Carlo Tortelli looked sad. “We’d hate to lose you, Cable. I see you as a fighter for justice, fairness and the upholding of the law. A man of the truth, eh? I think a good priest does the same thing, don’t you?”
“Are you a good priest, Carlo? And, you know, outside of homosexuality and molesting young altar boys, how do priests vent their pent up sexual drives? I always wondered about that…”
He looked at me strangely. “Some masturbate because they’re afraid of physical human contact. Others leave their frocks at home and frequent bordellos. I guess that about covers it.”
“Thanks for your honesty. I like that trait in a person.”
“So, Cable, I have these concerns for you. What will you do?”
“My hunch remains the same. If Ravna and his gang suspect I may still have some link to Lei-tao and the magic of the Fen de Fuqin, then I think they’ll keep the door open and not bump me off because I still might have value to them. After that, I can’t say.”
Father Carlo Tortelli got up. He reached across my desk to shake my hand. “Best of luck to you, Private Investigator Denning. We’ll…we’ll, uh, nevertheless keep an eye on you, if you don’t mind. I remind you, you have value to us. And after all, we are the Flying Priests, highly trained in the art of—of… shall we say—getting the job done?”
“And if I did mind? Would it stop you or the Church?”
“No…probably not. We have a vested interest in the God of Our Fathers as well. Take care, Cable, and keep your back covered.”
He got up and left. I stood there behind my desk asking myself what possibly could be next? The phone rang and it was Honey asking if I’d come out to the club tonight to hear her and we’d drive home together. I said I’d be there, but I wasn’t sure what time. It was okay with her and we hung up.
Night and the city have a strange relationship. They kind of belong together, as if the city is nothing special during the daylight hours when grey and whitewashed buildings, streetcars, automobiles, smoke and thousands of little ants called humans buzz this way ‘n that in the streets. But when the sun sets and one by one the lights set the city ablaze with towering monoliths glowing in the dark, rows of neon lights brighten up the streets and moving streetcars, automobiles and trucks, one and two-eyed creatures of the evening, add to the spectacle and fanfare of a new night being born. But when I heard that lonely sax wafting through the night air, it always came from the not-so-lit places…the haunts for beings of the shadowlands whose own stories would fill the pages of history with tears and sagas of loneliness, abandonment, abuse, confusion—and the feeling of isolation when someone loses their way out there in the jungle. But it was my city. I was bred and born into it, fought my way to the top of the pile of hoodlums I grew up with—and here I was, battling in a love-hate relationship with a mess of concrete and air, noise, pollution and forgotten souls. Only the music was right, and it breathed perfection, kept its magic intact, singing its song of joy, laughter, heartache, misery and ascension, and freed millions of hearts otherwise shackled to oblivion.
I left my office about 9:30 p.m. I was about to cross Franklin and walk to Cahuenga Blvd. where the yellow car would take me out to Highland Avenue and I would transfer to the red car and go out to the Bella Notte from there. But I never made it to Cahuenga Blvd. As I stood at the curb, a large black Cadillac pulled up right in front of me. Immediately two thugs dressed in black, grabbed me and tossed me into the back seat at gunpoint. Then one of them hit me good with a blackjack over the noggin and I was out.
Things were grey and black, a whirling tornado was spinning in my head and when I came to I had the king of headaches from the back of my neck to my temples. I tried to move, but realized I was strapped to a gurney. There were some strange looking long, tubular lights hanging above me and as my blurred vision began to clear, I could see I was in some kind of clinic or the like. The smell of hospital room chemicals permeated the air.
Finally someone came in. A big, burly guy with no smile at all lifted my head and gave me a sip of water. “Where—where…uh, where am I?” I asked. The big guy said nothing and left.
Then a familiar voice from behind me spoke up. “You are, Mr. Denning, in one of our most advanced facilities, underground somewhere in Los Angeles.”
It was Nazar Ravna. “Ravna! What the hell are you doing? I promised I’d be at Honey's club to hear her sing tonight,” I said.
