Hector caught himself massaging his fist. “Once. Fleetingly, in Paris. February, 1924.”
The actor nodded. “And your thoughts about the Great Beast of the Pit, or Lucifer’s Leviathan, based on that meeting?”
Hector shrugged. “Not much other than old Al had a glass jaw.”
Orson roared with laughter, slapping his thigh. Once he was spent, he frowned at his suddenly extinguished pipe and worked at getting it going again. They were approaching his apartment building. Hector said, “Is there some way in there other than through the front door, kid?”
***
Virginia struggled to close her suitcase. Hector smiled and said, “Please allow me.”
“When I said I hoped we crossed paths again soon, I meant it Hector, but certainly not under these circumstances,” She watched him work at her suitcase. “You’re sure we’re actually in some kind of real danger? This seems positively mad. We should just call the police.”
He nodded. “Four men are dead that I know of. It’s all crazy sounding, I grant you that. But in a situation like this, the aggressor sets the terms of engagement. These men, these alleged Nazis, they mean business. So we have to react accordingly. Police won’t be of use.”
A sigh. She said, “So where will we go?”
“We’ll spend some time on the road, making sure we’re free of tails,” Hector said. “Then we’ll get you all in a hotel somewhere, under another name. Hopefully, in a day or two, we’ll get this sorted out. Get it behind us all, nice and neatly.”
***
The flint was dying in Hector’s Zippo so he scooped up a hotel matchbox emblazoned with “Monolith” and got a cigarette going. He watched Virginia tuck in her daughter.
The little girl said to her mother, “Should I be afraid?”
Her father said, “Of course not. Remember, I’m the Shadow, yes?” Orson assumed his radio voice as the invisible avenger. “As you sow evil, so shall you reap evil! Crime does not pay. The Shadow knows!” Then that evil cackle. Yeah, Hector thought, that should surely help the kid have sweet dreams.
Orson moved to the window and looked down at the street, all beetle-brow and frowns. “I simply can’t be a prisoner here, you know, Hector. I have Sunday’s broadcast to see to, as well as this infernal Death of Danton to whip into shape for the Mercury Theater—for the actual theater, that is to say. I have obligations that must be kept.”
“It’s two in the morning,” Hector said. “You damn well can get some sleep now. Later in the morning, I’ll see you safely get to all the places you need to be. By then, maybe we can even manage some kind of proper protection for you, so you can keep playing radio and stage impresario.”
Orson said hopefully, “The bar downstairs still appeared open. Perhaps we can just relish a nightcap and the two of us can have some of the good old deep talk and—”
“You sleep now,” Hector repeated. “You’ve got a family to watch over. For my part, I’m just on the other side of that panel. Knock or holler if you need help.” Hector nodded in the direction of the connecting door. “Oh, and focus on remembering what became of that damned medallion years ago. Seems everything—most importantly our good health—hinges on that damned relic.” He hesitated. “You’re sure it might not be in some storage or costume closet back at the theater?”
“Sure as I can be of anything that never really mattered much to me,” Orson said. “It almost certainly never made it to the Mercury. You know how I was, then. I’m pretty sure I gave it to an actress or some dusky Gypsy girl. To some fancy of the moment all those years back. It’s just a question of which one.” Hector fought the urge to wince; he saw Virginia’s eyes flare.
“Still…” Hector said, “If it is still in the theater and these bastards should decide to look this morning?”
Orson waved his pipe, dismissing all that. “They won’t have the opportunity to look. As close to premiere as we are now, and with my work tempos, I’m telling you, the theater is full, day and night, much to the chagrin of my actors and crew, let alone some superstitious German fools. There’ll be no digging around there now by so-called Thule, that I can promise you, old man.”
Hector waited in the corridor to hear that Orson followed his instructions in securing his own door. At last satisfied that was done, Hector went to his room.
He was about to place his key in the door when he heard a noise from his room. It sounded like water running in there. Standing to the side of the door, Hector drew his gun and rapped knuckles on the panel. He said, “Let’s not do this the stupid and probably bloody way. Come out now so I don’t have to come in shooting.”
