by K. K. Beck
“Hey!” said Nick, reaching for his purchases. The clerk kept her arm wrapped around them like a mother bear protecting its cub, and glared at him.
“I just bought those,” he said.
“What? Oh, there’s another customer here who’s interested in the books,” she said into the phone. “But I’ll explain to him that Nadia Wentworth wants them.”
Nick was usually a polite young man, slow to anger. Once in a while, however, when feeling pushed, he could be very adamant. “Tough!” he said. “My money’s as good as hers.” He grabbed the credit card receipt out of the machine, tore it off neatly, grabbed a pen from an Edgar Allan Poe coffee mug on the counter, and defiantly scrawled his signature at the bottom.
“You can’t do that!” said the clerk, aghast.
“Here’s the merchant copy,” snarled Nick, peeling it away from his own yellow cardholder’s copy and flinging it at her. Now he had to figure out how to separate her from the actual merchandise. She had leaned over the books on the counter, and they were hidden beneath her large bosom, the perimeter guarded by her muscular arm. If he touched her, especially her chest, which was the chief barrier between him and his property, he’d probably end up being booked for sexual assault.
He leaned in toward her and put his face close to hers. “Give me my books,” he said.
Still clutching the phone, she wrapped her other arm around the books. “No way!”
He made a darting, open-handed gesture, meant to indicate she should give the books to him. “But I bought them!”
Her arm shot out in a quick jab toward his face, and he saw that her fist was closed. He grabbed her wrist and pushed her arm away.
“Oof,” she said, dropping the receiver.
In her office at Nadia’s home, Villa Vera, in Beverly Hills, Melanie had heard a muffled, angry male voice in the background and then became vaguely aware of what sounded like a scuffle going on at the other end of the line, followed by a clunky sound, as if the receiver had hit the counter. Was there some crime in progress? Should she hang up and call 9-1-1? She wasn’t even sure what city she was calling. All she had was a 1-800 number.
“Hello! Hello!” she said, alarmed.
A slightly breathless male voice came on the line. “Listen, I just bought these books. The credit card receipt is signed. I own them. But the clerk here seems to think that because you’re famous you get first dibs.”
“I’m not famous,” said Melanie. “I’m Miss Wentworth’s personal assistant.” Her efficient mind clacked away. The guy didn’t sound stupid, and the fact that he’d signed the receipt sounded as if there might be some contractual thing going here that could lead to some nuisance lawsuit. That’s all she needed. Another greedy hand held out.
She modulated her voice and tried to sound very sweet, the way she used to sound before she’d started working for Nadia. “But really, Miss Wentworth is very interested in anything about Valerian Ricardo. Maybe you’d be willing to sell them to her.”
There was a pause. “Valerian Ricardo was a relative of mine,” he said. “There’s sentimental value there.”
“I see,” said Melanie, instantly wary of anyone who shared the blood of that creepy old hack. She glanced up at the wall where Nadia had insisted they hang an old photograph of Valerian Ricardo, bought from an antique store in Santa Monica. Every feature, except perhaps for the manly chin, spoke of perversion and debauchery. Melanie could well believe that such a creature could have produced the thinly disguised sadomasochistic, protofascist porn that made up the Kali-Ra series.
The guy on the other end of the line sounded apologetic now. “I mean, frankly, I think the books are probably not exactly great literature, no offense, but I’ve never read any of them, and I’m curious.”
Melanie thawed. After constant exposure to Nadia and Lila Ricardo, who was a regular visitor to the house these days, it was refreshing to talk to someone who suspected that the books weren’t masterpieces.
“Well, we already have that work of criticism,” she said. “The author sent it to us. And I can probably find the novels somewhere else. But I’d sure like to take a look at the biography.” Lila had never mentioned this work, which was uncharacteristic. Maybe she had something to hide.
“So would I,” said Nick. “But maybe after I read all this stuff I could sell some of it to her. I can’t promise anything, though.”
“Listen,” Melanie said, “I’ll give you my phone number and you can let me know.”
