It was minutes before he unlocked his side and appeared, wearing a towel knotted around his middle.
‘I was just going to take a bath,’ he explained. ‘What is it?’
‘Why don’t we bathe together? I’ve had being alone.’
* * *
Jorge stayed and drank brandy with Carlos into the early hours of the morning. He did not want to go home. He did not want to be alone. He did not want to face what were more than likely to be proved irrevocable facts.
He dreaded telling Evita, and decided not to tell her anything definite until the plane was actually found.
Dawn was already breaking when he let himself into the house. He went straight to his study and sat at his desk for a while staring at the various framed pictures of Cristina. A pictorial history of her short life. There she was a few hours old – then a saucer-eyed four – at ten, riding her pony – at twelve, reading a book – fifteen, a formal portrait. He had no recent photos – she had suddenly become camera-shy and refused to be photographed.
Wearily he made his way upstairs. Exhaustion was creeping over him, and he wanted to be up early – perhaps go out in one of the search planes.
Evita was asleep in the darkened bedroom. He barely glanced at her. He threw his clothes off and walked in the bathroom. At first he didn’t notice the two empty pill containers. Then he saw them and picked them up curiously. Wasn’t one of them his… He read the label on the side – ‘Jorge Maraco – sleeping tablets.’ That was strange… He hadn’t used them for weeks…
He picked up the other empty container. ‘Evita Maraco – sedatives.’
He stood very still for a moment – the full implications slowly seeping through to his muddled brain. Sleeping tablets… sedatives… empty…
He walked into the bedroom.
Evita lay very still, uncannily still.
He took her hand, it was extremely cold.
He felt for her pulse. There was none.
She was dead.
* * *
Carlos paid Talia. She kept her side of the bargain and within hours a duplicate copy of the two pages of neatly scripted flight plans were on his desk.
Search planes were in the air almost immediately. For two days they scoured the route, but could spot nothing. This was not surprising because the missing Al King plane had been flying over the dense interior of the Amazon jungle, and to spot a crashed plane beneath the thick foliage was virtually impossible. Even if the wreckage was found everyone knew that by this time there would be no hope of any survivors.
On the Monday the search was called off. Al King and his plane had been missing exactly ten days.
Carlos Baptista held a news conference and revealed the facts about a mystery woman and an organization named as the P.A.C.P. ‘In view of the information received we must assume that Señor King’s plane did indeed crash, and that he and his fellow travellers died as a result. It would seem futile to continue the search. Al King must be declared officially dead.’
* * *
Linda and Cody were on a plane back to Los Angeles the same day.
In New York, Melanie King – soon to be Mrs. Manny Shorto – appeared once again on television. ‘I am deeply saddened by the news,’ she said. ‘Manny and I will be praying for them all.’ Later that evening Manny and Melanie were to be found hosting what appeared to be a celebration party, and she was joyfully heard to confide to practically everyone in sight, ‘Now we can get married at once, don’t have to go through all that divorce shit!’
In Los Angeles Lew Margolis signed a blonde amazon ex-tennis player to be the new ‘Man Made Woman’. He also took a repentant Doris back and announced plans for her to star in a controversial new film about lesbianism.
In New York Aarron Mack announced his engagement to a sixteen-year-old German countess. ‘She will be the new Mack girl,’ he announced to the world, without so much as a word of condolence about Dallas.
At Malibu beach, Karmen Rush gave an exclusive interview to Macho magazine in which she revealed Al King was the most exciting lover she had ever had.
In New York Marjorie Carter snorted that Karmen Rush couldn’t have had many lovers.
In London Edna King packed away the last of Al’s clothes and sent them to a local charity. She was about to start on Evan’s things when she realized she would be late for her pottery class – late for John…
Hurriedly she left the house.
In Chicago Van Valda threw a big party. ‘In Memoriam Al King,’ the quickly printed invitations read. ‘Al wouldn’t have wanted a wake,’ Van puffed, his pipe lodged firmly in the corner of his mouth, ‘he would have wanted all of his friends to have a good time.’
