel.
Michael lurched reflexively toward them, then stopped himself. An empty table—its rightful claimants probably out on the dance floor—presented a chair for him to flop into, which he did. Suddenly he felt tired. Old. His eyes filled with tears, and he swallowed hard. Beautiful. How beautiful, how sweet she looked. Sweet and alive.…
Even the thought of those Trojans on the nightstand only made him smile. Hadn’t he and Patsy Ann screwed like rabbits in the backseat of her daddy’s Buick on prom night? What had been so awful about that? He had loved Patsy Ann, and she loved him.
He would let them finish their dance.
“…bridge over troubled water…”
At least the guy was back in tune for the finish. Applause rewarded the band, and most of the kids stayed out there for “Right Place, Wrong Time,” a growly fast number. A few other couples threaded back toward their seats, Anna and Gary among them.
The table where Michael sat remained otherwise empty, and while it didn’t belong to Anna and Gary, the couple’s own seats were nearby apparently, because she spotted her father on the way over.
Freezing.
Emotions, in a rapid wave, traveled her features: anger, worry, terror, indignation, frustration, sadness, even regret.
Gary—petrified beside her, holding her hand—only gazed at Michael blankly. The father knew the look—this boy loved this girl, and he would be a man about any decisions he’d made regarding her, would not be afraid to stand up to Daddy.
Anna started to pull away, but Gary shook his head and walked her over to his girlfriend’s father, who remained seated.
The couple just stood there looking at him, Gary pretending to be calm, Anna with chin defiantly up.
Gary said, “We couldn’t let you keep us apart. We…I…really meant no disrespect, sir. But—”
“Please sit down,” Michael said, his voice calm.
Anna and Gary locked eyes.
“Kids—please. Sit. I’m not angry. Really. Just relieved.”
“I’m sorry if you were worried,” she said, her words cold, her chin crinkly, “but my life isn’t about you and Mom, anymore, Daddy. My life is about me, and Gary.”
“Honey—sit. Gary? Help me out here?”
Gary nodded and guided the girl into the chair beside her father. Still, she sat as far away from him as she could manage.
“Please listen to me, both of you,” he said, firmly but with no anger, nothing judgmental. “I understand what tonight is about—I was.…”
“You were a kid d yourself once,” she said snippily.
Gary said, “Anna, please.…Give him a chance.”
“Thanks, son. Annie, back home, our—”
“This is home.”
He sat forward. “Sweetheart, our new identities have been exposed.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Our cover’s been blown, back in Arizona. Very bad people know the Smiths are really the Satarianos. You’re in danger. Right now. Right here.”
Her eyes flew wide. “My God.…Is Mom okay?”
He said, “Baby, we need to leave. Cal-Neva’s just about the worst place on the face of the earth for us, right now. Gary, you should probably stay.”
“I’m going with you,” he said.
“Gary, that’s not—”
“Daddy!”
Her hand was clutching his arm. Tight. Her eyes were big and wet. Her lips were trembling.
“Daddy.…Is Mom…is she…?”
“We lost her, baby,” he said gently, and he began to cry. He covered his face with a hand. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…I have to be strong for you.…”
And his daughter was in his arms, holding him tight, and she was crying, too. “Oh, I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.…”
He held her away from him. Shrugged off the emotion. Cold again, he said, “Listen to me—this was not your fault. You didn’t do this to us, to your mom. If anyone did, it was me.”
“Daddy, Daddy.…”
“Listen!” And he shook her, just a little. A few eyes were on them now, so he kept his expression neutral and his voice soft. “We don’t have time for recriminations. We don’t have time to take any blame. A very long time ago, I sat where you’re sitting—I thought I’d caused my mother’s death.”
“Gran’ma…Satariano?”
“No—my real mother.” He turned to Gary, who looked like he’d been pole-axed. “Son, I told Anna and Mike that I was adopted, but I lied to them about something. I didn’t tell them that I knew my real parents, that I grew up with my real parents.”
Anna was shaking her head, tears streaming, ruining her makeup. “I can’t…I can’t…I can’t.…”
“Baby,” he told her, “my father told me, ‘It’s not your fault—it’s the business I’m in.’ He told me I wasn’t responsible for my mother’s death, and that neither was he.”