The door squeaked and it opened a crack. A female voice said, “It’s not like that.”
Hector lowered his gun. He said, “Cassie?”
The door opened wider. Hector shoved his gun into his waistband.
Cassie was dripping wet, wearing only a towel. Her jaw was bruised, her throat scratched. He caressed her cheek, simultaneously closing the door behind him with a foot. He locked the door with his other hand.
He said, “It was bad?”
She nodded at the soiled heap of her clothes. “Bloody, anyway. I’ve got nothing to wear presently.”
Her looked her over again—bare legs, bare shoulders and arms. Her hair was slicked back and her face fresh scrubbed of makeup. Hector preferred women in this natural state—devoid of makeup and all the current season’s too-chic shellac. He felt this stirring. He said, “That’s not your blood on all those clothes, I take it. I surely don’t see much damage below the neck.” That didn’t sound right, but he sensed she knew what he meant.
“No, it’s not mine,” she said with a half-smile. This soft drip-drip on the tile. “Sorry, didn’t quite have time to fully dry off. I should go do that now.”
He placed a hand on her bare shoulder. “Hell, there’s no rush.” Hector lifted her hair. “Just as well you don’t finish toweling off. I think you’re headed straight back into that shower. Afraid there’s still quite some bit of blood matted in your hair.”
Cassie wrinkled her nose. “Oh, yuck. I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault,” he said. “And it’s hardly the first blood I’ve seen. Although this looks like it must have been from a slaughter. And how on earth did you find me here?”
A shrug of those shoulders. “I have government connections, remember? Every hotel in the city has got your description. Finding you wasn’t hard at all with that advantage. Your friend and his family are next door?”
“Just through that door,” Hector said, inclining his head leftward. He looked again at the ruin of her bloody clothes. “Those two I saw chasing you? You killed the both of them?”
“Two turned into four. And two on my side also met bad ends.”
“I’m very sorry for all that.” He tried to lighten the mood a bit. “Good news is, there are plenty of smart shops with fancy threads downstairs. Bad news is, they don’t open for several more hours. Guess that bad news for you is very good news for me. I very much approve of you staying just like this.” A smile. “I hope you like that towel.”
A knowing smile back. “So how much do you like it, Mr. Lassiter?”
Pushing his coat and jacket over his shoulders, she said, “You can just loan me that shirt of yours to sleep in. There’s plenty of floor for me and I’m told I don’t snore, so I shouldn’t be any bother.” He pressed a finger to her lips.
“Beg to differ.” Hector finished helping her remove his coats. He threw them carelessly over the back of a chair. “More bad news,” he said. “My own luggage and spare shirts are in another hotel across town. Joint’s probably lousy with Thule about now. Good news is, the bed here is king size, because I tend to sprawl. Still, there’s probably some room for you in there.” He fiddled with the buttons of his shirt. “I feel positively overdressed. Could use a shower myself.”
She rubbed his jaw, smiling at the sound his whiskers made. “You could sure use a shave, too.”
He said, “I know where I stand in terms of being on the market, but I’ll confess I’m just now getting around to remembering to do this.” He checked her left hand, pleased to see no rings. He kissed her wrist at the pulse, then said, “Despite that naked ring finger, anyone else I should know about?”
“Not presently,” she said softly. “But that doesn’t mean this is a good idea. That it’s the right idea.”
Hector cupped her chin. “First we need to finish getting the rest of this blood off you. We can debate after.”
Cassie pressed a hand to his chest as he tried to gather her closer to him.
“Hector, we both know this world doesn’t like people like us together. I mostly pass, sure. But sometimes—” She faltered, said, “Doesn’t it bother you, even a little, that I’m not—”
He cut her off with a kiss. Soft and tender at first, it became harder and deeper as she responded.
