He said, “The bottom line though is that you truly believe?”
She met his gaze. “I do. Things I’ve seen, and the things I’m sure I’ve made happen? I can’t not believe.” She squeezed his hand. “I don’t ask you to embrace any of it in the end, Hector. Lord, the man you are, the artist you are, I’d have you not believe, I think.”
“What about you?”
“What about me? Are you asking how I ended up going down this path? Why I’m not just a believer, but a Voodoo witch to use a term you probably thought of in the early going?”
“Your questions,” he said, “your words. Not mine. But I’d welcome those very answers.”
“Guess you’d call it a family enterprise,” she said. “Five generations on my mother’s side, reaching all the way back to Haiti. How crazy does that sound?”
Hector pushed his plate away. “Crazy doesn’t cover it for me, not that word, not as a writer. Maybe, instead, sublime?” He held up his hand. “You don’t have to respond to that. It’s your life after all. I mean, it’s your calling, right? But maybe consider telling me this much, please. Did you choose this for yourself, or was it foisted on you, maybe because you were simply next in that long and crazy line?”
He wondered how to best describe her smile. Rueful? Yes, we’ll go with just that word, Hector decided.
Cassie squeezed the bridge of her nose. “Oh, they told me it was my choice, but just as you implied, when you’re fifth in line for anything stretching so far back in time, can you really say no?”
Hector said thickly, “Christ, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
“Could be a lot worse,” Cassie said. “There are worse things. Whore, dance hall girl. Maybe secretary.” She entwined her fingers with his. “This career, if you can even call it that, at least let me get to know a broadminded and noted writer in the lustiest biblical sense. That’s not nothing, right? We’ve surely had a time in the shower and in that bed. And if, in the bargain, I can keep the Spear of Destiny from Hitler’s hand, well, that’s honest and important work isn’t it?”
“Regarding that last, you best hope Orson recalls what round heels ingénue he maybe gifted that sucker to. So far, we’re hitting dry wells in terms of prospects for recovery of that medallion.”
Cassie said, “There are really that many women in the kids’ past? I find that pretty hard to believe. I know he’s your friend, but I just don’t see it. He doesn’t send me, not even a little.”
“Well, plenty of others he did send,” Hector said a bit sourly. “Does send. Mostly they’re women in his same line of work. He’s a genius, remember? He also has a lot of roles to fill in a lot of projects at any given time. Call it a kind of aphrodisiac for a certain kind of woman working in a certain type of trade.”
“Is that what they call the casting couch at work?”
“That’s probably the politest term for it,” Hector said.
“So what does the rest of Friday portend for Hector Mason Lassiter?”
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me?”
“I didn’t look that closely,” she said evenly. “Where you’re concerned—where we together are concerned—I think we should try to take life as it comes, Hector. No shadows and no intimations. No expectations of any kind. No tremors of intent.”
He leaned across the narrow table and kissed her. This time it was soft and slow and lingered. He said, “That said—and agreed to—I see in your future some early morning clothes shopping looms. I figure to put you in Virginia’s hands for all of that as you’ve literally nothing to wear downstairs to do your own shopping. While you two see to suiting you up, I mean to get my own luggage back here, jumping it through some crazy hoops on its return to me, trying to make it sure it’s not followed. And it sounds like I’ll play body guard to Orson until memory dredges up some starting point for this medallion search.”
She raised her eyebrows. “And that’s it? That’s our plan?”
“Not quite,” Hector said. He took her hand and drew her back toward the bed.
CHAPTER 10
OUT OF DARKNESS
“This Cassie sounds not only exotic, but like a woman of action, too,” Orson said. “How did you talk her into staying at the hotel?”
“Lack of un-bloodied clothes for one thing,” Hector said. “Though Victoria should be seeing to that soon enough.”
Orson smiled and said, “You deeply surprise me. I’ve crossed color lines for lust—if not for love—but I didn’t think you ever would. Your home state sided with the Confederacy didn’t it?”