But I am responsible for their retribution, the Angel of Death had said, so long ago.…
This memory Michael did not share with his daughter.
“Right now,” he said, “we have to survive. We have to leave this place, and we have to go somewhere else, somewhere safe.”
“Where is safe, Daddy?”
“Anywhere. Anywhere is safer than here.…Gary, you shouldn’t come with us. We’ll contact you. You have to trust me, son, you have to believe me.”
The boy was shaking his head. “I love Anna, sir. I can help you. Let me help you.”
“Gary, please.”
“No. I’m coming with you.”
No use arguing with him here. Michael would get Anna out of here, and deal with the Gary problem later.
“I’m sorry to spoil your prom,” Michael said, “but we have to leave this very moment.…You two go on out. I’ll meet you in the front lobby.”
Gary nodded and, then, so did Anna.
The hundred or so kids in tuxes and formals were dancing slow again, to “The Morning Aft er,” which sounded even worse when a male sang it.
Michael hugged the wall, kept his head down, hoping no other chaperone would recognize him, among these numerous familiar faces—other parents, and some teachers, too.
In the front lobby, he joined the boy and girl. Behind the check-in desk, an assistant manager of his, a pretty young woman named Brandi, squinted at him; he shook his head at her, and somehow she got the signal. She said nothing, God bless her.
“The car’s close, right out front,” he said to the young couple, standing between them, a hand on each one’s shoulder. “I’m going out first. If there’s no problem, I’ll pull right up to the door.…Gary, open the front for Anna, Anna you get in, and Gary climb in back, it’ll be unlocked.”
Gary nodded. “And we’ll book it out of here.”
“We will indeed,” Michael said, and squeezed the hand on the boy’s tux shoulder. “Just look after my little girl.”
Their eyes met.
Gary understood: if Michael didn’t make it, Anna would be his responsibility.
“Be careful, Daddy,” Anna said.
He kissed her on the forehead and went out.
Trotting to the parked Lincoln, he swiftly scanned the lot for anything suspicious. A few casino goers, couples, were heading for their own cars. Some kids from the prom were out front catching a smoke in the cool crisp pleasant breeze.
Behind the wheel of the parked Lincoln, he made sure the seat was clear in back for Gary, moving the suitcases over; he unlocked the doors on
their side, and powered down the window on his own side, and Anna’s.
Then he started the car, backed out, and swung around, pulling right in front. Gary came out first, Anna right behind him, and the boy opened the door for her. She climbed in, and Gary’s head came apart as the gunshot, probably a .45 or maybe .357, caught him in the forehead. His eyes didn’t have time to register shock.
Anna screamed, and Gary fell away, a mist of red taking his place, as Michael hit the gas, steering with one hand, yelling, “Close that door, baby!” which somehow, through her screaming, she managed to do, and two little men with big revolvers, Giancana guys who Michael recognized, a stocky kid named Vin and a skinnier one named Lou, came up out from among the parked cars, and were aiming the weapons at the Lincoln when Michael shot Vin and Lou with the .45, bang bang, turning their heads into mush and mist, much as they had Gary’s.
Anna kept screaming, and the Lincoln was screaming, too, careening out of the parking lot and then flying down the curving mountain highway, leaving behind the dead boy and pair of Outfit corpses and Cal-Neva and neon signs until only the pines and the night and the twisty road and the sobbing girl were his companions.
“Oh, Daddy, Daddy,” she said finally, horror and hysteria turning the lovely face grotesque, “we just left him there; we just left him there!”
When he could risk it, he pulled over and took her into his arms, and sobs shook her as he said, “We had to leave him. He was gone, baby; he was gone.”
“Oh, but you don’t understand…you don’t understand.…”
“I swear I do, sugar. I swear.”
“But you don’t.” She drew away from him a little, and her eyes and face were drenched with tragedy, her voice a tiny trembling terrible thing, so much older than it had ever been and yet much, much too young.
“That was my husband we left back there, Daddy,” the girl in the white prom dress said, gasping, gulping. “Last night in Vegas…Gary and…we…we…we…got…married.…”
Road to Paradise Page 17