“Okay,” said Nick.
“And give me yours, if you don’t mind,” she said, dangling a carrot in front of him. “Who knows? Maybe Nadia will want to invite you to the premiere, or even let you visit the set. Seeing as you’re a relative of Valerian Ricardo and all. She might even want to meet you.” In Melanie’s experience, the hope of meeting a famous movie star got all kinds of people to roll over and grovel in the most disgusting way.
“Oh,” he replied, and despite his nonchalant tone, she thought she detected excitement in his voice. “As a matter of fact, I’ll be in L.A. on business next week. Maybe I can deliver any of the books she might want then.”
CHAPTER VII
THE TREASURE OF KALI-RA
Quentin had always heard that in any encounter, the clothed had a psychological advantage over the naked. This presumably is why doctors forced patients into those skimpy robes that fell open at the back, then came in to the examining rooms wearing their own long white coats. It never worked this way with Maurice, though. Quentin, in his pale linen suit, felt small and weak and somehow overdressed sitting here on Maurice’s poolside terrace while a large black man in an English butler’s uniform adjusted the large umbrella over the nearly nude Maurice.
Since coming to this Caribbean island nation thirty years ago, one step ahead of a criminal investigation and before his in absentia disbarment proceedings, Quentin’s boss, Maurice Fender, had conducted all his business clad in a small black Speedo swimsuit, accessorized by a Rolex watch, a few gold chains, and a pair of Ray-Bans. It was a rather bold choice for a man with his three-hundred-pound-plus frame, most of it in the form of a huge, hairy stomach, with more Michelin-man rolls here and there.
“What have you got for me, Quentin?” he said wheezily from under the shadows of the umbrella. He’d taken to the shade after a melanoma scare a few years ago that had left his bald head dotted with brown spots.
“Nadia Wentworth. She’s in preproduction on a big picture starring herself. It’s a done deal. A lot of studio money, part of a three-picture deal she has with them. The working title is The Revenge of Kali-Ra. Based on the series character Kali-Ra, Queen of Doom, from the novels of Valerian Ricardo.”
“Never heard of him,” said Maurice.
“No one has. He died in the early seventies. The books are crap.”
“So? We make a lot of money on crap. Do we own him?”
“Yep. Never made a nickel off him. He’s just been languishing in the files.” Quentin ventured a smile of triumph. Maurice grunted.
“He was in the public domain for years,” Quentin continued. “But he’s Uruguay. I’ve checked it out pretty thoroughly. According to the files, his name came up a few years ago with some professor who wanted to quote a few lines in a scholarly work.”
Maurice nodded thoughtfully, and sipped what looked like a gin and tonic. As usual, Quentin hadn’t been offered anything. “And no one talked to us about this? Nadia Wentworth thinks it’s out of copyright?”
“Apparently. Most people would assume that. Valerian Ricardo’s books went out of copyright in 1982, but when the European Union changed its rules last year, British copyrights were extended to match longer German ones. Ricardo was an American but his books were all published in England first. So now he’s back in copyright in England, and under the Uruguay treaty, where we acknowledge British copyrights, that puts him back in copyright here too. We can file with the Copyright Office right away and make it clear we own the rights.”
/> “Let’s not be hasty,” said Maurice thoughtfully. “How did we get a hold of this guy? I don’t recollect a guy named that.”
“According to the records, we picked him up accidentally with a bunch of doo-wop artists from some little tax lawyer about twenty years ago. He was part of a package with Carla and the Cleartones and Little Bopping Bobby.”
“Yeah. I remember that guy. His clients had big problems with the IRS and he took over their rights in lieu of legal fees after he’d represented them unsuccessfully, then sold them to me.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Quentin. He didn’t want to prolong his stay. The reptilian Maurice loved the sun, but it was too damn hot out here for mammals. He longed to get back to his little air-conditioned office.
“I’m thinking,” said Maurice.