Of the two hundred and twenty-three guests, Al had personally known six – and they were only vague acquaintances.
In Long Island, Ed Kurlnik gazed out of his bedroom window overlooking the sea. He sipped at a heavy tumbler of neat scotch. His hand was shaking. There would never be another Dallas – never. She had been the sexual realization of a lifetime of searching. He regretted ever letting her go.
Meanwhile, the immaculate Dee Dee entertained a senator and a foreign ambassador to a sumptuous lunch served on the terrace. While her twin daughters, Cara and Dana, entertained movie star Ramo Kaliffe on their speedboat.
In Philadelphia the ex-Miss Miami Beach, now ‘Miss Coast to Coast,’ sat down to write her memoirs. She devoted two whole chapters to Al King and their ‘lasting and meaningful’ affair. She devoted one terse line to Dallas – claiming she had been stripped of her title for unseemly behaviour.
In Los Angeles, Glory and Plum hung around outside a rock concert hoping to score a little coke – their new kick. ‘Hey – bad news Evan hadda trash out that way,’ Plum said.
‘Yeah, man,’ Glory agreed. ‘Shame he never had an address for us – he mighta laid a little bread on us in his will.’
‘You think he hadda will?’
‘Yeah – all these rich dudes got wills.’
‘Shit! You’re probably right. What a bummer. I guess we really lost out.’
In a recording studio in Memphis, Rosa and Sutch of The Promises were cutting an album track.
‘Mothafucker deserved to go that way,’ Rosa spat. ‘I hope he suffered!’
‘Aw,’ Sutch protested, ‘don’t be so hard – he had his good points.’
‘Yeah – in bed. Superfuck. Superprick more like. Screw the motha. I’m glad he’s dead.’
In Rio Jorge Maraco wept at his beloved wife’s funeral and prepared to start his life afresh.
The past was finished.
You couldn’t bring back the dead.
Headlines the world over stopped mentioning Al King.
He had been declared officially dead.
Dead people only made good headlines for one day.
His record slipped rapidly out of the number one slot.
Within days he was forgotten.
A decade later – if he was lucky – his records might be resurrected by a whole new generation. Buddy Holly. Otis Redding. Maybe Al King. Only maybe.
Chapter Seventy-Two
Saturday morning Dallas woke first. The pain woke her, niggly little nips of pain on her tender skin. For a moment she lay quite still, trying to get her bearings. Then she remembered, and it wasn’t the nightmare she had hoped – it was real – horribly, sickeningly real. Eight days of misery.
She leaped up in a hurry, and attempted to brush the giant ants from her body. They were crawling all over her – they had even managed to infiltrate under her clothes. She screamed in anger – waking the others. The ants were all over Al and Evan also. Soon everyone was standing and brushing off their clothes. Al stripped his off and doused his body in the stream. Dallas followed.
The sun was just beginning to rise, it was very early and still chilly.
Al shivered in the stream, and looked around at his travelling companions. What a motley group. Cristina with her poor bruised and cut face, her b
ody covered in his clothes which were already tattered and torn.
Blood-soaked Bernie – the weight dropping off him at an alarming rate.
Paul – wild-eyed and feverish.
Evan – his skin red and peeling from the incessant sun of the previous day.
And Dallas – his lady – his woman. Nothing seemed to daunt her. She had screwed her luxuriant hair into a ball on top of her head. Her normally olive skin had turned a deep mahogany colour, and without any sign of artifice she still looked magnificent.
‘Let’s get moving,’ Al said, getting out of the stream and drying off.
‘What about something to eat?’ Bernie demanded, his voice hoarse.
‘We’ll travel up stream a bit while it’s still cool – then we’ll take a break – eat something – and set off again.’
‘What about him?’ Bernie indicated Paul, who had slumped down on the ground.
Dallas knelt and felt his head. ‘I think he’s got the fever again,’ she said earnestly.