Hector drummed his knuckles on the seat. “What on earth does that have to do with me or with anything?”
“Heritage? Prejudice is ground into us, we’re not born with it, you know.”
Hector had nothing to say to that. He just looked out the cab window, watching storefronts slide by. It was still relatively early, so traffic was moving at a reasonable clip.
Orson said, “She’ll go back to Key West with you?”
“Home’s still really there, I guess, but I’m not there, presently,” Hector said. “I rent that place out now for cash. I live in Puget Sound, on an island called Whidbey.”
“You’ll take her there, then?”
Hector chewed his lip. “Maybe especially not there. There’s stuff about that place I didn’t know at the time I was looking for my next good place. Maybe I made a bad choice.”
“Old man, I do so appreciate you playing body guard to me,” Orson said. “I truly do. But I am racing the clock on multiple fronts as I’ve said, time and again. I have Danton’s Death to mount for the stage, as I’ve also told you, and this Sunday’s radio show, which as you heard for yourself, has all the earmarks of a train wreck barring some serious attention and artistic elbow grease.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Hector said. “And I won’t be underfoot, if that’s what you’re implying. I frankly don’t trust your memory about the medallion, so I want permission to ransack backstage, to comb through your wardrobe trunks and lockers.”
“Ransack away, but do it as neatly as you can,” Orson said. “John is very fussy. I’ll even let you start with my private dressing room. It’s packed with the surviving detritus of the career running all the way back to that first show in Dublin. But it’s a fruitless pursuit, I can already assure you of that.”
“All the same…”
Orson just sighed and shook his head. “If it was me, I’d be back at the hotel with my nearly naked Voodoo priestess. You really must introduce us, you know that, don’t you, old man?”
***
Rummaging back stage, Hector could hear Orson railing against a reluctant thespian who was screaming something back about a girlfriend’s birthday.
Orson bellowed, “There’ll surely be other birthdays and just as certainly other girlfriends! We only have one opening night, goddamn you.” A moment passed in silence, then Orson’s voice boomed, “If you walk out that door now, you’re no true artist!”
More than a tad disgusted, Hector tried to open a dusty footlocker but the lid wouldn’t budge. As he struggled with the trunk, he half-listened to the ongoing ruckus on stage.
Evidently, Orson was rethinking his rough treatment of the actor. He said, “We’ll break for a meal. Everyone clear out and be back in an hour. That goes for you, too, John.”
Hector heard Houseman say, “No, perhaps over a meal you and I can—”
“No, quite impossible, I need some time alone to think,” Orson insisted.
Hector looked around, spotted a discarded iron fireplace poker and forced the lock with that. The mechanism gave way and Hector folded back the trunk’s lid. His eyes were immediately set to watering by the acrid stench of mothballs. That same scent tickled the back of his throat and started Hector on a coughing jag that made him see spots.
When he at last regained some composure, Hector dug through Shakespearean robes and myriad wigs. Stirred dust set him to sneezing between continuing, lighter coughs.
<
br /> Still digging, he put hands on a box—wooden and secured with a brass fastener. Hector pulled it out and moved it to a dressing table where he’d have more light. The box was overflowing with rings and bracelets, most of them exaggerated in size and ornamentation for stage use. There were clip-on earrings and a golden nose; a tangled assortment of necklaces.
Hector hit bottom, finding just a remaining chamois bag containing something that felt like, his fingers traced the edges—yes, by God, it felt like a disc of some kind, and about the right size.
Dry-mouthed, Hector upended and shook the bag. A heavy metal disc, about five-inches across, dropped into his hand. It might be bronze or some other alloy. Whatever it was, it had begun to acquire a greenish patina since Hector had last seen the mysterious medallion.
It bore inscriptions in some language Hector still couldn’t read. On one side, there was what might be a map, but with no obvious north, south or other compass points indicated. On the obverse side, there was an image of Christ on the cross, a spear thrust into his side.
Something scuttled softly behind Hector. Startled, he drew his gun. It was a rat, gray and hulking. Hector put his roscoe away, then he paused again.