Quentin gazed out over the manicured lawn fringed by palms. To his horror, he caught sight of a tall black man in a black suit and sunglasses lurking in the bushes and staring at them.
“Jesus, Maurice,” he whispered hoarsely, reaching over and shaking Maurice’s fat, hairy shoulder. He kept his eyes on the man, who now leapt out from behind the fronds, assumed a crouched, legs-apart stance, and reached into his suit and pulled out a large silver gun of some kind, which he was pointing at them.
“That’s okay, it’s just Mike,” said Maurice offhandedly. He gestured to the man, who resumed a normal stance, replaced the gun, and strolled elegantly back into the shrubbery. “One of my bodyguards. He’s a little overzealous. He worked for the last president of the republic here, and he’s trained to leap into action if anyone lays a hand on whoever he’s protecting. You shouldn’t a touched me.”
“Right. Okay,” said Quentin, quickly withdrawing his hand, which he was horrified to discover was still clutching Maurice’s shoulder. “Sorry, it kind of rattled me.”
“Hey, it’s a different way of life down here, but you get used to it,” said Maurice. “Mike’s a good guy. Machete Mike, they call him, but he handles a gun pretty good too.”
Quentin’s temples began to throb with one of his tension headaches. He wanted to get out of here and back to the office. It was the only place on the island he felt safe. Lately, he’d actually found the rackety sound of the cockroaches being chopped up by the air-conditioning unit there rather soothing.
“I can go back to the office and file an NFI right away,” he said. “That way we can make it very clear we own the rights.”
“Don’t do anything yet. Snoop around. See how it’s shaping up. See what the traffic will bear. I’d rather hit them when they’ve already sunk some more money into the thing, maybe started principal photography,” said Maurice. “That way, they’ll figure what’s another million for rights. Meanwhile, make sure there’s no doubt we own this Ricardo guy and his Queen of Dread character.”
“Doom. Queen of Doom. Kali-Ra, Queen of Doom.”
“Go to L.A., hang out, find out what you can. Give me a full report on where the project stands, who the players are. Then stand by for the kill.”
L.A.! Quentin’s heart soared. He’d been trapped here for six whole months, ever since he took this horrible job in a spasm of desperation. He would call Margaret as soon as he landed! They’d walk hand in hand on the beach. He’d explain everything. Then his heart sank again. “Are you sure it’s . . . safe?”
Maurice waved a pudgy hand in the air. “They haven’t even indicted you. The case is probably rotting away somewhere in a drawer. But if you’re really nervous, you can travel under another name.”
“But my passport—”
“Jesus, what kind of an outfit do you think we’re running here? I need you to go to L.A. Go to L.A. I’ll get you a passport. A real one, from my pals at the Foreign Ministry.”
“Okay,” said Quentin nervously. At least it wouldn’t be a fake American passport. Anyway, the risk was worth it. He’d been so claustrophobic lately on this damn island. He suddenly had a whiff of the clean smell of Margaret’s hair and remembered the light dappling of freckles on her nose with a surge of affection.
Maurice coughed raspily. “But don’t mess up with that Doom thing. That little tax guy we got the rights from was a real scumbag. God knows how he got the rights. Anyone else who figures this Uruguay angle and pops up and gets greedy, like any relatives or whatever, make sure they meet their own personal doom. Buy ’em off, scare ’em off, whatever. I don’t want to get tied up in litigation and see the whole project go down the toilet.”
“Oh,” said Quentin. “According to the correspondence we had back in 1990 with the guy who wanted to quote from the works, there was a widow. At that time, she had apparently been representing herself as the copyright owner. She was pretty aggressive about it.”
Maurice nodded. “Find out if she’s still alive. In that case, I’ll send Machete Mike over to soften the old broad up. He might be getting bored just hanging around here in the yard.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” said Quentin, horrified, the headache pain plunging deeper into his skull.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Maurice.
Quentin rose to go. “I’m looking forward to getting back to L.A.,” he said, trying to end the meeting on a less sinister, more conversational tone.