Bernie sat down heavily. ‘Aw – what the fuck… We’re never gonna get out of this pisshole. Who the fuck we kidding? We shoulda stayed with the plane… We shoulda…’
‘Shut up,’ said Al, his voice ominously cold. ‘Stop bitching and get on your feet. Our only chance is to keep going – and that’s just what we’re going to do – even if I have to carry Paul.’
‘You’re not the friggin’ superstar boss out here,’ Bernie shouted in a burst of fury. ‘I don’t have to jump for you here. I can tell you to get fucked. I can tell you what I want!’ He laughed hysterically. ‘We’re all gonna die anyway – even you.’
‘If that’s what you think, Bernie, fuck off back to the plane. I’m getting out of this alive – and I don’t want anyone trailing along who doesn’t have faith. You want to go – then do it. We’ll give you your share of what’s left of the food.’
‘Aw… shit… I didn’t mean nothin’… course I’m with you…’
Evan stood silently watching his father and Bernie argue. He couldn’t understand how the fat man could be so stupid. Al would get them all out of it. He had said so. Evan had complete confidence that he would do as he said.
‘I feel dizzy,’ Cristina whispered. ‘These… things in my arms… Oh, Evan, they’re driving me mad!’
Evan patted her on the shoulder reassuringly. ‘Dallas will look at them, she’ll put some cream on them.’
Cristina held out her arms. The larvae from the eggs the vicious blow flies had planted were emerging like tiny wriggling worms.
Evan felt his stomach turn over with horror. Her arms were alive with the obscene larvae, digging little holes. ‘Dallas,’ he croaked, forcing himself not to turn away, ‘can you do something about Cristina’s arms?’
Dallas was immediately sympathetic, getting out the tweezers, and the cream, prising the larvae out of the girl’s arms, and then bandaging them with strips of material.
Al waited impatiently – knowing that every minute lost would mean the sun getting higher in the sky, and the inhuman heat forcing its way through the tree tops.
At last they were ready to set off. Paul was hauled reluctantly to his feet, mumbling incoherently – the fever was getting a grip again. Al supported him on one side, Evan on the other. Cristina and Bernie followed with Dallas at the rear.
Slowly they began the day’s journey.
The stream meandered tortuously on, twisting and turning to such an extent that an hour’s walking sometimes covered only a few yards.
The mosquitoes and flies followed them – perpetual tormentors – buzzing and stinging every step of the way.
A band of monkeys joined the parade for a while, chattering amongst themselves with avid interest.
Time passed in a confused haze as they staggered and stumbled on. The humidity was so bad that it became difficult to breathe. But gradually the stream began to widen, hardly noticeable at first, but soon developing into more of a river.
Exhausted as he was, Al felt exhilaration. What was it Dallas had said? If we find a river and follow it, eventually we’ll find people. He kept that thought firmly in his head as he half-dragged Paul along with him. Evan had dropped back to help Cristina.
They were all getting weaker and weaker. If they didn’t get something solid to eat soon there would be no more walking – no one would have the strength. Al thought about the monkeys that had been following them earlier. Roasted monkey sounded like a treat indeed. He had the gun… Next time he saw them… and then there were many birds, frogs, probably fish now the stream was bigger. When they stopped for the day he would do some hunting.
Paul groaned and nearly fell. Al hoisted him up. ‘Come on, me old son, we’re going to make it…’ he said reassuringly – but Paul wasn’t listening, his eyes were glazed and staring.
Al glanced back; in a straggly line behind him the others fought to keep up. Another hour, if he could just force everyone to keep going for another hour…
The sun burned down. The dense undergrowth along the river bank was changing. Hard roots rose up in ridges along the ground, deep beds of decaying leaves, strange palms and tree ferns. The gigantic buttress trees were becoming less dense, allowing the sun to burn down even more intensely. Al – like Dallas – had a naturally dark skin that tanned easily, but he knew that Evan would be in bad shape from so much sun. He had suffered from sunburn all his life – he took after Edna, who always turned a lobster pink.