More screaming from up front: A voice, German, demanded, “Where is Hector Lassiter?”
Jesus Christ!
Hector replaced the medallion in its soft bag. He looked around Orson’s theatrical sanctum sanctorum and decided no good options for hiding the disc were to be found.
Impulsively, Hector shoved the bundled medallion down his pants, right at the front. He figured if they dared look to find it there, maybe they deserved the damn thing.
That voice again, at once strident and guttural, “Search everywhere!”
Hector dug around through more accessible wardrobe cases. He came upon a gold medallion dangling from a copper chain. This one was about an inch-larger than the real item—a quarter-inch thicker, maybe. It had a spear-toting Viking on one side and what might be construed as damn near anything amidst some Runic symbols on the other.
It was close enough in the moment to perhaps fool them, Hector figured. He slid that disc into his coat pocket. Other dressing room doors were being kicked open and slammed shut. Hector drew his gun again. He figured to make a go of it. One man opened the door to Orson’s room. The invader had the inevitable blond hair and blue eyes. “Strapping” would do as a short form description of the man, Hector told himself. As the big man edged through the door, Hector wedged his gun up under the man’s cleft chin. “Steady there, Fritz,” Hector said. “Let’s have your gun for starters.”
There was confusion and anger in the German’s striking blue eyes—eyes that might make a Himmler-like racial purist swoon. Hector said, “Give me your goddamn gun.”
The younger man finally did that. Hector said, “Now you lead on, Macduff. Your friends and I are going to have a little chat. You’re my hostage.”
Hector figured if it was only two or three of the Thule he might yet prevail.
As they walked into the theater proper, Hector saw he was faced off against eight other men. Two had guns pointed at Orson.
Another of the Thule pointed his gun at Hector’s head. That man was a giant—six-six, easy—and had a face that tugged at memory. The giant smiled and said, “Hector Lassiter. I’m Rune Fuchs. It’s been some time, but you’ve changed little. If I’d only known then what I know now. So many lost years…”
“Hell, pal, who can’t say the same,” Hector said. “Here’s how I see us moving forward. We both have one hostage, so it’s clear that we’re not going to—”
“A moment.” Fuchs smiled and shifted his aim. “Let me save us both time and toil.” The tall man pulled the trigger on his Luger and shot Hector’s hostage between the eyes.”
Hector stood with his gun at his side, staring at the dead man sprawled before him. Hector shifted his feet to evade the spreading blood puddle.
Six guns were now trained variously on Orson and on Hector.
The tall man broke off and walked toward Hector. He punched Hector hard in the stomach, dropping him to his knees. As Hector doubled over, the man began to pat him down. Hector said, “You better not hurt us more than this. I’m pretty well known, but Orson is very well known. Christ, he’s a friend to the damned President. You know—to FD-goddamn-R.”
An evil smile. “I don’t need to hurt you anymore it seems. I have this!” Fuchs held up the chunk of ersatz Viking jewelry Hector had hidden in his pocket. It twirled, catching the stage lights and reflecting them back, making Orson and Hector squint.
Still trying to get enough air, Hector gasped, “Okay, you win, Rune. At least have the decency… to carry out… your own dead… Do that before my friend’s friends… wander back in here and… somebody else gets… hurt.” His breath was still ragged, had him talking in huffy bursts, like damned old jowly Ford Madox Ford back in Paris so many years ago.
Two of the Thule tore down a curtain and rolled their fallen comrade inside. They dragged the dead man along as they left.
When the door slammed behind them, Orson cursed. “Goddamn me to hell,” he raged. “Curse my short memory!”
Hector held up a hand and said, “Help me up, will you? Jesus Christ but that hurt. Son of a bitch can surely throw a punch and he does it starting from on high.”
Orson hauled Hector to his feet. Still getting his breath, Hector looked around, then snatched up a scrap of paper and a crayon. He scrawled on the sign, “Theater closed by order of the Mercury Theatre Management until further notice. Cast and crew, please await direct contact from Mr. Welles before return.”
