The Dragon Delasangre

by Alan F. Troop

  She turns toward him, the veins in her neck visibly throbbing. Before she can answer, Santos places his hand on her forearm and says, “Casey, honey, relax, sit down, let me handle this.”

  “It’s a fair question to ask,” he says to me as Morton sits.

  I shrug, watch my bride from the corner of my eye as she bends over, and picks up the blonde’s purse, Elizabeth’s charm falling out of the dress top as she does so. “Careful!” I mindspeak. But it dangles for only an instant before she tucks it back in with one hand while she hands the purse to Morton with the other.

  Santos shows no reaction, gives me no sign that he noticed. He continues speaking, his voice and expression the same as before. “Max Lieber told me he saw you months ago at Detardo’s and gave you my phone number then. You never called.”

  “No, I didn’t.” I look at Santos and his woman and marvel at the difference between them. His questions are polite, his tone noncombative, while she almost vibrates in her chair. Her breath exudes the acid tinge of the bile building in her stomach. “I had a marriage and a honeymoon to think of,” I say. “I think you’ll understand my desire to focus on those things first.”

  Santos nods and examines Elizabeth. “Sure, if Maria was only a waitress you met once. I guess I can understand. But, if you don’t mind my asking . . .” He points to Elizabeth. “Just how old is she?”

  Elizabeth glowers at him. “Why don’t we just be done with these two?” she mindspeaks. “I don’t understand your patience.”

  “Just a few minutes more, then they’ll be gone.”

  I turn my attention to Santos. “I’m not sure what this has to do with this conversation, but Elizabeth’s twenty-one. She’s also, as you may notice, a little miffed to be listening to someone suggest her husband had an interest in someone else shortly before he married her. Which, once again—I must insist you believe this—I did not.”

  “You told Lieber, Maria was far too young for you.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything unkind.” I look at Santos and see the resemblance to Maria in his eyes and mouth. I wish I could tell him how much I had wanted not to harm his sister. But, instead, I go on. “Nor do I want to be rude to you. I had no interest in your sister for a number of reasons which I prefer not to list, not the least of which were my plans to marry the woman I love.”

  Jorge Santos nods, looks at his girlfriend, then looks at Elizabeth. “My apologies if this is difficult,” he says to her. “I’m almost done.

  “I’m not sure what I expected to find out today,” Santos says. “Mr. DelaSangre, I know you’re rich. Obviously, you’re a powerful man. The police certainly don’t want to take you on. Your two protectors here can’t come cheap. But I have a missing sister to worry about and so far, you’re the only possibility I’ve found.”

  I stand up and offer my hand. “I hope you realize how improbable a possibility I am.”

  He stands and shakes my hand, a good firm grasp. “Well, at least I don’t feel any more sure today than before I came. . . . Maybe . . .” He pauses, tightening his grip on my hand. “Do you think it would be possible for me to come out to your island and scout around a little—just to get rid of any remaining doubts?”

  “Certainly not!” Jeremy Tindall says. “Mr. DelaSangre has been more than gracious enough already. As his attorney, I recommended against this meeting in the first place. . . .”

  “Enough, Jeremy.” I disengage from Santos’s grasp. “You must understand how much I value my privacy. I’m sure your research has shown you how reclusive my family has always been. We are very wealthy and that always keeps us in danger. We’ve found that seclusion protects us best. For these reasons I must refuse your request.”

  Jorge Santos smiles at me, nods his head in a slight bow toward Elizabeth, everyone standing now. “And you must understand, because of your refusal I can’t throw out the possibility of your involvement in Maria’s disappearance.”

  “We all do what we must,” I say, walking from behind the desk. “I just hope one day you’ll come to believe me.”

  Santos nods. “The eyes . . .” he says, looking from Elizabeth’s face to mine. “Maria raved about your emerald-green eyes. Her’s are the same color.”

  “They run in my family. Elizabeth’s a distant cousin.”

  “Oh,” Santos says, examining Elizabeth again, focusing this time on her lower neck. “I think I saw something before. May I?” he says, reaching toward the thin, gold chain she’s worn since our wedding day, grabbing it, pulling up, untucking the gold charm, examining it.

