Father Benny was rarely at a loss for words, but this time remained silent for a stretched moment. His mild eyes reddened. "I'm praying for you both."
Burke became angry at someone or something, but the dark look was quickly replaced by one of resignation. "I know you are, Benny. Thanks."
Benny examined the cracked plastic seat then got busy twirling a straw in his club soda. Grateful, Burke used the dead space to compose himself. Finally he finished his meal and moved the newspaper to one side.
"Benny?"
"Jack?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why the hell do you do it?"
Benny was clearly flustered. "Well, I know I'm no gambler, but the center needs money for everything from a new television set to a washing machine for the boys. I never get enough money for the parish . . ."
Burke cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Not that. I mean the flying. It's expensive, time consuming, kind of dangerous. Not to mention it flat-out scares the crap out of you."
Benny slumped. The question was legitimate. He wanted to supply a meaningful response. Jack Burke was a man he'd known for years, someone who had done him many favors. After a long pause, he squinted into the fading afternoon sunlight. "Jack, do you have faith?"
"Probably not," Burke replied, heavily. "It depends on what you mean by that. If you mean spiritual faith, the answer is sometimes yes and sometimes no."
"Exactly."
"Exactly what, Benny?"
Father Bennedetto spread his hands wide in an unmistakably Italian expression of enthusiasm. "So I began to ask myself, what if anything could strengthen my faith. Sustain it through what clerics call the 'long, dark night of the soul,' for example, the pressure of darkness. And I hit upon flying as a way to accomplish that."
"How so?"
"Because it scares me!" Benny chuckled and rolled his eyes, as if to say how obvious could a thing be? "And every time I took a flying lesson, logged some hours, the very moment I signed the papers to apply for my pilot's license, I was testing my faith and making it stronger." He leaned forward, elbows striking the table. Silverware clanged and slid sideways. "Have I told you how much I despise that rental helicopter outside, for example? That bucket of bolts, that twirling death trap?"
Burke was enjoying the performance. "But you qualified to fly it last month, right? Did you hurl during or after?"
"After, of course. And more than once."
"Then why?"
Benny scratched his chin thoughtfully. "A shrink named Victor Frankle once hypothesized that man needed three things to endure the vagaries of existence. They were meaning, purpose and value. I would add one additional thing to that recipe, and the word would be commitment."
"Not faith?"
"That's just another way of saying faith. And if I am committed to facing down my fears, if I remain resolute in my attempts to defy the darkness, it follows that then I should be most likely to feel fully alive, more alive than the others."
"While vomiting into the grass a few yards from your rented aircraft?"
"Precisely."
They shared a deep round of laughter that demonstrated both a keen empathy and the acceptance of differences. "Jack, I'll get you the money at the first of the week. Thanks for covering me again."
"Benny, you need to quit. You're not cut out for it."
"Hey, who thought the Rams could make a comeback like that this late in the season? I mean, damn! Excuse me, Lord."
Burke folded the newspaper into odd shapes, his mind wandering. He did not see the expression of concern carved into Father Benny's face that was both profound and pure. "Jack, you look so tired."
"I feel tired."
"Maybe you need a vacation."
"The medical expenses, remember?"
"Perhaps a week or so, if only to catch up on your sleep."
Jack Burke stared out at the sunset. The dark indentations beneath his reddened eyes seemed like the artful smudge marks worn by a younger man in a faraway war. He grunted, slid out of the red plastic booth. "I sleep, Father. Just not when I want to."
He reached down, grabbed one of the priest's fingers and bent it back slightly. Father Benny jumped. Burke released the digit, patted the hand.
"And Father?"
Wide-eyed. "Yes?"
"Stop gambling."
ELEVEN
"Where do they have him?"
"He is in the basement beneath the stables, as you requested, Buey."
"Have you softened him up?"
"Old Ortega has gone on at great length about what is to be done to him this morning, Jefe. I believe he is very motivated to share what he knows."
"One hopes. Help me with my boots, Ernesto."
"Certainly, Buey."
"Ouch, be careful! You have pinched my toes."
"Forgive me."
"Help me up."
"Yes."
"Let us go. It is a fine morning, no? That pair of starlings have once again nested just above the front door, near the warmth of the light."
"Again?"
"I think they like our humble home, Ernesto. I look forward to hearing the sounds the babies make when they beg to be fed."
"You have a softness of the heart which I find appealing, Buey."
"And you, my friend, are a romantic."
"Do you wish to ride today?"
"Yes, once we are done with the traitor below, I should like to ride. It is a wonderful way to clear the mind. Have them saddle the black."
"Consider it done."
"Perhaps you should come with me today. We could pack some wine and cheese and have our own special picnic."
"I would be honored, Jefe."
"Here we are. Where is the damned light switch?"
"Allow me, Buey. Would you like me to assist you down the stairs?"
"Yes, my knee is a bit sore this morning. So, Ortega. And how is our handsome young thief this morning? I see you have already gagged him. Did you perhaps start without us?"