“I’m afraid that was hours ago, Denning. The nightclub has long since closed and your desperate little fiancée is most likely frantic and looking for you by now. Isn’t that nice? I love to stir things up—”
“—so, you lousy piece of worthless shit, what is it this time? What are you gonna do to—”
“—not me, Denning, but rather Dr. Schumacher. One of the most famous surgeons in the field of microbiology. Dr. Schumacher is the world’s leading authority on the castration of mice and rats for laboratory experimentation. Of course, she also is just as deft at the removal of the testicles of other, larger creatures.”
“What in the hell are you talking about, Ravna? Get me out of this thing and let’s talk.”
“Cannot do, I’m afraid. You see, what we are about to inflict upon you is rather like—hmmm….how shall we say, punishment, first for talking so crudely to me the other day when I kindly visited your office—but we’re punishing you most of all because of your association with those meddlesome priests of the Catholic persuasion.”
Then a chill ran through me. These guys really were nuts! “So…you’re intending to castrate me, is that it, Ravna?”
“Precisely, Denning. We thought that eliminating surely the main source of trouble in your life—mainly your sexually prolific nature—we’d tame you down a bit. Dr. Schumacher assures us that a castrated rat is so much more docile than one whose male hormones are still carelessly rampant.”
Just then a dark-haired woman dressed in white approached, coming from out of another door across the room. She looked me over. She stood about five-foot five, was very thin and her complexion sallow, as if she’d never been in sunlight. Her hair was slicked back with what appeared to be petroleum jelly. She had a decidedly German accent. “Vell, vell, vell, Herr Denning. Herr Ravna has told me much about you. I believe him to be correct zat you are due for corrective surchery. I am Dr. Else Schumacher. You see, ofer-actiff pituitary leads to ofer-breeding tendencies. Herr Ravna tells me you haff been much too actiff in spreading your seed to so many fine, young vomen. Ve cannot permit zis sing to continue.”
I was looking up at this little vixen with the cold blue eyes in disbelief. “You actually do these things? Have you any idea of the emotional trauma, let alone the legal implications of such a heinous act?”
“You…vorry about your little moral issues…I vill concern myself vis obeying za rules…of correct…medical procedure in such a case…as zis. I haff little or no regard for your emotional velfare—especially since breeders such as you, Herr Denning, must be curtailed vile zey are still—in zeir prime years.”
Now I was sweating—and flabbergasted. It was like a surrealistic dream and I was floating through it, suspended somewhere between rationality and the unbelievable. “You’re not kidding, are you?” I asked, swallowing hard. If this dame was on the level, it would be the end of my family jewels—once and for all!
Dr. Schumacher looked over at Ravna. “Za qvestion is, Herr Ravna, should ve or should ve not use anesthesia?”
“You must recall, Dr. Schumacher, none of this was my idea in the first place. It was Dr. Udter’s recommendation. And the Oculus Council approved it. He mustn’t lose his mind and must be saved for other purposes. That also is an order. Even if he is minus…certain parts…”
“Yes, I do recall. Perhaps, zen, ve should administer a little numbing agent insomuch as za pain won’t be as…debilitating…ya?”
“Yes, Doctor, I think that would be wise.”
“Vell, Herr Denning, ve haff decided to leaff your pe
nis but take bos of your gonads—und giff you a sedative. Dat vay you vill be able to tolerate za pain vizout loossing your sanity.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for nothing, you sell-out Kraut! And you, Ravna, after all we’ve been though, why in the hell are you doing this? I always thought there might be a thin layer of civility in you—”
“—because I don’t like you, Denning. You’re pompous, haughty and definitively need to be subdued into submission. Dr. Schumacher, will you kindly prepare the patient?”
“Ya, Herr Ravna.”
No one can tell this story, not even to yourself, let alone someone else. The horror that I was living and feeling this minute felt like a trap door had just opened and I was in free fall. And for a man like me, which was worse—death or castration? I guess one could always follow the other. I didn’t know how I’d feel after losing my balls, or how I’d respond, since so much of my life was living with and responding sensually to females. I knew that harems employed eunuchs to protect the sultan’s precious concubines. I don’t know, maybe I’d be okay with it after a while. Protecting people in my line of work didn’t always have to be sexual. In fact a lot of it wasn’t.
