“Have a drink,” she offered, handing me one of the two she’d brought back from the bar. I accepted it without drinking any.
“You interest me, Harry Gould,” she said with that cynical smirk she wanted to pass off as being sexy—which it was.
“That’s interesting,” I said indifferently, keeping my eyes in a steady sweep of the room.
“Want to dance?”
“I’m on duty.”
“How about when you’re off duty?”
“The party’ll be over by then.”
“Not in my room,” she grinned.
“Mr. Bartlett would like to meet with you in his bedroom immediately. I am to inform you that it is extremely urgent,” Henry, the butler, informed me with about as much urgency as if he’d been telling me the plants needed watering. I started toward the stairs as Melinda grabbed my arm.
“What about that dance?”
“I wouldn’t want you to lose your sense of humor,” I said and hurried up the stairs to Mr. Bartlett’s room. However, a tango with her later was not entirely out of the question, I thought.
Although Mr. Bartlett had not yet arrived, Farrow and Putnam were already lounging in the room like sly pets that sneak off to sleep on the master’s bed while he’s away. They both wore the same sour expression—as if they’d both just received unsuccessful enemas. They said nothing, but nodded at me to acknowledge my presence.
I glanced at my watch; it was almost 9:30.
I was still nervous. Obviously we had been gathered here because Mr. Bartlett had probably spotted someone or something and wanted to tell us in private so as not to arouse suspicion. If that was the case, it would then be up to me, as we say in my business, to eliminate the danger. Suddenly I hated that phrase almost as much as I hated my position. It sounded so final. Rather than let Farrow and Putnam witness my nervousness, I slid the glass door open that led to the terrace and stepped out of the room as if into another world.
“Hey, where ya goin’?” Farrow called. “Mr. Bartlett wants you to wait here for him.”
“I’m just getting some air,” I said. There were no stars and the moon was visible only through a haze, as if out of focus, but the slight coolness of the air both exhilarated and relaxed me. I leaned over the wooden railing trying to distinguish the dark green and blue shadows below. Finally I managed to make out the large walls of hedges and shrubbery that lined each narrow pathway and sidewalk, and after a few more minutes I noticed Melinda and an unidentified young man necking behind one such hedge. I smiled, mentally cancelling any plans of sneaking into her room after the party. Instead, I considered making some kind of apology to Heather and hoping for the best. I also made a mental note to ask about the $1,000 bonus I was supposed to get tonight for moving in. Once I had my hands on that, I could take off in the morning and Mr. Bartlett could find himself a real bodyguard. In a way, I would be doing him a favor.
I heard muffled footsteps coming along the hall and expecting them to belong to Mr. Bartlett, I turned to re-enter the room just as a bolt of lightning and a clap of thunder exploded in the room in a fiery burst. My ears felt as if they had been lanced with a shovel, and a fierce wind sucked and pushed violently at my body. Suddenly I was in the air—a thick black liquid air—no longer a creature of the ground, but a baby falcon learning clumsily how to fly, somersaulting in slow motion toward my nest. Then I was plucked out of the sky by a great claw that scratched at my flesh. A distant melody was grinding slowly to an off-key halt and dozens of crows swooped down and pecked at my helpless body.
Chapter Nine
When I awoke the next morning in my Park Avenue penthouse, my wife was already busy arranging the menu with the cooks for the dinner party we were giving that night for the mayor, his wife, and several well-known film personalities. When she finished, she sat delicately on the edge of the bed as I began to recall to her the most horrifying nightmare about bodyguards and explosions (I neglected to mention certain other elements), at which she frowned sympathetically, assuring me with a soothing caress that it had all just been a terrible dream—the sooner forgotten the better.