  “Do I have to tolerate this?” Elizabeth backs away, her movement jerking the charm from his hand.

  “No!” I say, moving forward, shoving him back. “You forget. That’s my wife you’re bothering.” I push him again. “Leave her alone!”

  Santos says nothing. He allows the momentum of my second shove to knock him off his feet, drop him to his left knee. Crouched, glaring at me, he pulls up his right pants’ leg, yanks his Glock automatic from the ankle holster underneath and points it at me. “Where did she get that necklace?” he growls.

  Casey Morton throws open her purse, rummages through it for her pistol. Before she can produce it, Arturo presses his chrome automatic to her temple.

  “What the fuck do you all think you’re doing?” Jeremy asks. “This is a meeting, not a Goddamned gang war.”

  Santos glares at me, continues to point his pistol.

  “Peter?” Elizabeth mindspeaks.

  “Don’t worry. We can survive far worse than this gun,” I reassure her, smiling, glad I’d gone shopping at Dadeland Mall in June. Pleased to have a safe answer to his inquiry.

  “Stop looking so damned smug and answer my fucking question!” Santos stands, approaches me with his arm outstretched, bringing the Glock within a foot of my head.

  “Back off!” Arturo says, grabbing Morton with his free arm, pinning her arms, pointing his pistol at Santos.

  Santos shakes his head. “I’ll put down the gun when he answers me.”

  “That’s hardly the way to ask me a question,” I say, “but in the interest of peace I don’t mind telling you—I found it in the Dadeland Mall, at Mayer’s, back in June. They had it in their window. It cost me four hundred fifty dollars plus tax. I paid cash. If you give me a couple of days, I think I can search through my stuff at home and find the receipt.”

  “You’re bluffing,” Santos says. He continues to aim the gun at me. “I gave Maria a chain like that on her Quince . . . with the same clover charm, the same emerald in its center.” He shakes his head. “This is too much of a coincidence.”

  “Call them now.” I point to the telephone on my desk. “Ask them if they carry anything like that.”

  I follow him to my desk, allowing him to keep his pistol targeted on me while he dials and talks to a sales clerk at Mayer’s. Finally he says, “Thank you,” and hangs up. Then he lowers his pistol.

  “Put yours down too,” I tell Arturo. He frowns at me but does as he’s told. Casey Morton rushes over to stand next to Santos. He ignores her, keeps his eyes on me.

  “They don’t stock them anymore,” Santos says. “But she said they sold quite a few pieces like I described over the past few years. She said she thought some of the other stores might still have a few. I think I might owe you an apology.”

  “I believe you do.”

  “I still want to see the receipt.”

  “I’ll have Arturo bring it to you, but I won’t let you keep it.”

  Santos nods.

  Jeremy comes over, stands directly in front of the Cuban. “Mr. Santos, you know you could be arrested for this firearms display today,” he says, pointing his long, bony finger at him. “Someone shot at Mr. DelaSangre earlier this week. Fortunately they missed. After your little demonstration today, I would say you’re the most likely suspect. I think the police would agree. I strongly suggest you keep your distance from the DelaSangres and this office from now on. If you don’t, we�
��ll have you in court, or worse, do you understand?”

  Santos looks at me. “For a shooting victim you look real healthy. Trust me, if I was the shooter, you’d be a corpse.” The Cuban pauses, stares at Jeremy. “Tindall’s your name, isn’t it?”

  Jeremy nods.

  “Then Mr. Tindall, watch out who you fuck with.” He pushes Jeremy out of his way, takes Casey Morton’s hand and walks to the door with her. He stops there, looks back at Elizabeth and me.

  “I don’t know,” he says, shakes his head. “I have this feeling about you two.”

  “Feeling or not, you’re wrong. I wish you well, Mr. Santos.”

  “Why do I doubt that?” he says, forcing a grin, his tone false friendly. “Look, you don’t have to sound so damned formal. I just held a gun to your head. I think Miss Manners would say that means we’ve achieved some degree of intimacy. Call me Jorge.”

