The Queen and I

by Russell Andresen

  Herman leapt from the desk toward the sofa and cuddled beside the little man. “Good boy, Herman, yes you are. Do you want your schmekel polished?”

  “Don’t talk dirty to my cat,” Schultz yelled. “What are we going to do about Rothstein?”

  Fujikawa brushed aside the question and said, “The cat doesn’t understand me, Henry. Look at him, as long as I scratch his ears, he will never leave me.”

  Schultz walked to the sofa, lifted Herman away from his associate, and continued, “I want Rothstein found, and I want you to leave my cat alone. You’re going to traumatize him with that weird Japanese voodoo that you do.”

  Fujikawa laughed and returned to his reading. Schultz looked at his cat and gently stroked him as he watched the traffic below move slowly by, thinking about where Louis could possibly be and how to locate his other man of the moment.

  After a few moments of silence, Mendel asked, “Where do you think Jeffrey could have gotten to? I’ve been racking my brain about it for weeks and cannot figure out for the life of me where he could have possibly gone. It’s very strange.”

  Schultz thought about it for a minute and answered, “I really don’t know, but wherever it is, he had better be enjoying himself because he’s only making it worse.”

  “Making it worse?” Mendel asked surprised. “How could it be worse? You have a madman stalking him, and when he catches him, you are going to ship him off to an island where a bunch of billionaire Euro-trash are going to hunt him like a gazelle on the Serengeti.”

  He watched as Schultz now cuddled with his cat, kissing the cat’s ears ever so softly, and asked, “Do you want me to leave, Henry?”

  Schultz stopped what he was doing and replied, “Herman likes it when I lick his earlobes, don’t you, Herman?”

  “Cats don’t have earlobes, Henry.”

  “Why don’t you go and make some phone calls or something. Find out where that miserable Rothstein is, and get Jacob Stone up here immediately, if not sooner.”

  Fujikawa slowly got up and grabbed his coat. He watched as Schultz walked his cat toward the desk and opened a can of food, sticking his fingers in it, allowing the cat to lick from his hand the food it craved. Mendel watched in muffled disgust as the large man continued to coo and talk in baby talk to his pet. It was uncomfortable enough to watch, but to have to listen to the play-by-play commentary was a bit nauseating.

  As Fujikawa left the office, Saul watched as the big man continued to fondle his cat and make cooing sounds that were borderline pornographic. This was better than anything Saul could have hoped for when he stowed away on the bus from Zion to New York.

  He had spied out a lot of information that he knew could prove useful to Jeffrey, and even some tasty, juicy tidbits that could be used in the script for the play. What better way to destroy a man of wealth and fame than to reveal some of his dark and dirty secrets? Schultz had an unnatural affection for his cat, bordering on bestiality, and Fujikawa was obviously obsessed with female stars of the stage and screen. What was even worse for the two of them was that they had discussed the hiring of an unstable bounty hunter who had apparently gone rogue. Things like this often turned out to be negatives that the public was not so quick to forgive.

  Saul looked around the office for any more nuggets of the sordid kind, and decided that he had enough information for now. What was more important was that he returned to Zion as quickly as possible to warn Jeffrey of the evil that was hunting him down.

  He knew he had to be quick; Jeffrey was all alone at the cabin by now and had no idea of the horror coming his way. He also thought about Rachel and what he had done to upset the relationship that his new friend had with her. He would find where she lived by calling Melissa from Schultz’s own office and go to her. It would mean revealing himself, but for Jeffrey it was worth it. You do these things for your friends, and it was time for Saul to prove just how much the friendship meant to him.

  * * *

  Louis Grecko walked the streets looking for inspiration. Inspiration from powers that existed only to him to reveal what his next move should be. So far, the man whom Heinrich had asked him to find had eluded him, and that was unfamiliar territory for the man who made a living by seeking those who were weaker and introducing them to the Way.

  He knew there were still stones he had left uncovered, but this was a game to him, and as such, he knew he would be robbing himself of the pleasure of trying to beat the power that controlled the game if he uncovered those stones. He wanted to be the master, and the only way he could do that was to outsmart those forces that governed everything that he did and thought on a daily basis.

  His mother had advised him to search the darkest recesses of his soul in an attempt to channel the voices that could guide him to his prey and deliver what he wanted most, the elusive Jeffrey David Rothstein and his girlfriend. What he was going to do with Rothstein would be quick but extremely painful. He would not deliver him to Schultz as he had promised, but keep him for himself and deliver what was left as a gift for his mother. Louis’s gift would be the girl. He was infatuated with her and found that she dominated all of his thoughts, confusing the task at hand. He needed to end this game as quickly as possible so that he could take her for his own and make her a follower of the Way. It was what he wanted; it was what the music wanted.

  He knew she had been unfaithful to Rothstein, and that alone deserved extreme punishment for her disloyalty. What he needed to do before anything else was find the man who she had strayed with and see to it that he could no longer defile her in any way that was unbecoming a future possession of his.