That’s the way I would have liked to start this chapter. Unfortunately, when I really did begin slowly to come to (awake is much too mild for the dull throbbing in my head), the best I could do was squint in respect for a glaring world. The usual questions like Where am I? What happened? What time is it? were of no immediate concern to me. The main consideration to which I directed all available energy was the complete use of my eyes. No matter how wide I believed they were open—tugging at them with every muscle in my face, slamming my lids closed and snapping them open like the caricature of a drunk—I still only saw as if they were half-closed. It took me a few minutes to realize that the limp washcloth someone had laid across my forehead had slid down my brow like a shade lowered partially over my eyes. However, before I made any drastic gestures to remove it I felt it was imperative first to locate and identify the various aches and pains that had mysteriously infested my body.
A visual examination of my body was not immediately practical since I was lying at present in a bed under blankets I seriously doubted my ability to lift. My hands stretched down along my sides as if I had been at attention and I could feel through the bandages on my hands the bare flesh that indicated I was naked. A sudden yawn caused stabbing pains in my chest and when I involuntarily jerked my hand to where the pain originated, I felt an elastic bandage tightly encasing me.
A slick sweep of my teeth with my tongue revealed an alarming gap along the top left row where the two teeth recently loosened by J.J. and Gus had once resided. The loss of these two teeth was particularly distressing due to my father’s frequent announcements, however inaccurate, while I was growing up that we only had one set of teeth with which to get through life and that false teeth were never as good as the real things. The realization that I would now have to go through life with two false teeth caused the inside of my stomach to turn warm and sour like curdled yogurt. I almost started to sob and heave in humiliation at the prospect of visiting my parents someday with false teeth, clearly announcing my sins. Was there as well some kind of dental dominoes theory in which if one tooth falls out they all start to go—one at a time?
A sudden sharpness in my chest stopped me from entering the next stage of shock: religious remorse. I have in the past been worked over more than once by professionals, occasionally badly enough that I have experienced these stages of shock before to various degrees of intensity. Religious remorse, in which I promise to return to the fold of my religion for penance, was always the final stage. Fortunately, this time the pain snapped me out of it before I went that far. I had enough trouble as it was.
Now that inventory was relatively complete and all vital organs were present and accounted for, I focused my attention on the aforementioned questions of Where am I? What happened? What time is it? A quick scan of the room partially answered my first question. I was obviously in a motel room situated near a busy street. The first part of my observation was easily discernible by the unmistakable appearance of the furniture, apparently designed by the same person who brought us disposable seat covers in public restrooms. Also, there was a white bath towel slung over the dresser chair that read Morning Glory Motel. The second part of my observation was based on the continual sound of passing cars and honking horns which inspired another question: How did I get there? As for the answers, I intended to find out immediately.
Slowly and with the greatest possible respect for pain, I began to rise. Carefully pivoting on my but-tocks, I hung my legs over the edge of the bed and slid toward them until my feet lay flat on the carpet. I tentatively eased myself into a sitting position, then into a crouch, slowly straightening into a wobbly standing position with one hand supported by an even less stable bedpost. After a few ragged steps, I let go and navigated unsteadily around the room looking for my clothes. There was pain, to be sure, but except for the missing teeth and former unconsciousness
, it was no worse than what J.J. and Gus had done to me. And this time I wasn’t even limping.
I finally came upon a charred lump of torn cloth that, once unravelled, proved to be the new suit I’d been wearing before whatever happened, happened. The light blue shirt with the French cuffs was now shredded and haphazardly splashed with blood. There was a long dirty rag that vaguely resembled my tie. The jacket was gashed and grass-stained and one leg on the pants was almost completely severed. My shattered watch lay on the dresser, the hands stubbornly insisting that it was 9:30. Having a certain sense of modesty, not to mention being a bit chilled, I wrapped the slightly damp motel towel from the chair around my waist—all in all, not exactly an appropriate outfit with which to begin my official investigation.