Dr. Schumacher bent over me with a needle that squirted a queer yellow fluid and soon she had jammed it into my arm. Slowly, I could feel my anxiety lesson as my brain began to go to sleep and my body stopped trembling. The doc lifted the surgical gown up, exposing my genitals. It was getting blurry, but I could still hear Schumacher’s voice. “Oh, now ve can see vhy ze vomen vere so…so enamored vis Herr Denning here. It is a handsome penis und qvite large scrotum. Such a big pouch, ya, indicates an over-active production of semen. Vell, ve vill take care of zat!”
“Get on with it, Dr. Schumacher, this is not a sight-seeing tour of male anatomy. Simply do your job and get on with it,” Ravna growled.
The doctor said nothing but went to a small table by the operating gurney and picked out a selection of surgical knives and cutting blades. Then she stood over me with gloved hands and smiled. “It von’t be long now!” she said in a sickly, jovial voice.
The last thing I remember is a ruckus in back of me, and a series of gunshots ringing out. I heard Ravna yell out and Dr. Schumacher let out a howl as a bullet went through her brain and she collapsed on top of me, one of her surgical knives missing my leg by inches!
The next thing I knew I was riding in the back seat of a car humming along on a highway. As I came to, I saw Father Carlo Tortelli smiling at me. “Cable, can you hear me…Cable?” He called to the front of the cab. “I think he’s coming around. Would you grab the flask in the glove compartment, please?”
Soon, I was tasting a pretty fine liqueur in my mouth, and Carlo’s hand was feeding me. “Carlo…where…where am I?” I felt between my legs. Everything was still there. “I’m—I’m still intact—what happened?”
“I had a feeling they were gunning for you after we talked this morning. So Father Banducci, Father Grandino and I decided to watch you, just in case. We followed the black Cadillac out to the underground lab and got there—how would I say it?” The priest chuckled. “In the nick of time, I think would be appropriate.”
“I owe you one, gentlemen,” I spoke up. “What about Ravna and his weird accomplice?”
“Morto…dead, I’m afraid. There was no other way. Ravna had two of his goons planted outside of the entrance, so we had to take care of them first. We almost didn’t get to you in time. Now wouldn’t that have been a pity, Cable?”
“And then some, Carlo. Just think, I would’ve had to become a priest or eunuch in a harem.” He laughed. “I am indebted to you. Where are we going?”
“To the safest place you could go right now.”
They propped me up as they walked me up to Honey’s little cottage. They knocked on the door. Honey answered with only a robe on, her face gaunt and worried. “Cable!” she cried out as she ran to me and embraced me. Then she looked at the three priests. “I knew when he didn’t show at the club he was in trouble—but did he offend God or something?”
“No, signorina,” Carlo answered, smiling. “He almost underwent a life-altering operation at the hands of—well, suffice it to say he’s alright, safe and sound and needs your love and affection for a couple of days.”
Honey took me inside and invited the priests in and offered them coffee. They thankfully accepted. I was still woozy and sat at the table teetering a little. “Thank you so very, very much, Fathers. I don’t know anything about what has happened and I’m not going to ask. I’m just thankful to you all,” Honey said, her face still a bit drawn.
“Aren’t you Honey Combes—the singer who recently recorded It All Depends on You?” Carlo asked.
“Yes. That’s me, I guess.”
“I’m a big fan, Miss Combes…I love good musica.”
“Thanks. Just call me Honey. What can I do for you?”
“May I have your autograph—or even an autographed record, if you could spare it?”
“Are you kidding? The three guys who save my fiancé’s ass deserve the best. I’ll be right back.”
Just at that moment Zelda came wandering in. “What’s—what’s all the commotion? It’s four o’clock in the morning, you know.” She looked at the priests. “Oh, God, did someone die? Cable?” She looked at me teetering at the table.
“Yeah, Zelda. I’m okay. Just had a close shave, that’s all. These three swell priests saved my butt from—well, from the removal of some of my most valuable possessions.”