  His skill and innate gift of tracking had lead him to this place, this very place where he knew this man was held up writing what he hoped would be the next great novel. The man’s name was Richard Kearney, and Louis knew that he was home and unaware of the destruction that awaited him when Louis came knocking. It was Louis’s right as judge and executioner for the music to determine who was fit to walk this earth and who was not. He knew that this man was not fit, but for now the music wanted him to learn only the Way and not the salvation that death would bring him.

  A light drizzle began to fall, and Louis stared up at the second floor window that fronted the loft apartment where Richard Kearney now lived. He knew the man had just recently returned from upstate New York and some quiet little town named Zion, a fitting name, since it was the one in the Bible assigned to the heavenly Jerusalem, and from what Louis had heard of the place, it was full of Jews. Perhaps Louis would visit this town one day and test the name and the place.

  He tried the door to the lobby of the building and found that it was not locked. Louis smiled to himself; in this day and age, for the tenants and landlord of the building to not see to the security of the building only meant that the residents did not care about themselves or the welfare of their neighbors. Louis was of a mind to visit each and every apartment and teach the inhabitants the error of their ways, but decided that this venture would take more time than he could spare at the moment.

  Louis read the names on the mailboxes and found Kearney’s name next to apartment B4. He decided it was now time to introduce himself to the man who was currently sleeping with the woman who would be his and to show him that the Way suffered no fools in this game that was being played.

  He chose not to take the elevator since that would mean being out of control of the situation, and he did not want that. Louis was a man who needed to be in control at all times and only relinquished such control to his mother, and that was out of respect more than fear or anything else. The stairwell was cold and damp and smelled of mildew. It obviously was not used very often or tended to, and Louis found that disturbing. The lack of attention to the smallest details irritated him and fed an anger that his mother always wanted to keep in touch with. That was why she had them live in such squalor when they could have been living a very comfortable life. It was like a dog fighter who trained his prize to be vicious through various mea
ns of psychological and physical torture to nourish and harness that anger; his mother was doing the same thing with him.

  Inside the apartment, Louis could hear music playing and disapproved immediately. A man like Kearney had no business being allowed near the music, and this enraged Louis all the more. He wanted to kill him at that very moment; he wanted to tear him apart and leave nothing behind, but he knew he needed to find answers about the girl, answers that might lead Louis to Rothstein.

  He knocked on the door and waited. He heard the music being turned off and the sound of footfalls as he waited for the door to open for him to make his entry.

  “Who is it?” the voice from behind the door asked.

  Louis was hoping to not have to talk, but answered in a slightly English accent that he had been practicing, “Mr. Kearney, my name is Nigel Blackthorn of Purple Rose Publishing. I would like to speak to you about your manuscript.”

  There was a momentary silence, and Richard continued, “I’ve never heard of any Purple Rose Publishing.”

  “Your friend, Rachel Benjamin, sent us some of your work,” Louis lied, but knew that it was a good one. There was something about the way her apartment had been laid out that told Louis she was a woman who enjoyed being in control, and that meant she would have had no problem submitting his work without telling him. “She was quite persistent about us talking to you.” Louis thought that last touch was especially clever, and it seemed to work.

  “Hold on one second, let me get some clothes on.”

  That disgusted Louis and caused his stomach to turn. It was the middle of the day, and this man was walking around without clothing; he definitely needed to be taught a lesson.

  The door opened, and Richard stood in front of Louis with a cane supporting his weight and extended a hand. “So sorry to make you wait. Damned knee has me a bit hobbled.”

  “Good lord,” Louis feigned concern. “Is this a bad time? Shall I come back, maybe make an appointment?”

  “No, not at all; please come in.” Richard welcomed Louis into his apartment and escorted him into the living area of the loft and offered him something to drink. Louis declined and took a seat on the white sofa, which made Louis hot with rage. How could a grown man be as pompous and superficial as to have white furniture?

  “You were saying something about my book?” Richard asked.

  “Oh my dear, Mr. Kearney,” Louis said, smiling. “We have so much more to talk about than your book.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six: You Little Mamzer

  Saul waited in Rachel’s apartment for her to come home. When she did, he was planning to reveal himself to her and explain he was the one who Jeffrey had been talking to on that infamous night when he had interrupted their lovemaking. She was beyond angry at Jeffrey, and Saul knew that it was his fault. He never imagined he could be so insensitive or that he could cause so much trouble simply by trying to share an idea for the script, but nevertheless, he was responsible for the shaky state of his friend’s relationship, and it was up to him to fix it.

  He looked around her apartment and was amazed to see how unladylike it was. He had expected a woman of her harsh exterior to be hoarding childhood artifacts and keepsakes that held sentimental value that she kept hidden away in her private sanctuary, but the only thing he found was her collection of stuffed animals.

  As he looked further throughout the house, he was certain something was very wrong. There was a sense of another presence having been there that had no place and was not welcome. He had felt it before; it was that fingerprint left behind by a mortal whenever they entered a room. As a living human, he would have never sensed it, but as a ghost, his perception of things was at a much higher level, and he could tell, within one or two, how many people had been in this apartment in the last month and what their purpose was in being there.