I was not, however, without my resources. It suddenly occurred to me that television also broadcasts news, a fact I had managed to ignore for many years due to programming conflicts. I switched on the television, flipped the dial past the soap operas (where a husband’s double hernia was ruining his marriage) and the game shows (where a husband’s wrong answer was ruining his marriage) without the slightest sign of news, and flicked it off with a resounding “Damn machine!”
I was momentarily stunned by my own choice of words, having never before thought of a television as a machine. It always seemed much more personal than that, but once I’d said it I realized that it actually was a machine. I wasn’t sure what the hell that meant to my situation, but it sounded appropriately insightful. And I had to stay in practice in case I ever decided to return to school.
I was considering my next move when the door swung open and Heather and Melinda stepped quietly into the room.
Upon seeing Heather I experienced a sudden relief as if a knot in my stomach was finally unravelling, not for myself but as if I’d been worrying about her all this time without even knowing it. For the first time since we’d met we exchanged real honest smiles—not grins, not polite or frozen smiles that look like your lips have been paralyzed—but tender concerned smiles. It lasted for only an instant, so quick I wondered whether it even happened at all, but the effect was both comforting and disturbing.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” she scolded, laying a small suitcase on the bed. They both looked exhausted.
“How’s the body, Guard?” Melinda quipped with a tired grin.
“Nothing a little formaldehyde won’t cure,” I answered, to which Melinda replied with a yawn that threatened to unhinge her jaw. That seemed to be the signal to relax we had all been waiting for. Halfway through Melinda’s, Heather and I joined in with a chorus of moaning yawns of our own, after which Heather joined me on the edge of the bed and Melinda fell into one of the shaky motel chairs that promised to collapse if further provoked.
“Well, what the hell happened? What time is it? Where am I? No, wait, cancel the where am I and tell me how I got here.”
Heather and Melinda exchanged tired looks.
“It’s quite a story,” Heather said.
“I hope you’re not going to ask me where to begin.”
“We can start with the fact that my father’s dead,” Melinda announced evenly.
“What!” I shouted, looking at Heather for confirmation. She lowered her eyes and nodded. I felt a strong chill; whether it originated in the room or in my spine I wasn’t certain.
“Well, don’t look so upset,” Melinda remarked, her mouth turned cynically down. “He wasn’t exactly the Prince of Peace.”
“Melinda, I know you’re under great strain,” Heather said soothingly, “but don’t worry about anything, Harry and I are your friends and we’ll see you through. Won’t we, Harry?”
“Sure,” I said without hesitation, but not without reservations.
However, our assurance did not produce the desired effect of calming Melinda, but rather resulted in stifled sobs and several free-falling tears. “Don’t worry,” Melinda said, “these aren’t for him.”
“Then why are you crying?” Heather asked.
“Nothing. Nobody,” she answered quickly. “I’m just tired. Being questioned by the police and trying to identify dead bodies the first thing in the morning aren’t a few of my favorite things.”
“Dead bodies! Police! Is somebody going to tell what the hell is going on?”
Heather looked at Melinda who shrugged and wiped her eyes. “At exactly 9:30 p.m. last night a bomb exploded in Mr. Bartlett’s bedroom killing four persons, wounding at least a dozen more and causing a fire that almost destroyed the entire house. Somehow the impact of the explosion threw you off the balcony and into the hedges. Melinda was outside at the time and saw you come flying over the railing. She left the friend she was with to tend to you while she went to see what happened.
“Well, the fire was already raging, Mr. Bartlett was nowhere to be found, the fire engines and police were on their way, so she found me and told me about you and we brought you here.”
“Why not to a hospital?” I asked.
“Because Melinda’s friend told us it wasn’t anything serious, no broken bones or anything, and with a few bandages and a little rest you’d be as good as new.”
“Good thing your friend happened to be a doctor,” I said to Melinda with a relieved sigh.
“Well, he’s not exactly a doctor yet,” Melinda explained. “But he is a second year pre-med student at UCLA.”
“Swell,” I said, suddenly feeling much weaker.
“Anyway,” Heather continued, “that’s what happened.”
