One for Our Baby

by John Sandrolini

  I crept up toward Wes’s, avoiding as many of the curled leaves under my feet as I could. A few torches glowed at the higher levels, but I couldn’t see anyone on the decks. The gate was unlocked, as always, so I raised the latch and slipped in.

  The staircase to the second level was at the far end of a stone walkway. I took a few steps toward it, then stopped cold at the sight of a pair of luminous green eyes blazing in the reflected light.

  I squinted to focus on them, then recoiled when I realized they were not human, not by a long shot. I reached again for the weapon that I wasn’t wearing, then just stood in place while trying to determine what I was up against.

  A broad smile broke across my face when I realized it was Mars, a black cat that Wes kept as a talisman, one of seven or eight on the property. I rubbed his chin a little and then moved on toward the staircase ahead.

  The hand-hewn oak steps were well worn, each one emitting a small creak as I took them. Swinging my eyes back and forth, I crept upward, stopping at the top step to inspect the second level.

  Nothing moved, the only light the flickering of a torch against the rock wall. I called Wes’s name a couple of times, but there was no reply.

  The stillness wasn’t unusual as I often found him quietly immersed in his work in some recessed nook of the property. Peering into the shaded corners, I strode slowly across the wooden decking, then wound my way up the iron spiral staircase to the third floor. Again, I paused at the top to look around. This time it seemed like I was in luck.

  At the far end of the level a man was bent over a stone brazier, poking at the coals with a thick iron rod. Wes was a metalsmith, of course, and I smiled in relaxation at the sight. I ambled over toward the brazier, casually regarding the dozens of his Gothic candelabra, weather vanes, and lanterns that cluttered the workspace.

  He was busily at work as I approached, his back to me.

  “Hello, Wes,” I called out. “It’s me, Joe.”

  He turned toward me then, a black welder’s mask pulled low over his face, a slate-gray smock shrouding his body. He was holding the long, hooked poker down by his waist, its end shimmering white hot in the night.

  I hadn’t seen Wes in quite a while, but he looked larger than I was expecting, even with the gear on. He stepped toward me, making no attempt to lift his mask. A very bad feeling came over me as he approached.

  “Wes?” I asked, stepping backward.

  Wordlessly, the faceless man drew back the rod in his hand, raising it over his head.

  Then he lunged toward me.

  I turned to duck away—and banged into a candelabrum. My feet got crossed and I tripped, crashing hard onto the metal-plated wooden timbers, the heavy iron candlestick holder thudding down a second later, just inches away.

  He was on me in a second, brandishing the superheated poker over his head, waves of heat dancing off the tip. He held it there for a split second, then slashed down with a savage thrust.

  I grabbed the candelabrum with both hands. It was heavy as hell, but my adrenaline was locked on max. Rolling flat onto my back, I heaved the pole up and over my chest.

  The poker came down an instant later, pranging heavily off the candleholder with a ringing metallic clang, flaming sparks erupting from its end. The shock wave coursed through the bar, the reverberations numbing my hands as falling metal flakes bit my cheeks.

  Black Mask dropped down on top of me, slamming a knee into my thigh. Grabbing the candelabrum with one hand, he yanked it down toward my stomach, leaving my face unprotected.

  He drew back his other arm, then came spearing down with the poker, ramming it toward my throat.

  Shifting my weight, I slid away and shoved the candlestick one-handed across my chest, just barely deflecting the poker as Black Mask drove it home. It slammed into the steel plate next to my face, shrieking with resistance as it skidded forward several inches amid another shower of sparks.

  Its awful heat radiated out next to me as the man in the mask struggled to rake it across my face while I fought against it with the candelabrum.

  Black Mask had me by weight, weapon, and position. I was in a terrible spot, but I still had physics on my side. When he brought both of his hands to his weapon to outmuscle me, he gave me an opening—and I took it.

  I swung my free leg up and buried my knee in his ribs, then nailed him in the side of the head with a forearm shiver, pushing the metal mask sideways across his face.

