Onyx Webb: Book One

by Diandra Archer

  But Dane Luckner was different. Dane could not have cared less. Yes, the last two years jet-setting around the world had been amazing, but he didn’t hang with Koda because Koda paid the tab.

  The pair had bonded during a lacrosse match their sophomore year at Syracuse when a Dartmouth player slashed Koda across the face with his stick. Though he’d never been much of a fighter, the sight of blood gushing from the two-inch gash set Dane off. It took three players and two referees to pull him off.

  Koda’s father, Bruce, had taken an instant liking to Dane, having witnessed the entire event from the stands. He’d flown in for the weekend, along with Koda’s grandfather, Declan Mulvaney—who’d started the family business fifty years earlier—and Bruce’s limo driver and bodyguard, Tank.

  “Who is that guy?” Declan had asked.

  “His name is Dane,” Bruce said. “Dane Luckner.”

  “Whoever it is, he just became Koda’s new BFF,” Tank said.

  “BF what?” Declan Mulvaney asked. Declan had just celebrated his eighty-third birthday and refused to own a cell phone.

  “It’s an abbreviation, Dad,” Bruce said. “It means best friends forever.”

  Declan shook his head. “Why does everything have to be abbreviated?”

  “It’s easier when you’re texting,” Tank said.

  Declan watched as Dane continued wailing on the poor Dartmouth player who’s only defense was to curl up in a ball like a frightened possum. “This Luckner kid, I like him. He’s got spunk.”

  It had been four years since that day, and Koda and Dane had been as inseparable as Siamese twins.

  “I like your dad,” Dane said.

  “That’s because you haven’t met him,” Koda said.

  “Not true. I met him at Syracuse,” Dane said, pointing at the scar: “The day you got that.”

  Koda reached up and ran his fingers across the scar. “Well, he was on his best behavior because my grandfather was there.”

  The jet’s wheels grabbed the runway and rolled to a stop, approximately one-hundred feet from the MPI corporate hangar. Bruce Mulvaney, dressed in a $10,000 charcoal gray Ozwald Boateng suit, leaned against the limousine, waiting.

  “Hello, Dane,” Bruce Mulvaney said as the two 23-year-olds made their way toward the black stretch limo parked near the large hangar doors.

  “Hey, Mr. Mulvaney,” Dane said. Dane reached out and shook Bruce’s hand.

  The driver’s door opened and a heavy-set Samoan clad in a black Armani suit stepped out. “Hey, Dane. Hey, Koda,” Tank called out. “I tried to tell your dad this was a bad idea, meeting here in the dark like this, but you know your dad.”

  Bruce Mulvaney turned, shot Tank a look.

  “Don’t go giving me the evil eye, Boss,” Tank said. “You know this could have waited until tomorrow morning.”

  “No, it couldn’t,” Bruce said. “My son doesn’t know what morning is, but he’s going to learn, starting now.”

  Koda stopped about five feet from his father, but—unlike Dane—he did not reach out to shake his father’s hand.

  “You two have a nice vacation?” Bruce asked.

  “It was great, thanks.” Dane said.

  “Don’t thank me, Dane,” Bruce said. “Thank Koda. Every dime of your escapades came from his account, not mine.”

  “Too short if you ask me,” Koda said.

  “Long, short, whatever,” Bruce said. “The important thing is that it’s over.”

  “Why did you make us come back?” Koda asked. “And what did you mean about my trust fund being empty? That’s not possible.”

  “Exactly,” Bruce said. “How could anyone possibly run through $20 million in nineteen months?”

  Dane turned to Koda, silently mouthed: “Twenty million?”

  Koda shrugged.

  “It seemed impossible,” Bruce Mulvaney continued. “So I had the office pull the billing files on the jet and asked American Express to forward copies of the statements for your Black Card for the last nineteen months.”

  Bruce held out his hand, palm up. Tank stepped forward and placed a thick manila file folder in Bruce’s hand then took a step back.

  “You know what it cost to fly a BD-700?”

  Koda stayed silent.