"I was just telling the traitor some of the things you have ordered done to others of his kind and what he might expect today. He began to babble in a most unseemly manner, so I thought perhaps it would best to quiet him down a bit before your arrival."
"How thoughtful! Ernesto, do you not agree that this was very thoughtful?"
"I do. Uh . . . perhaps I should go prepare the lunch and the horses?"
"Why, Ernesto. If I did not know better I would assume you to be squeamish, eh, Ortega? Ha! That was my little joke."
"Buey, must I stay? You know these . . . events disturb me."
"And you feel faint at the sight of blood."
"Jefe, look at the young man kick and try to beg for mercy. And look, the very thought of the punishments to come has caused him to wet his pants."
"Perhaps you are two of a kind, Ernesto?"
"Buey! Please! I would never betray you!"
"Do not be silly, I know that, my darling one. I meant that our brave young thief has no stomach for the very thought of torture. He was courageous enough to steal cocaine from me, but is apparently not strong enough to sit in a chair and picture what is to come."
"I see."
"Yes, the mind is very powerful. Imagination can be a dangerous thing, do you not agree? The gringo Mark Twain once wrote, 'I am an old man who has survived many catastrophes, most of which never happened.' He had such a wonderful wit, Mr. Twain."
"I must read him someday."
"Yes, you must."
"Jefe . . . ?"
"Yes, Ortega, what is it?"
"Would you like me to begin now, perhaps with the fingernails?"
"Why look at the boy, Ortega. He is still trying to speak to me. Should we allow that, or wait until he has been . . . prepared a bit?"
"I await your order, Jefe."
"Ernesto?"
"I have no heart for this, Buey. You know that. I would let him speak. Perhaps there will be no need for the rest."
"Ortega, let me closer. I want to whisper to our young man. That's good, thank you. Now hear me, Rudy. I will only say this once. You will be tortured, do you understand? Talking will not save you from your punishment. But if you tell me everything, that is who helped you and where my drugs are and what you did with the money, I will have Ortega move rapidly to bring your life to a close, perhaps within hours. If you do not speak, I am prepared for this to take days, even weeks. Do we understand each other?"
"Should I remove the gag, Buey?"
"Yes, Ortega. Let him speak."
"PLEASE, BUEY, do not do this thing! I swear it was not my idea and I will tell you everything I know. Just allow me my life, por favor!"
"Now, now. Calm yourself. Show machismo for a change. Who put you up to stealing from me?"
"Garcia, it was Garcia."
"I see, and how much did he pay you?"
"Twenty thousand U.S. dollars, Buey. My sister is sick and I needed the money and I know I should have asked for a loan but I was afraid and he made it sound so easy that I . . ."
"Hush, or I will have the gag replaced."
"Please, I will be still, I am so frightened . . ."
"The stink of your piss tells me so. Where are my drugs?"
"Garcia took them, Buey."
"Then where is my money?"
"I sent half to my family, sir. I was not lying about that. My sister needs a new kidney and they live in Guadalajara. They have no money, I was only trying to . . ."
"Boy, calm yourself. And the other half?"
"In the wall behind my bed, in the back of the bunkhouse. I was going to give it back to you, I swear it. It was only meant to be a loan, please, Buey . . ."
"One final question, we are almost through. I need to know if you told anyone about my new American business partners."
"Those people who come and go? No, I swear it."
"No one at all, not even that goat you fuck?"
"I swear it."
"Also, have you spoken of the project our chemists are involved with, assuming you even know?"
"What project?"
"You wouldn't lie to me, would you? I get very upset when people lie to me."
"No, Buey! I am telling the truth."
"Have you ever heard of an American operative known as Jack Burke?"
"No. Buey, please do not do this to me!"
"Gag him, Ortega. He is beginning to get on my nerves."
"PLEASE!"
"That is better. Now he can only grunt or scream. Don't you think this is better, Ernesto?"
"I should go prepare lunch and the horses."
"You will stay for a bit."
"Yes, Buey."
"You must learn to harden yourself, Ernesto. This man is a common thief, and worse still he betrayed my trust. This has broken my heart, and I demand retribution. Ortega?"
"Yes, Buey."
"Begin. No, wait. I have something else to say. Let me closer. Do you hear me, boy? One last thing, before I go. I know where your family lives, and I will get the other half of my money soon."
"Mmmph!"
"Oh, and your puta of a sister has already been raped and strangled. Rest assured that my money is on the way back to my pocket."
"Buey?"
"Why do you interrupt me, Ernesto?"
"I cannot stay, I feel sick. Can you not end this quickly?"
"Boy, Ernesto seems to like you, and you have told me at least part of the truth, yes?"
"Mmmph."
"Well, unfortunately for you, I am not in a good mood. I hereby retract my initial offer. Ortega?"
"Yes."
"You may take as much time as you wish with this one."
"Gracias, Buey."
"Show patience. You must pace yourself, yes?"
"Oh, Buey . . ."
"Ernesto, do not weep. You may leave and prepare our lunch."
"Thank you, sir. Thank you."
"I will be along in due time, yes? Now, Ortega. Let us begin."