  The blows were just enough to knock him off balance. As he fell off to one side I rolled into him, then spun onto all fours, bearing down on him with my shoulder, keeping him on the defensive.

  Then I brought my fists together and hammered them down on the back of his neck. He let out a convulsive ooof, the poker slipping from his grasp and falling underneath him as he collapsed onto one forearm.

  I fell on him for all I was worth. He was strong, but I had him now. Forcing all my weight on him, I pushed him toward the floor, ratcheting him down by degrees over the burning iron.

  Closer and closer he went, thrashing like a roped longhorn.

  I could smell the asbestos-lined smock as it began to smolder, hear the fear in him as he struggled in desperation.

  He let out a grunt, then a moan, and finally a full-fledged scream as the poker began digging in, incinerating the flesh on his convulsing chest.

  I held him there a second, then leaped up, crouching above him as he rolled writhing onto his back, clutching at the hook shape branded into his chest and grimacing in agony.

  I kicked the poker away, then grabbed one of Wes’s lanterns and flung it down hard on his masked face.

  I thought that would finish him, but by the time I had snatched up the candelabrum again he was staggering to his feet. He was a bull, that guy.

  He steadied himself, then chucked the mask off and glanced at the smoldering wound, rage contorting his features.

  But I could still recognize him as the guy from the Sapphire Room on Sunday night—had to be the Bendix dupe Barbi had mentioned.

  I didn’t waste a second.

  Swinging the metal stand up like a lance, I charged into him, jamming the business end of the candelabrum into his breadbasket and shoving him backward, my feet pumping like pistons as I drove him toward the low log railing at the edge of the work area.

  The big man staggered into the rail, grabbed emptily for the last post, then tumbled over the top, flailing away as he fell from the platform down into the pine trees below. A heavy crashing, thrashing, breaking sound rippled through the air as he plunged through the branches. There was a dull thump when he hit the needle-carpeted forest floor below, followed by a grating clang as I dropped the candelabrum on the plating. Then it was tomb quiet.

  I rushed to the rail’s edge and peered down through the darkness. His still form was just barely visible below, but he wasn’t moving.

  Two thoughts immediately rose in my brain. The first was that I needed to find out what had happened to Wes, and the second was that I had better damn well tie up that wild animal before he got loose again.

  Wes was going to have to wait.

  I took a running step as I turned to hit the staircase—and looked straight into the reddest eyes I’d ever seen.

  38

  A man in a flowing white robe was standing in front of me on the platform, holding a broken lantern in weathered hands.

  His long gray hair fell in tangles about his sloped shoulders, half-closed eyes lined with red spiderwebs peeking out from behind. Beneath those eyes, a pair of chipped half-moon glasses rested upon a short, hooked nose, and beneath that, a benign smile creased the wrinkled corners of his dark, leathery lips. He might have passed for King Lear on the heath, except for the scent of marijuana that permeated the air around him.

  He was old—and he was hopped—but mostly he was old.

  “Hello, and peace to you, my friend,” he said as if he were speaking to a child.

  “Wes,” I blurted out, “am I happy to see you.
Are you all right?”

  “And I you. I’m fine, quite fine. I’ve just been lying down in back meditating.”

  “That what they’re calling it these days?”

  He smiled. “Yes. I had some amazing visions.”

  “Yeah, me too—a mad ironworker.”

  I glanced behind me then, leaning back down over the rail. Bendix was still laid out below like a palooka at a Friday night smoker. If he wasn’t dead, he was out cold. I reached down to pick up the candelabrum, hoisted it back upright.

  “I heard some banging sounds out here, Joe. Have you been testing out your artistic abilities at the forge with that big fellow? Maybe we could all make something together.”

  “That’s not gonna happen.”

  “Why not? Did your friend fly off already?”

  “Oh, he flew all right—like Icarus.”

  His face went perfectly blank.

  “Wes,” I said, jabbing my thumb toward the railing, “that man is a mobster. I just shoved him off your terrace. We’ve gotta talk—right now.”