  “I didn’t think so,” Bruce said. “$5,192 per hour, that’s how much. You got any idea how many hours you had the plane in the air?”

  Koda stayed silent.

  “2,280 hours. At $5,192 per hour, that comes to $11,800,000. Add another $2.5 million for landing fees, towing, hangar rental—we’re talking $14.3 million, Koda, just for the plane.”

  Koda stayed silent.

  “But let’s not forget the pilots who fly the plane,” Bruce continued. “Add $250,000 per year for the pilot’s salary, and another $150,000 for the co-pilot—plus two extremely generous benefit packages—and we’ve got another $600,000.”

  Koda stayed silent.

  “That’s a lot of money, Koda, even to us,” Bruce said. “And I haven’t even gotten to the stupid stuff yet.”

  Bruce pulled out a second sheet of paper, waved it in the air. “According to American Express, you put the pilots up at the Four Seasons—in separate rooms, no less—at $400 per night, per room. Add room service and alcohol and in-room movies and tips, we’re talking another $750,000. Am I getting your attention?”

  Koda stayed silent.

  Bruce rattled on: “Food, $322,000; alcohol, $730,000; tips, $280,000. But the next one is the one that really floored me,” Bruce snapped. “Do you have any idea how many bottles of Cristal the two of you ran through?”

  “You can’t blame me for any of that, sir,” Dane interjected. “I don’t drink champagne.”

  “Shut up, Dane,” Bruce said. “The answer is 3,422 bottles at $300 each. That’s over $1 million on champagne … for people you probably don’t even know and who probably don’t even like you.”

  Koda stayed silent.

  “Jeez,” Dane said under his breath to Koda. “I knew we were having a good time, but I had no idea it was that good.”

  Bruce continued. “Hotel, $1.2 million—again, with each of you getting your own room.”

  “I need my privacy,” Koda said, speaking at last: “After all, I am the sexiest man alive.”

  “I wouldn’t push it, Koda,” Tank said loudly. “I’ve been with your dad all day, and he is really pissed. Plus, some of that shit? It’s pretty excessive, even by Mulvaney standards.”

  “That comes to $20.5 million, Koda. And do you want to hear the final kicker? You forgot to settle your account when you left the Intercontinental Hotel in Amsterdam. It went to collections, so technically you are now formally $500,000 in debt and have ruined your credit.”

  “You could have taken care of that if you’d wanted to,” Koda said.

  “True,” Bruce said, “but it wasn’t my bill, it was yours. And your bills are your responsibility. Jesus, you act like you’re entitled to everything. You’re like a welfare recipient, but with a much bigger check.”

  “So what’s your point?” Koda asked.

  “The point is, you start work tomorrow morning, annual salary of $71,500, the same entry-level pay we offer to all recruits out of college,” Bruce said. “I expect you to be in the office promptly at 8:30 a.m. You can stay in the corporate suite across the street from the office. The refrigerator is stocked with food. When you run out, you can buy more with money you earn like the rest of the world. You will also represent the company at the Restoring Savannah Foundation dinner at the end of the month at the Forsyth Park Hotel. Mika Flagler will be co-hosting the event with you, and she will be your date for the night. Am I understood?” Bruce asked.

  Koda released an audible groan. “I feel like I just got trapped in a nightmare version of Arthur.”

  “Are we clear?” Bruce asked again.

  “This is the part where you say yes, Koda, and we all go home,” Tank said.

  “Yeah, we’re clear,” Koda
said.

  “I’m flying to Charleston. Tank’s got the keys to the apartment and will take you downtown,” Bruce said. “Get a good night’s sleep, you look like hell. Wear a coat and tie, and make sure you’re clean-shaven—none of this three-day-stubble-shit.”

  Bruce leaned forward, put his arms around Koda and hugged him. “I love you, even if you don’t believe it. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Koda did not hug him back.

  Chapter Eight

  St. Louis, Missouri

  August 6, 1904

  The 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis, Missouri—created to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the Louisiana Purchase—promised to be the most important gathering of notable scientists, artists, inventors, celebrities, business titans, and political leaders in the history of man.

  And it did not disappoint.