“Who are the four dead?”
“The only positive identification are of a Mr. Arnold Tryon and Mrs. Estelle Mercer who were in the room next to Mr. Bartlett’s when the bomb went off. Apparently they were knocked unconscious when the wall blew open and then burned to death in the fire.”
“What the devil were they doing there?” I interrupted, to which I received an oh-come-on-now expression from Heather and a smirk from Melinda.
“Oh,” I said quietly.
“What was left of the other two bodies was so badly burnt they haven’t been able to make a positive identification yet. They still haven’t found enough teeth to try a dental identification.
“If they have any extras, two of them are mine,” I complained, lifting my lip to expose my gap. “What about Putnam and Farrow?”
“Farrow’s in the hospital with burns, multiple contusions and a concussion. Fortunately he was in the bathroom when the bomb went off and managed to get out in time. Most of his injuries are a result of being hit by the bathroom door when it blew off.”
“And they think Putnam is the other body—besides my father, that is,” Melinda added.
“But they’re not certain?” I asked.
Heather shrugged. “Not officially, but they know from Henry that Farrow and Putnam were waiting there and that less than a minute before the bomb went off Mr. Bartlett told Henry that he would be in the bedroom for a few minutes, but would come right back down.”
“Did he mention why he was going to the bedroom?”
“He said something to Henry about finally realizing who was trying to kill him, that it was right under his nose all along. Something like that, at least that’s what Henry told the police.”
“What about me?” I asked, suddenly remembering that I had also been in the bedroom. “He must have told the police that I was there, too.”
“He did,” Melinda said. “And they want to see you right away.”
There were several reasons why I didn’t want to see the police. Aside from my natural state of being continually guilty of something, they would be bound by routine to check for a record on me and upon receiving the tally, would wonder why I passed myself off as a bodyguard. Not being fully enlightened as to the circumstances, that would appear to be suspicious behavior to them. The fact that I was trying to build a stake or that I was planning on sneaking away that same night after getting my bonus money would not especially impress them with my honest intentions.
; “Are they coming here or am I supposed to go down there?”
“They don’t know that you’re here,” Heather said. “I didn’t think you were well enough to talk to them yet, so we told them we didn’t know where you were.”
“Great!” I shouted, giving her a grateful kiss.
“I didn’t tell them either,” Melinda teased.
“Then come and get it,” I sang, and she bent over and kissed me sweetly on the cheek.
“I’m all talk,” she admitted shyly.
Heather smiled, “Besides, I figured you’d go down and see them when you were feeling better anyway.”
“Huh? Oh, yes, of course,” I said earnestly. “But I can’t go anywhere until I get some clothes. Or at least a double-breasted towel.”
“In that case . . .” she said and flipped open her suitcase, removing a shirt, pair of pants and the labels still intact, socks and a sweater. “There are some shoes in that bag on the dresser. They let us into the house this morning to see if there was anything worth salvaging. All of my things were destroyed, either from the fire or the water, but Melinda’s room was far enough away that most of her clothes were still good. Fortunately, I’m only one size larger than she is. I did manage to find a couple shirts and a pair of socks of yours. The rest I had to buy, although I wasn’t able to afford the kind of clothes you were becoming accustomed to. I hope the pants fit,” she grinned. “I had to go by memory.”
“If you ladies would please turn your heads,” I requested, dressing as quickly as my pains would allow.
“I think you look better with your clothes off,” Melinda said with an appraising expression. “Don’t you, Heather?”
“No comment.”
“Was there anything else on me besides those clothes, or what’s left of them, last night when you found me?”
“There was some change in your pocket, a wallet and that gun and shoulder holster. I put them in the top drawer.”
“You mean the gun was still on me when I fell?”
“Well, not on you,” Melinda explained. “It fell nearby, so did your wallet and one of your shoes. I picked them up when we brought you here.”
The Goulden Fleece Page 5