  The last time he had felt it was just before Richard Kearney had bought the cabin and some kids from town had broken in while Saul was away visiting Melissa. He knew that they had been there almost as soon as he entered the house, and it bothered him to know that his home had been violated.

  He sensed Rachel’s presence right off the bat and knew that she had been here as recently as an hour ago; he must have just missed her. He felt the presence, although faint, of Jeffrey, as he had not been here since before he came to the cabin and that was over a month ago. Jeffrey’s residual print was beginning to fade. But there was another presence that he could not put his finger on. It was not like the others. This one was dirty, evil, and wanted to do nothing but hurt Rachel, and from the intensifying sensation that he was feeling, he could tell that it wanted Jeffrey as well.

  The sense was strongest in her bedroom, and Saul could tell that whoever had left it was enamored with her stuffed animal collection and a picture of Rachel and Jeffrey at a premier. He lifted the picture and could immediately feel the horrible filth emanating from it. The individual who had left this imprint had done something very wrong in this apartment, and from the sense that Saul was getting from it, he knew the person responsible would be back.

  Now Saul had more than just fixing Jeffrey’s relationship to worry about. He had to somehow convince Rachel to trust him and get out of the apartment as quickly as she could and leave no trace of where she was going. He knew that, if need be, he could protect her, but that would only be good for so much.

  As a ghost, he was free to wander the earth and was granted certain powers for as long as he was here in this form, but one of the rules of being a ghost was that he could not physically harm a human being directly in any way. He could scare them if he wanted to, but to hurt the human directly was frowned upon, and he would quickly find himself in hell. His being Jewish meant that he would spend eternity surrounded by the ghosts of Italians and Irishmen, but it was still hell nonetheless.

  He went back into the living room, took a seat on her sofa, and grabbed the issue of Cosmo on her coffee table. He had no idea where she had gone or how long she would be, but fortunately he had the patience of Job and was not going anywhere until she returned. The time passed slowly and the hour was getting late. He was beginning to worry that whoever had left the imprint in her apartment had somehow tracked her down and she was in trouble, but Saul knew he was helpless to do anything about that because he did not know where she was. His only option was to hope for the best and wait.

  At around two in the morning, he heard her front door open and in walked Rachel with a man who definitely looked the worse for wear. He was hobbling on crutches, favoring one leg badly and gingerly walking on the other. His face had been beaten heavily on the right side, and his left arm was broken in what appeared to be several places, based on the size and shape of the cast. His right hand was black and blue and slightly swollen, and Saul had the distinct impression the man had broken his hand trying to defend himself.

  As he looked closer, he was amazed, but not surprised, to realize that the man was none other than Richard Kearney. Saul was right after all, and his suspicions about Rachel were true. She was the woman who had frequented the cabin and who had performed some very tasteless and disturbing carnal acts with the aspiring writer who Saul could barely tolerate. She was a dirty tramp, and he knew that his blood would have been boiling if he had any left.

  He watched as she gently escorted Kearney to the sofa where Saul was sitting and watched in horror as the man sat on his lap. He was briefly tempted to cry out “Oy” just to scare the two of them, but thought better of it since he needed to get information before he could return to Zion. And in spite of himself, he knew he had to warn Rachel that she was in danger.

  He slid from under Kearney and took a position on the far end of the room where he could watch the two of them and hear what they were saying without straining. He was very curious to know what had happened to the former tenant of his cabin and wanted answers regarding their relationship.

  “What I don’t understand is why you refused to tell the cops anything about who did this to you,�
� Rachel snapped. She was obviously irritated at Kearney and was not afraid to show her displeasure.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he answered, gently touching his swollen lip.

  “That’s bullshit, Richard!” she answered. “You just got the crap beaten out of you in your own apartment, and you won’t tell anyone anything?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, I don’t want to be called to the hospital to pick up a man who I am supposed to be having nothing to do with!”

  She walked away from him and poured two glasses of sherry and handed her bruised lover one. “Drink this; it’ll help you feel better.”

  Richard winced as he took a sip, and gingerly sat back on the sofa and looked up at the ceiling. Saul thought for a moment the man might fall asleep, but was relieved to hear him continue, “Thank you for coming to get me. I had no one else I could call.”

  Rachel shook her head and replied, “I can’t have this in my life right now, Richard. I am in a very difficult spot with Jeffrey right now, and you are the last distraction that I need.”

  Kearney laughed and answered, “That’s gratitude.”

  “What do you mean ‘gratitude’?”

  He looked at Rachel and leaned forward a bit and said, “I took this beating because of you.”

  She gave him an incredulous look and asked, “What do you mean ‘for me’?”

  Shaking his head, he continued, “The guy was some kind of a psycho who knows you and said that you sent him to me.”

  Rachel stood up and poured herself another glass of sherry and asked, “What do you mean ‘I sent him’? That doesn’t make any sense at all. Why would I send a man to your apartment to beat the shit out of you?”

  “I don’t think that was his original intention,” he answered, shaking his head. “He said he worked for some publishing company and that you submitted one of my works to him.”