  Thomas Edison was there, as was President Theodore Roosevelt, ragtime musician Scott Joplin, and distiller Jack Daniel, who entered his Tennessee elixir into the World’s Fair whiskey competition.

  John Philip Sousa performed the opening march, T.S. Elliott did a poetry reading, and Helen Keller—with the aid of an assistant—delivered a presentation that brought people to tears.

  The fair also introduced the world to the ice cream cone, peanut butter, iced tea, cotton candy and an odd-tasting drink called Dr. Pepper.

  That morning, just before they arrived at St. Louis Station, Catfish surprised Onyx with the camera she’d begged him for—a Kodak Brownie that had commanded the princely sum of $4.

  Within minutes of entering the gate, Onyx was loading film and taking pictures, Catfish encouraging her at every turn. “You snap everything you wish, Jitterbug,” the big man said. “In the end, all any of us gonna have will be memories, so make ‘em good as you can.” The only thing Catfish would not allow her to photograph was Geronimo. It broke his heart to see the great Apache warrior put on display for two-cents a picture, bow and arrow in his frail hands like movie props. He simply would not permit it.

  “I wish your mama and I had one of these when we went to the fair,” Catfish said.

  “You went to a fair with Mama?” Onyx asked.

  “Chicago, ‘fore you were born,” Catfish said. “Your mama never cared much for having her picture taken, so I never saw a need to own one, till now.”

  Onyx possessed a single out-of-focus black & white of her mother, taken years before she’d been born. It remained, to this day, her most important possession.

  Catfish had given Onyx a brochure on the various exhibits weeks earlier, instructing her to make a list of the ten things she wanted to do most. The size and scope of the fairgrounds—1,500 buildings connected by seventy-five miles of roads and walkways over 1,250 acres—made it impossible to take more than a glance at everything, even if staying a week.

  “What are the first things you want to do, Jitterbug?” Catfish asked.

  “Ten things, right?” Onyx said.

  “We might get to mor’n ten,” Catfish said, “but how ‘bout we start with that. Well?”

  Onyx had worked diligently assembling her list. But where should they go first? That was easy. “The Ferris Wheel!” Onyx yelled without hesitation. And after an hour in line, Catfish and Onyx were looking down on the thousands of fairgoers 300 feet below. Less than a year earlier, the Wright Brothers had flown like birds in the sky, and now Onyx had, too. She was on the ride for less than 20 minutes, but it would be the best 20 minutes of her life.

  “You and I get separated, we both come here to the Ferris Wheel, Onyx,” Catfish told her when they’d gotten off.

  Onyx nodded, but her mind was still soaring.

  It was just after lunch when Catfish saw the sign: “Hunting Competition, 2 p.m., First Prize a 6-inch Landers Frary & Clark Hunting Knife!” Catfish was a man who loved a challenge. He also needed a new knife.

  When it was time for the competition to start, Catfish knelt down and made eye contact with his daughter. “Stay here, child, don’t you be runnin’ off on me.” Unfortunately, there were two things Catfish hadn’t taken into consideration. The first was how long the competition would take, and the second was the impatience of a six year old. No matter how many times he reminded himself to glance over and check on her, the competition demanded his full attention.

  Catfish stood on the small make-shift platform, first-place prize in hand as a photographer from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch set up his camera. He peered in the direction where he’d left his daughter but couldn’t see her. He leaned to his left, then his right. No, Onyx.

  “Everyone smile!” said the photographer, looking through the camera lens to discover the top step of the award stand was now empty.

  Catfish sprinted into the crowd, frantically searching for any sign of Onyx but she was nowhere to be seen. “Onyx!” he yelled. “Anyone seen a young girl, ‘bout this tall,” he said, panic starting to rise in his throat. “She be holdin’ a camera?”

  No one responded. No one had seen her. Catfish cupped his hands around his mouth. “Onyx!” he screamed, spinning in circles, looking in every direction.

  Catfish kept spinning, calling her name, frantically searching the fairgrounds and people’s faces, and then he saw it…

  The Ferris wheel.