  “Oh my. Let’s sit then and have some tea. It’s chamomile, very calming.”

  I stole a nervous look toward Bendix again, decided he would keep, and then followed Wes across the decking to a covered alcove at the back corner of the terrace.

  I grabbed a seat near the rail on one of the heavy wooden benches where I’d passed many a night. Wes picked up a kettle from the fire, poured two cups of tea, and set them on the table. Then he sat down across from me and removed his glasses. I drew a bead on those ancient eyes in the wavering light.

  “I’ve come here for Helen,” I said. “Have you seen her? It’s vital that I find her.”

  Wes sipped his tea, then lit a hand-rolled cigarette with a wooden match. He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in a good ten seconds before purging it through his nose. The smell was unmistakable.

  “Joe,” he began paternally, “Helen came here seeking sanctuary. She asked me not to tell a living soul she was here—except you.”

  That was the best thing I’d heard in three days. Now I knew she was near.

  “Is she still here?”

  “Not at this moment. Would you like to wait for her to come back?” He waved the cigarette toward me. “Here, I’ve got some boffo Mary Jane. We could meditate together.”

  The thought of waiting there, drifting on reefer clouds and contemplating eternity while some thugs were trying to take Helen to it was a bit much. I reached across the table, grabbed both his shoulders, and shook him.

  “This is very serious business—Helen’s life is in danger. That big guy’s not an autograph hound—he’s a killer! I’ve got to know where she is. Please!”

  “But I can’t tell you where she is.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know,” he said, giggling just a little. He was totally stoned.

  “Madonn’!” I exclaimed, shaking my hands in frustration. “When did you last see her?”

  “Oh … hours ago, I guess.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe she took the ferry, maybe she’ll return. She didn’t say.”

  “Look, I’ve got to find her before anyone else does. Do you have any idea where she might have gone if she’s still on the island?”

  “No, I’m only the shepherd here at my home. I don’t follow the flock when they roam.”

  I thumped my fist on the table. “Shit, Wes!”

  “Please calm yourself, my friend. Clear your mind, then search within. Maybe you know where she is—the connection between you two is unnaturally strong. Look inside yourself, my friend, you’ve come this far.”

  Ordinarily, it might have all been amusing. But in the last thirty hours I’d been through a lifetime of misery. It was the wrong week for deciphering the psychobabble of Catalina’s own Sal Paradise.

  “Joe,” Wes said, his voice floating like incense through the air, “Helen needs you. Go to her. Don’t think—follow your heart.”

  I looked straight at him, nodding but saying nothing. I wasn’t going to get anything more of use from him. The more he smoked, the more he summoned Wes the Mystic. He sat there, beaming at me like the Buddha, then closed his eyes and folded his hands on top of each other across his chest.

  I stood up. “Thanks, Wes. I gotta go. Sorry about the lantern.”

  “Follow your heart,” he repeated as I walked away, the words echoing in my ears.

  It was starting to sound like good advice—but I’d probably been sitting too close to the ashtray.

  39

  On the way down I thought about Bendix lying there in the woods. Doubling my pace, I bolted down the stairs, grabbing one of Wes’s big wooden walking sticks on the first level before I shot through the gate. If the big guy put up any more of a fight, I’d crown him once and for all.

  I hustled around the side of the property and made a beeline for the pine tree stand, approaching Bendix with the stick cocked above my head.

  Only he wasn’t there anymore.

  I stared wide-eyed into the dark a good three seconds, then shifted into reaction mode. Ducking my head, I dropped to one knee and swung the stick full force—into nothing. Then I cut it back the other way, whiffing again like the mighty Kluszewski.

  Leaping up, I flattened myself against a tree, then spun my head around several times, certain that I’d pick up that wounded ox as he lumbered through the forest. I watched and listened for better than a minute, but he was gone.