“Good,” said Maurice. “While you’re there tell the whole goddamn town to fuck itself from me.”
* * *
It was dark in Minneapolis, and Nick was sitting up in bed, telling himself to stop trying to read. He was clearly falling asleep. He’d read the same passage from The Spear of Kali-Ra about three times.
“I will always walk among you, often disguised as the humblest of serving girls, but in truth my power is constant and my slaves numerous and ever loyal. And even you, Raymond Vernon, you who mock me and pretend to think I can be stopped, you are truly one of my slaves as well.”
Her eyes shone with a strange amber light. He had just about worked the knot loose. He knew he must make haste as her voice, with its strange, hypnotic powers, was beginning to lull him into a queer state of mind. God! It must have been that voice that had been the end of poor Carruthers.
A moment later, his efforts were rewarded and he had unbound himself. He leapt to his feet, seized her by her smooth golden shoulders, and cast her rudely aside as he prepared to flee, taking only a moment to admire her crumpled form on the stone floor. She looked more beautiful than ever when she was defeated, her hair disarranged, her diaphanous garments slipping from her fabulous form, her color high and her eyes flashing. For a moment an ignoble thought crept into his crazed mind. There was one way to know whether she was truly a goddess or if she was a real woman of flesh and blood, and she was helpless to prevent it here in this remote cave far from her slaves.
But a better part of him came to the fore and he realized his duty was to escape and warn the others of the awful plot he had discovered and which she had revealed to him when he was bound up, never realizing he would be able to escape her cruel clutches as he had so many times before. As he ran out into the dark desert night, he heard her cry after him: “I will still walk this earth long after you are gone, Raymond Vernon.”
Finally, Nick managed to drop the book on his bedside table and turn out the light. As he lay in the dark, half dreaming about Kali-Ra, he realized that Uncle Sid’s books were eerily addicting. He was on his third one in a row, and he told himself he should stop. He’d better quit while he was ahead, he thought groggily, or he might start thinking they were real.
In a time zone farther west, the long-limbed, golden-skinned young woman stood at the edge of the Pacific Ocean, staring out at the setting sun, now reduced to little more than a golden streak on the horizon.
A queer light came into her green eyes, and ocean breezes lifted her long dark hair, giving her the alarming appearance of some ancient sorceress, or perhaps even a goddess. She wore a white, filmy garment tied around her hips, which she had knotted in such a fashion as to allow herself to bathe her feet i
n the cool water.
She stared dreamily down at the lapping wavelets and made an impression of her small, neat foot in the firm, wet sand, only to watch the water surge back and make the sand smooth again.
In a low, husky tone, she murmured, “The vanishing footprint of Kali-Ra,” and then laughed a strange, thrilling laugh. “Yes, I shall succeed, I know I shall. The treasure will be mine, all mine, and I will have riches and power as is only fitting for the one and only Kali-Ra.”
She turned and ran up the beach, unknotting and smoothing her garment as she reached the wooden steps of the low bungalow. She sat on the first step and brushed the sand from her feet, then slipped on the pair of sandals she had left there. I must go to the places where I feel the emanations. I must will myself through time to learn the truth and bring it to the world, she thought.
Her reflections were interrupted by a voice from the top of the stairs. “Are you still on break? We’re totally jammed.”
“Sorry,” she replied. “My feet were killing me.”
A moment later she had entered the building and stood before a table carrying a sheaf of leather-bound menus. “Hi,” she said. “I’m your server, Callie, and I’d like to tell you about some of our specials today.” She flashed a broad smile and began explaining how the Chilean sea bass was flame-broiled and basted with a lemongrass-based reduction on a bed of pureed parsnips topped with fresh ginger and zucchini chutney with chili peppers. As she went on by rote to recite the other choices, her inner voice carried on with heady thoughts of its own. Be patient, my slaves! Soon the gong will strike and you will come forth to serve me, your cruel but powerful mistress, she whom it is a joy to serve, the Queen of Doom!