Still, she resisted. Cassie said, “We can’t. It’s crazy for you, Hector, I mean as a public personality who the scandal rags and columnists can destroy. I’d say eighty percent of the time I pass with no problem. But there are times I just don’t and then it can become pretty bad. The right—or maybe wrong—kind of artificial light, like back in the first club?” She shrugged. “The right or wrong people who make that connection? That could be a calamity for a man like you. Every now and then, I actually get turned away at some restaurant, or ordered to the back of the bus. You need to know the fire you’re playing with. You have things to lose, Hector.”
He kissed her again, emboldened to go further as she once more responded. He pulled away from her just long enough to say, “Darlin’, I have never, ever cared about the opinions of others.” A smile. “Well, maybe a rotten book critic or two, but beyond that?” He smiled and shook his head. “Water off my back.”
This time she took the lead, their tongues tangling.
Panting, she fumbled with his belt. Lips still touching his she said, “You’re absolutely sure about this? This isn’t something you want to do just because of what I am is it?”
“You mean a woman?”
“Don’t be coy. You know what I mean. Some men are just drawn to the exotic notion of being with—”
“I’m certain, and it’s because you’re you, Cassie, not about what you may or may not be. This isn’t about skin color.”
She smiled and stroked his chest. “Then you’ll help me with my hair?”
“For starters,” he said, “certainly.”
CHAPTER 9
THE BRIDE OF DEATH
His heart racing, slick with sweat, Hector said thin-breathed, “You’re a marvel. And us together? Beyond words.”
Cassie gave him a troubled smile. “You’re sure that’s not because of what I am in other people’s eyes? Does the thought of sleeping with the likes of me bring something to it for you?”
That set him back on his heels. He brushed her hair back off her damp forehead. “It’s because of what we just shared, and not anything more than you just being you, just as I promised.” He ran his nails down her back, squeezed her bare hip. “Despite it all just now, you still owe me some critical answers, you know.”
“I do, but I’m also starving. How about you order us some room service while I freshen up? After all, I’ve still got nothing to wear and so can’t answer that door.”
***
Dressed in Hector’s only shirt, Cassie smiled and tapped flutes by the rain-kissed hotel room window.
She said, “Not sure I’d ever have thought of scrambled eggs and champagne together, but I confess, it’s pretty wonderful.”
“Like to say it was my inspiration, but options were scant at this hour,” Hector said. “Call it a happy accident.” He freshened her glass. Little bubbles ran up its sides, catching the light. “So what are you exactly? After what we’ve shared it’s time to stop keeping all secrets. Are you FBI? Some other new government alphabet soup as yet unknown to me?”
“No acronyms,” Cassie said. “It is apparently quite new, this organization I’m attached to. Nearly as I can tell, the thinking was if the Nazis have Thule, then Uncle Sam needed his own occult brigade, I guess.” A little shrug. “So you’ve got us.”
“One last time, who is us?”
Cassie looked down at her plate. She stirred her eggs with her fork. “One year ago, I ran a struggling little shop on Bourbon Street. You know, in New Orleans.”
“I know the city, certainly. Drank my way down that raucous street more than a time or two, I reckon.”
“But I bet you never took the time to stop in a shop like mine along the way. I sold all kinds of things from that little space. Things I’m sure you’ve never heard of and would set no stock by, even if you had known it existed.” She hesitated and said, “I did some other things there, too. Read cards, read palms.” She took another bite of scrambled eggs and raised her glass. “Just gets crazier and crazier with me, doesn’t it? Please never forget I warned you about us together like this. What I can do—what I have to believe in to do all that—it’s a world apart from what you’ve known or obviously take stock in.”
Hector said, “So you’re hinting you were drafted to be, what, a kind of supernatural consultant for our government? You’re some kind of warrior witch, is that the gist?” Hector drummed fingertips on the table. “Guess you’re right in a sense. Every time I think we’ve touched bottom on crazy, there’s this whole new level that comes to light.”
“Like I said.”
“So, you really are Uncle Sam’s Voodoo secret agent?”