Edna. The name stuck in Al’s mind. How was she taking it? She must be beside herself. Poor cow. He felt sorry for her. How she must be suffering. The newspapers were probably driving her nuts. The publicity alone must be forcing her into a decline. He wondered if she thought he was dead. He wondered what the world thought. Had they already written him off as dead, or were they still looking and searching? It seemed funny that in eight days he had only heard one plane fly over. But of course, they probably had no idea where to look. He shoved an overhanging bough out of the way and shouted back to the others to watch out for it.
‘Can we stop?’ gasped Bernie, sweat coursing down his red face.
‘Let’s give it another half hour,’ Al shouted back encouragingly.
Bernie merely groaned in reply. Each step forward was a nightmare. He wasn’t sure if he could proceed any further. His heart was beating so fast, his mouth was so dry. He was starting to think in terms of death being better than this. To just lie down and die… It would be painless… just like going to sleep…
Al knew he couldn’t keep going much longer. The extra weight of supporting Paul was draining all his strength.
Paul. There had been no chance to talk to him since his outburst. The hate that had suddenly come pouring forth from his younger brother had shocked Al completely. He had never realized the frustration bottled up inside Paul. He had always thought of him as so together and organized. In a way he had envied him. And God knows he had always depended on him. He would be the first to admit that without Paul to push and promote he would never have got anywhere. He would have been content to piss and screw his life away.
But surely Paul had known how he depended on him? Oh yes, they had their fights, but he had always listened to him in the long run. He had never argued with his final decision on anything career-wise.
Melanie was the bitch that had forged a barrier of hate. A hate that Al had never once suspected…
When they got out of this Al had made up his mind that one way or another he would make it up to his brother. He would show him a love and respect and thanks that Paul obviously did not know existed.
It was funny, really. He had always looked to Paul for everything, and now here he was making his own decisions – dragging them all through the jungle in the hope of being rescued. Maybe they should have stayed with the plane. Yeah – stayed and starved. Which reminded him, he was going hunting. The next clearing they came to he would call a stop.
* * *
Cristina forced her legs to move. On and on, ignori
ng the cuts and blisters, and the horrible little eggs which were hatching out and eating her skin. She was being eaten alive. Her arms were being eaten.
She choked back a sob, and Evan tightened his grip on her. ‘Can you keep going?’ he questioned.
She nodded mutely. She had done enough harm, she wasn’t going to hold anyone up. She would keep going until she dropped.
She thought of her mother. The beautiful blonde Evita. The woman she had been so disdainful of – the woman she had sometimes hated.
‘Don’t question me, Mama,’ she would scream. And when her mother asked, pleasantly, ‘Where are you going today, dear?’ she would reply with an unfriendly sneer: ‘Out.’ She had thought her parents so stupid. Rich bourgeois idiots. Nino had taught her that. But now she realized they had only been concerned for her welfare – they had loved her – they were worried about her. Or at least Evita had been. It was easy to fool Jorge – a little kiss on the cheek, a plaintive ‘Don’t you trust me, Poppa?’ and he was putty in her hands.
If only she had been honest with them. Told them about Nino at the beginning…
She thought with shame of the things she had done, and the tears rolled down her bruised cut face. If only she could wish time back, how different things would be. If only she could wish Louis back…
It was impossible.
* * *
Dallas heard the planes first, and she called out to Al to stop so that they could listen. They all gazed skywards, and suddenly there they were, two tiny specks far up in the sky.
Silently everyone watched them. There was no point in waving or screaming. Besides, who had the strength?
Like two far-off birds the planes vanished out of sight.
‘We may as well rest here,’ Al said. He didn’t have to say it twice, they all flopped down immediately. ‘Watch out for ants,’ he warned. ‘Dallas, you want to take a look at Paul?’
She came over immediately, putting her hand on Paul’s fevered brow, feeling for his pulse. He was shivering in spite of the excessive heat, his body shaking, his teeth almost chattering.
Lovers and Gamblers Page 69