  “And you can call me Peter,” I say, my tone and smile equally insincere until I spit out my final words to him. “But I think from now on, you should consider that the warning you gave to Jeremy cuts both ways.”

  Jorge nods, says, “Message received and understood,” and leaves.

  Once enough time has lapsed for the couple to have walked down the corridor and caught the elevator, Tindall lets out a breath and says, “Good riddance.”

  “He isn’t gone for good, Jeremy,” I say. “I’d bet on it.”

  “He could be,” Arturo says.

  “No,” I shake my head. “I don’t want him hurt.”

  “Sorry,” I mindspeak to Elizabeth. “But I need to take back your necklace for a little while.”

  She frowns, shakes her head. “Why are you bothering with all this?” Elizabeth asks. “He’s nothing.”

  “Elizabeth, please, humor me. I enjoyed myself this morning,” I say, reaching for the chain. “It isn’t often that I deal with humans who are willing to oppose me. I just want to see how this all plays out.”

  She glares at me, backs away. “Then humor me too. It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted young flesh. I want to hunt tonight. I want us to find young prey.”

  I sigh, wonder if Mother had been this difficult for my father. I have no desire to go on such a hunt, but I see no other way to win my bride’s cooperation. When I nod, she grins, steps closer, permits me to undo her necklace.

  Handing the necklace to Arturo, I say, “I want you to get me a receipt for this from Mayer’s, dated back to June.”

  “How?” he asks.

  “I have no idea.” I shrug. “Just get it and arrange to show it to Santos. And bring back Elizabeth’s necklace soon. I like how it looks on her neck.”

  Elizabeth moves closer to me, so our bodies touch, then strokes her now bare neck with her right hand. “I like that you took it from his dead sister,” she mindspeaks. Then my bride says aloud, for Arturo and Tindall to hear, “I like how it looks too.”

  19

  When I was much younger, I once asked my father why our people, who had the ability to shift our bodies into other shapes, were so locked in to our male and female identities. Couldn’t we eliminate the need for opposing sexes and give ourselves a form capable of bringing its offspring into the world by its own solitary endeavors?

  Father chuckled before he replied. “I suppose it could be possible, but it would be a dull world,” he said. “We already have so much power. We take what we want, feed when we wish. We have little reason to fear other beings. If we didn’t have to confront the uncertainty and aggravation of romance, the constant ebb and flow of our relationships, how could we possibly avoid boredom?”

  Life with Elizabeth is anything but dull. She rarely wakes before noon. But once she arises, she amazes me by managing to be in constant motion, sometimes gardening, other times roaming around the island or the house, borrowing the boat to race across the water, insisting on hunting each evening, demanding we make love afterward before we sleep.

  Keeping her entertained remains a constant challenge. “Watching humans on TV only makes me hungry,” she says. Elizabeth cares little for the books I read or the recordings of Mozart, Handel and Bach that I play. She dismisses all of it as “Human foolishness.” But human-made goods, especially clothes, fascinate her and she asks me almost every day to take her to the mainland to go shopping.

  Still busy getting the island in shape after my long absence, I try to channel her energy in more practical ways but, except for her garden, she remains aloof from all household chores. When I request her help in any type of housekeeping she sniffs, shakes her head and dismisses it by saying, “That’s slave work,” and punishes me with her silence.

  By the time Arturo visits the island to return Elizabeth’s necklace, almost a week after our confrontation with Jorge Santos, I welcome his presence. The Latin beams as he steps onto my dock and I greet him as if he were a long-missed, cherished friend. Elizabeth—also glad for the break in our solitary lifestyle, I suppose—joins us at the dock and acknowledges Gomez’s presence with a smile before she takes the gold chain from his hands and fastens it around her neck. She stays by my side and listens as we begin to discuss Santos.

  “All the man did was shrug when I showed him the receipt from Mayer’s,” Arturo tells me, handing me the receipt I told him to acquire. “I doubt he’s convinced of anything.”

  “All the more reason for your associates to keep a watch on him and his girlfriend,” I say.