“Oh, Lord, Cable! I’m so glad you’re here—and okay.” She was dressed in her flimsy nightgown, the yellow one through which her nipples stood at attention—and if she should happen to lean over too far, all of heaven would be able to view those ample breasts of hers.
Honey came back into the kitchen with an album in hand. “This is my latest two-record album. It has four of my favorite songs. It All Depends on You, Love Me or Leave Me, Makin’ Whoopee and Red, Red Robin. I hope you’ll like them. I autographed the inside…here….”
“Molte grazie, Honey,” Carlo said.
“Thank you, Fathers. And here I thought the bum was out makin’ whoopee somewhere…we’re going to be married in December.”
All three priests congratulated us. Then Carlo grew somber. “Since we more or less know one another, I think it only fair to tell you to take any and all monies out of investments and stock market speculations. There is advance word of an imminent financial collapse.”
We all looked at each other. “In the middle of a prosperous time?” Honey said, looking curiously at the gathered priests. “Besides, Cable and I haven’t made any investments into stocks, bonds or the like.”
“But my father has,” Zelda chimed in. “He invested all the family earnings into some stock investments—the money he’s received from his inventions, including the world’s largest strawberry.”
“I’d advise him, then, to withdraw as soon as he can and keep the money under a mattress somewhere,” Father Tortelli responded. Then he cleared his throat. “Well, we must be on our way. It’s late.”
“How can I get a hold of you?” I asked. “I want to take you guys out to lunch or dinner or something swell—for saving my—my, uh, butt tonight.”
“You can’t. We’ll contact you, Cable. Good night, now.” Honey and I escorted the three priests to the door. We watched as they made their way down toward the street and disappeared.
Honey was still looking toward the empty driveway. “There but for the grace of God, eh, Cable? You’re really in trouble, aren’t you?”
“Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure,” I grinned.
“Cable! Please! Don’t lie to me! I know you’ve been keeping things from me besides old girlfriends. If you can’t tell your own wife-to-be, then who can you tell?”
“No one, toots.” We closed the door, said good night to Zelda and went into the bedroom and I started undressing. Honey saw the welt Dr. Schumache
r’s needle had made on my upper arm.
“And that was part of it, wasn’t it?”
“Honey…I can’t talk about it tonight. I’m dead tired.”
“When I first met you I thought the life you led was exciting. Now I think it’s just dangerous. I don’t know if I can live that way, Cable. What if we do have children? What would I say—oh, your father may or may not be home tonight—he’s in a gun fight in a warehouse somewhere—”
“—Honey! Some other time, please? Let’s get to sleep.”
As we got into bed she tried to drop it, but I could feel her restless body next to mine. And what the hell was this stock market thing Carlo Tortelli was warning us about? For Christ’s sake, it was a booming era!
Chapter 19
THE EXCHANGE
It seemed to me the more things that happened to me, the less I knew about life. Nothing stays simple. Everything changes. I could feel Honey’s attitude take on a different color as our wedding date approached. Maybe she was having second thoughts about being married to a gumshoe that constantly lived on the edge of danger—not to mention mysterious dimensions I had never really explored with her. She always shut me down when I mentioned the Cave of the Seven Truths and Lei-tao and all the stuff that happened on that adventure. In a way I couldn’t blame her. Some dames like a calm, predictable life at home, without all the unsettling crap my profession brought to the dinner table. But then, of course, we seldom had dinner—because of her career.
I worked hard that week…handling all the miscellaneous cases that came across my desk. Things like catching Mrs. Fletcher’s husband in bed with her sister and taking the all-important Kodak quickie, while they were having their quickie, going to court to verify photos I had taken regarding a divorce proceeding, escorting a beautiful blonde from the East coast to her boyfriend’s lair in the Hollywood Hills, and last but not least, serving eviction papers on a poor, wretched couple who had fallen on bad times and couldn’t pay the rent anymore. The landlord was a merciless Turk who owned seven houses in the neighborhood, one more bug infested than the other. I knew the type. Continue to collect the dough until the houses were condemned, then move on.
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