  Catfish sprinted toward the enormous revolving structure as fast as his legs would carry him—bumping into fairgoers, knocking one man to the ground. He stopped near the ticket booth, gasping for air, eyes searching once again in every direction.

  And then he spotted her, walking about thirty yards away in the opposite direction, holding a woman’s hand.

  “Onyx!” Catfish screamed.

  The young girl turned…

  It was her.

  She waved at him. Thank God, Catfish thought.

  Catfish started toward her, relief washing over him like a cleansing rain, but then something unexpected happened.

  The woman turned, made direct eye contact with him, grabbed Onyx by the wrist, and started to run.

  “Tell me again,” said Detective Stormy Boyd, sitting in a chair and scribbling in a notepad. “She called her what…?”

  “She had my Onyx, and she was running away,” Catfish said as an emergency room doctor tugged on the needle, making sure the stitch was tight. With a jagged wound of this nature—a full six inches in length, running down the left side of his face from forehead to jawline, the most skillful stitching in the world wouldn’t reduce the size of the scar or return sight to his eye. “She kept calling my daughter Lucinda, over and over, ranting like a screech owl. But I told you this already, detective.”

  Catfish was frustrated, having explained the entire series of events repeatedly. “I chased the gray-haired woman, she had Onyx. They went into the Libby Glass Company exhibit, and I kept screaming for the woman to stop. Then I turned a corner without knowing there was a ceiling-to-floor plate glass window as part of a display.”

  Boyd nodded, scribbled on his notepad. “And that’s when the woman got away, and you say she had gray hair?”

  Catfish winced as the doctor pulled on the needle for the forty-third time, still a few stitches away from completion. “Yes, the woman with the long gray hair,” Catfish repeated, “ran all the way down to her buttocks and...”

  Suddenly Catfish remembered a small detail he’d forgotten until that moment. “There is something, detective. The woman was wearing a button of some kind.”

  Stormy Boyd looked up from his notepad. “A white button? Do you remember what it said?”

  “No, but I think it had red letters,” Catfish said.

  “Could it have been, ‘Ask Me, I Live Here’?” Boyd prompted.

  “Yes! That is exactly what it said. What does it mean?”

  “It means she’s a volunteer,” Boyd said.

  “So, her name must be on a list of some sort,” Catfish said.

  “Perhaps,” Boyd said cautiously, closing his notebook. “Mr. Webb, you seem to me like a man who wants to
know exactly how it is, so may I speak frankly?”

  “That’s all I ask, detective,” Catfish said.

  “There’s a chance I know what happened to your daughter, Mr. Webb, and it’s not good.”

  Catfish felt like he’d just had the air knocked out of him. “I don’t understand…”

  “Your daughter is not the first girl who’s been taken,” Boyd said, forging on. “By my count, I believe she’s the seventh.”

  “The other six…” Catfish started, his words trailing off.

  “They were found, eventually,” Boyd said.

  Bombs were exploding inside the Cajun’s head. “Found? Found how?” Catfish asked. “How were they found?”

  “Dead, Mr. Webb, they were all found dead,” Boyd said.

  “But you goin’ to look for her? Correct? The police gonna put men out on the street and…”

  “The biggest event in the history of the world is happening right here, right now. There are no men to put on the street, Mr. Webb, and I can’t justify pulling someone off another detail when the chances of finding your little girl…”

  “Onyx,” Catfish interrupted, “my daughter’s name is Onyx. All this time we been talkin’ you haven’t said her name aloud, not one time. You been talkin’ bout her like she nothing more than a number in some report you can just file away. Well, you can’t, I won’t allow it. Say her name, detective.”

  “Mr. Webb, I understand…”

  “Say her name, detective, speak it out loud right now.”

  “Onyx,” Boyd said. “Your daughter’s name is Onyx.”

  “You know the Lord’s Prayer, detective?” Catfish asked.

  “Yes, I do. And if it would be of comfort I’d be glad to recite it with you,” Boyd said, reaching out to take Catfish’s hand.

  “I didn’t ask for my sake, detective,” Catfish said, “I asked for yours.”

  Chapter Nine