  Arturo grins. “They already are. The day after our meeting, Casey Morgan tried to sell her editor a story on your family and its businesses.” He chuckles. “As soon as I heard about it, I called and had a long talk with the man. He turned her down. A few days later, he called to tell me he had her transferred to their Fort Lauderdale office, to write for the local news section up there.”

  “What about Santos?” Elizabeth asks. “Can’t we arrange the same sort of thing for him?”

  “It’s not as easy,” Arturo says. “He’s a bartender at Joe’s. I have enough influence to get a table there when I want. But I certainly can’t get him transferred. We have to wait to see what he does and act when he gives us the right opportunity.”

  “And the white speedboat?” I ask.

  “My people told me one was reported stolen from the Miami Beach Marina a few days before the shooting. It turned up, abandoned, in Eleuthra.”

  “And?”

  Arturo holds up his hands and shrugs. “And that’s all they know. I’d like to say it was Santos but this looks like it was contracted. I don’t think he has the resources.”

  I nod agreement. “Under any circumstance, I don’t think he’d want to let anyone else do it.”

  “True,” Arturo says. “Which means we probably have another problem.”

  “I think so too.” I smile, then say in half-jest, “You better get more of your people looking into it before I start to think it’s you.”

  Arturo doesn’t smile back.

  Elizabeth’s busy arguing with me about cars, neither of us thinking about the shooting or Santos, when we arrive at the dock at Monty’s the next afternoon. “If we’re so rich,” she asks as we wait by the restaurant’s valet stand for a taxi, “why don’t we own our own cars?”

  I shake my head, thinking of the dozens of times my father had lectured me about lack of necessity for car ownership and the waste of owning one. “We live on an island,” I say. “We need to own a boat. But for the few times a month we come to land, it makes far more sense to hire a taxi.”

  Elizabeth grins. “We’re rich,” she says. “We don’t have to make sense.”

  She looks off, frowns as I begin to explain if we used a taxi every single day for two years, it would still be cheaper than any car we’d choose to buy. She doesn’t answer when I finish and I ask, “Are you listening?”

  “Peter, look in the public parking lot across the street,” she mindspeaks.

  I follow her gaze, see nothing but cars. “What?” I say.

  “In the row by the wate
r, next to the tall palm tree.”

  The green MGB, parked in position to observe both our boat slip and Monty’s parking lot, means nothing to me until the driver sitting behind the wheel grins and waves. Not wishing to let him think he can intimidate me, I smile and wave back to Jorge Santos.

  Elizabeth continues to pester me about cars. I finally give in when we pass by a red Corvette in Monty’s parking lot and she stops and says, “I’m not moving until you promise to buy me one of these.”

  To Arturo’s dismay, I purchase a silver Mercedes sedan for me too. He frowns, and says, “I don’t see why you need any car let alone two.”

  “With Elizabeth, it’s easier to give her what she wants than to argue about it,” I say. “Besides you should have seen her face when we bought the Corvette.”

  Arturo shakes his head. “All you two do is shop. You’re spending more money faster than Don Henri ever did.” But he arranges for the cars to be kept and maintained in Monty’s private parking lot, just next to the valet stand.

  At Elizabeth’s insistence we begin to come to shore more often—both for her to shop and to drive her car around town. Not a day passes that we don’t arrive to find Santos’s green MGB parked in the free lot near the docks, the man watching our comings and goings.

  Finally, I complain about it to Arturo. “You should have told me sooner,” he says.

  The next morning, as soon as Jorge Santos pulls into Monty’s lot, two Miami police cars cut him off. Arturo has trouble stopping laughing as he tells me about it. “I watched from my office window,” he says. “The cops yanked him out of the car, made him breathe in their machine—even though he was completely sober—and then arrested him for driving under the influence.” He stops to laugh again. “They threw him in the drunk tank. They promised me they won’t let him arrange for bail for at least a couple of more days.”

  The next day Elizabeth and I come to shore for another day of shopping, this time at the ritzy stores at Bal Harbour Shoppes. We arrive back at the docks in the afternoon. Relieved to see no sign of the green MGB, I say, “Look, our friend’s still missing. I wonder when they’ll let him out?”