  I searched the whole area twice without seeing any sign of him. I didn’t think he would return, but I couldn’t take any chances, especially since Wes didn’t have a phone. For all I knew, Bendix was after me, not Helen, but I couldn’t risk that either. If she was still on the island, I had to go find her before he did.

  I went back to my bike, kick-started it, and spun a quick one eighty in the road. I made the turn on Avalon Canyon and headed back toward town, stopping at the traffic circle at Tremont while I tried to decide whether to ride into the hills or work my way back through the streets.

  A flash of movement from the park caught my eye. I thought it might be a man, lurking back in the tree line. When I turned my head, he was gone—if he’d been there at all. Probably just a deer or a dog. I had that Bendix guy on the brain too much. He was probably curled up in the woods somewhere nursing a terrible burn and one hell of a splitting headache.

  I sat there another moment, staring at nothing. Then I spied the small movie marquee for the Avalon Theatre in the middle of the traffic circle. At first it didn’t register. Then it clicked: the poster was for an old Orson Welles/Rita Hayworth flick. A rerun, but a nice taut mystery—exactly the kind of movie that would pique Helen’s interest.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  The theater was a three-minute ride away, and I had nothing to lose by going by. It was late, so I gave the shifter a kick and headed for the waterfront.

  “The Lady from Shanghai,” I mused. I’d seen it years ago. Fell asleep in the middle, never did find out how it ended.

  40

  The Avalon Theatre was located in the base of the Casino Building, an immense Venetian palace of a dance hall that old man Wrigley had built back in the ’20s for two million bucks.

  Built on a spit of land at the northwest edge of town, the Casino abutted a rounded stone jetty that doubled as a seawall for Avalon’s small harbor. The seven-story-high dance hall featured a stunning ballroom on the top floor encircled by a massive covered terrace. Both the Casino and the theater were finished in an extravagant Moorish style, heavy on dark woods and richly colored friezes. Each could hold at least a thousand people at any given time.

  It was a hell of an impressive work. Like the pyramids, no one really knew why it existed but everyone was glad it did. Chewing gum—who knew?

  Helen and I had enjoyed many hours in the Casino together. A tingling of anticipation stirred in me as I rounded the corner on Crescent and caught
my first glimpse of it. I gunned the throttle, whipping through the turn as the brightly lit edifice rose out of the night sky before me.

  I passed several couples walking back from the theater as I rode but didn’t see a soul after the Yacht Club. The movie had apparently been over for some time.

  Nearing the end of Via Casino, I slowed, then stopped underneath the stand of palm trees that fronted the theater. The Casino’s upturned floodlights bathed the building in yellow light, but the high balcony and the massive buttresses that supported it were lost in deep shadows fifty feet above the ground.

  I stood and took a few steps toward the theater, then paused, listening for voices or any footfall. Other than the small waves lapping the beach, all was still.

  Moving slowly, I walked toward the darkened box office, my steps echoing in the damp air of the high vaulted chamber as I neared.

  Four twelve-foot-high sets of glass and walnut doors flanked either side of the ornate aluminum ticket window. Beyond them, stone hallways ran off in opposite directions, disappearing into dark corners.

  I stepped into the center of the chamber, listening, watching, the decorative glass chandeliers above yielding just enough light for me to see into the empty corridors. I tugged on one of the theater doors but it was locked. They all were. Then I leaned up close to one, staring beyond my reflection into the foyer. Could have been a funeral parlor as dead still and quiet as it was.

  Stepping back, I gazed up at the beautiful nautical murals painted on the chamber walls above me. Flying fish, crabs, and seahorses frolicked in muted colors beneath fading waves. In the central panel, a forlorn mermaid stared longingly out at the world with the sad eyes of one who’d seen too much. I wondered if she’d witnessed the things I had.

  I walked away from the theater, across the jetty, surveying the town. The beach and the marina were quiet, and all the houses on the hills that ringed Avalon were dark. A single light shone on the water in the distance from the back of the Tuna Club, but that was probably just some old fishing buddies burning the midnight oil.