He thrust the piece of paper at Orson and said, “Post this out front, right now. Do it if you value your co-workers. After, you and I are running out the back door, pronto.”
Staring at the piece of paper, Orson said, “Why on earth would I do that? Why would we do that? The Nazis have what they want.”
“Gotta keep your cast and clientele safe,” Hector said. “Right?”
“But those damn Thule already have the medallion,” Orson said. “And, hell, my cast is already rebelling as you no doubt heard.”
“The Germans have just taken some of your worthless Viking costume jewelry,” Hector said. “When they see that’s what they fled with, they’re going to be well beyond rage. Hell, by now they may already know they were taken in and be doubling back here. They won’t be so nice the second time around, believe me. So you see, kid, we really need to exit, stage right. We need to do that two minutes ago.”
Orson shook his head and said, “Yes. I see. Thank Christ at least that Houseman saw none of this. Anyway, we’ve been having trouble with an elevator that’s key to the production’s execution, so to speak, of Danton. I’ll use that as a pretext for a brief closing, but only for a day, Hector. It’s truly all I can afford.”
CHAPTER 11
THE IMMORTAL STORY
Much of Friday afternoon and evening were lost in more hotel moves and Hector arguing with Orson against a return to the Mercury Theatre.
“I’ll say it a last time,” Hector warned. “Next time, they won’t be so gullible. Next time, they’ll likely go straight to the bloody mat against us.”
Hector had kept the fact he’d found the real medallion a secret so far. Alone for a couple of hours, he’d bought some modeling clay and made impressions of both sides of the real disc. The true medallion he had stashed in a safe at his publisher’s office.
After, in another borrowed office belonging to his present editor, Hector dialed up a fairly recently made acquaintance.
Special Agent Edmond Tilly said, “Hector! It’s always a pleasure. Or at least nearly always it is. You calling me with more dope about Spain? About Franco?”
“No. This time it’s for a favor.” Hector said, “I need some true gen on a particular person. I need all you can tell me about a woman named Cassandra Lightner Allegre.”
***
Hector rounded out his day with a vis
it to Cornell University. There, he shared his two blocks of still curing clay with Prof. Adam Lindscott.
The professor’s first words on viewing the halves of clay: “Dear God! Do you have any idea what this is, Mr. Lassiter?”
Hector said, “At least vaguely, otherwise I wouldn’t be here now, would I? Although I will confess I’m a little surprised you know it on sight.”
“It’s quite well known among the cognoscenti,” the professor said. “It’s believed to have become hopelessly lost in Europe somewhere. Where on earth is the original?”
“No clue regarding anything about that,” Hector said. “I just have these. What can you tell me based on what you’re holding?”
“But this clay is still curing, Mr. Lassiter. It seems to me you surely must have the original, or at least access to those who do. These impressions are quite fresh, still a little soft.”
“Nah—don’t trying playing Sherlock in that way, it won’t get you anywhere. And consider this a copy of a copy.”
“But you do know what this purports to be?”
Hector wet his lips. “Absolutely. I know the alleged stakes, too, as I now gather you do, as well. So help me to interpret it.”
The scholar sat back in his leather chair. He tented his fingers. Already, Hector was starting to dislike, even to distrust, the academic. There was something too studied about the man and his mannerisms, too theatrical. “I must insist on being part of any recovery you’re contemplating, Mr Lassiter. This is, well… It’s everything, as you claim to know.”
“And I can only guess what it might mean for your career,” Hector said.
“There is that as well, of course.”
Hector smiled and said, “Right. Clearly, I could use some expertise on this. You seem to be that man. Lord knows, I don’t want to be 1938’s version of Lord Carnarvon.”
“Very well.” Excited, the professor leaned forward and pointed at the first impression—what Hector took to be the face of the medallion. It was the side that depicted the crucifixion and the spear being thrust into Christ’s side.
The Great Pretender: A Hector Lassiter novel Page 7