“That’s a misunderstood, misused term, Voodoo,” she said. “More like Gris-gris, but more narrow even than that. That damned Béla Lugosi movie, White Zombie, has twisted everything people believe about Voodoo, what they think they know of it. It’s not evil. In fact, it’s all tangled up with Catholicism. At least as we practice it in Louisiana. It’s about helping others in the end. It’s about doing Good through nature, through spirits and our ancestors.”
Hector said, “Can you do anything about Orson and his straying from his wife?”
“As a matter of fact, maybe. But I seriously doubt Virginia would cooperate.”
Smiling, Hector said, “What would it take?”
“Just a few drops of her blood in his coffee. Some whispered words. He’d never do her wrong after that. Be faithful to the grave, though I’m not sure that would be any favor to her.” She smiled and said, “And, even though you don’t believe in this stuff, you just decided I will never brew you coffee, didn’t you?”
Hector laughed. “Only because I’m particular about how I make it outside the restaurant-bought stuff. Developed odd tastes along the dusty trail back when I was mounted cavalry. You see, as a kid, much like Orson, I lied about my age, only I did it to get in to military service. Consequently, to me coffee is best made in a pan over an open fire, outlaw-style. Damned near everyone else calls it appalling.” Well, Brinke, in time, had developed a taste for his style of java.
“Odd as my life has been, I’m betting you can give me a run for the money on many fronts,” Cassie said. “In whatever time there is for us, I look forward to getting to know more about you, Mister Hector Lassiter.”
Hector stroked the back of her hand. “Likewise, Cass. In the meantime, anything I should be especially on guard for? I mean if Uncle Sam or the Germans should throw an evil version of you back at me?”
Cassie withdrew her hand from under his and picked back up her fork. She smiled and shook her head. “If a woman tries to kiss you twice on one cheek, and once on the other, brace yourself and run—it’s a spell.” She stirred around her eggs and said, “For what it’s worth, you should know I do have some of what I guess you’d regard as serious education. I’ve got a university degree in folklore. I minored in comparative religions, which probably is even more useless than my major in the real world.”
“Yes, your studies in France, I take it,” he said. “I’m just envious you’ve g
ot the sheepskin. In the end, that’s what really counts, or so I’ve heard. Hear tell nobody really uses their degree in that sense. But hell, I never finished high school. You should probably know that up front.”
“You’re plenty intelligent. Worldly and you have a facility for languages. What happened with you and higher education? Is it because of running off to war?”
“Pretty much,” Hector said. “I thought it would be romantic to ride a horse for your current employer. To carry a gun and ride behind the flag. No need for me to say to you that isn’t at all so, right?”
“Right.”
“After, life just kept getting in the way of any more schooling. But this is getting maudlin,” Hector said. He held out a hand, palm up. “What are the damages?”
“You mocking me, Hector? You know you don’t want to do this.”
“I’m not at all mocking you. I’m truly curious to hear what you say.”
“A test?”
“That’s not the right word for it. Let’s stay with honest curiosity.”
He spread his fingers slightly, drawing her attention back to his outstretched hand.
She took it in hers, traced a line or two there with a fingernail. She turned his hand on side to check its cutting edge and sighed. “Whatever else you take away from this, don’t worry about giving up smoking,” she said.
“It’s that bad?” Hector was truly taken aback by her simple statement; surprised by his own immediate sense of angst. He figured she must mean he was a near-term goner. Cancer? Emphysema? Either way, it felt like he’d just been dealt a death sentence.
“Quite the opposite,” Cassie said. “You’ve got a long, long road ahead. It won’t always be smooth—far from—but whose is?”
“That’s a load off, I reckon.” He reached out with his other hand and turned over her hand to better see her palm. He said, “What about you?”
“Haven’t a clue,” she said.
Hector stared at her hand. “You can’t read your own palm?”
“No. That’s another crazy story but one I won’t share now.” A funny smile. “You’re bravely out this far on the crazy limb, I flatly refuse to saw it off behind you, darling.”
The Great Pretender: A Hector Lassiter novel Page 6