"Fingernails?"
"No, not this time, I think. We should warm him up first with the blow torch."
TWELVE
It has been said that there are many different ways to get to Bel Air, but the easiest is to make a lot of money. Jack Burke drove down White Oak Boulevard, with its rows of weathered, pastel houses, forced his way onto the Ventura Freeway for a few exits. He stayed in the right lanes, where cracked concrete jiggled and thumped beneath the tires, and eased over to the San Diego Freeway, moving south. The sky was a bruised purple with streaks of orange from LA's belligerent pollution.
Burke's mind was wandering, and he almost missed the exit for Sunset Boulevard. A hunched-over elderly man in a finned white Caddy was smoking defiantly and squinting into the taillights of the next vehicle. Burke honked, but the old man refused to yield. Gauging the distance perfectly, Burke floored it and shrieked into a space between cars that opened and closed in a nanosecond. The old man flipped him the finger. The ramp was backed up; Los Angeles traffic was gnarly virtually any time of the day, but in rush hour it was hideous.
Burke hung a left on Sunset and followed it to the overgrown, half-shielded entrance to an exclusive, gated community. He left the main street, followed the winding drive and finally rolled up to a freshly painted guard shack. The rent-a-cop was a buff, blue-eyed kid with steroid pimples. He leaned out of the window and eyed Burke with a practiced gaze intended to intimidate.
"My name is Burke. Nicole Stryker left my name."
The kid made a show of searching his clipboard. He seemed disappointed when he discovered the name was listed. He nodded grudgingly, reached toward the car with one large hand. "Need to see a photo ID, sir."
Burke debated and then handed over his legitimate license, rather than one of the forgeries he has tucked away in the glove compartment. The extras were there to provide him with different first names—also with his last name spelled as Birk, Berk, or Burk. His eye color was different in some photographs, the same in others; a number of the licenses claimed he wore glasses or was subject to seizures when not on medication.
"Have you been here before, Mr. Burke?"
"No."
The kid leaned on the car. His breath reeked of garlic. "You take a right on Bellefontaine, go maybe two hundred yards until you get to Bogart Drive. Turn left on Bogart all the way to the top of the hill, maybe half a mile. You'll see a fork in the road. Take the left fork onto Warner Drive, and the house is the first one on the right side, you can't miss the gate."
"Thanks." Burke started the car. The kid was looking at him as if about to say something. Burke didn't want the police or anyone else interrupting. "In case you're wondering, I know he's dead. Nicole asked me to come up and get a few things. She's too upset right now."
The kid nodded, a bit dimly. "I can understand that. And how long do you plan on being up there, Mr. Burke?"
"Maybe a half hour." Burke actually didn't have a clue. "No more than an hour. It wouldn't take that long, except I'm going to have to locate stuff from her directions because I've never been here."
The kid still seemed too suspicious. "You work for the family?"
"I'm a friend of Nicole's," Burke said, with emphasis on the word friend. He changed gears and manufactured a lewd wink.
That did it. The kid relaxed, fully convinced. He stepped back. "Go on ahead, sir," he said, brightly. "Be sure to check out again when you leave."
The main drag was oddly dark for an upper class neighborhood, but as Burke turned the car onto Garfield Lane the lighting improved. The next properties could all rightfully be termed 'estates,' for they were massive. He saw tall rows of trees weaving in and out of giant metal fences with mounted cameras and motion alarms. A Mercedes-Benz sedan passed him going the other way. The driver was a flawless blonde with yet another one of those surgically pinched noses. She smiled, Bel Air style: Hi! Are you somebody important, who can do something for me or my career? The smile flickered out like a pissed-on campfire wh
en she realized Burke was nobody special.
Warner Drive was all one property and the tall fencing stretched for an easy two blocks. Burke was impressed. He arrived at the tall, gothic-looking gates and paused to take it all in. This was a perfect home for a horror author. Far back into the gloomy trees he could just make out a sprawling, two-story property with high gables. The gate looked formidable; the entire, seemingly endless ribbon of impeccable driveway was dark. Burke parked and fished through his pockets for the keys Nicole Stryker had tossed him. There was one large key on the ring, but also one smaller—perhaps for a desk drawer or the lock leading into a library or study. Burke swore under his breath.
Two things sprang to mind: First, why would Stryker leave such an already isolated setting to commit suicide in a hotel suite? Second, why the hell didn't Nicole tell me how to get in the front gate, if she knew it would be closed?
Burke got out of the car, reached back under the front seat. He pulled out a large, police-style flashlight. He took measure of the fence, sighed. He knelt in the grass, checked that the snub S&W .38 was snug in the holster at his ankle. He removed a small travel-sized bottle of baby powder, sprinkled it on his hands and slipped on a pair of thin surgical gloves, just to be on the safe side. He looked in both directions; nothing. He searched the tree line for cameras directed toward the street; nothing.
He walked closer. There was no key opening on, or even near, the large front gate. Burke dialed Nicole on the cell phone, got a machine. He hung up, not wanting to leave a recording that might later serve as evidence.
Thirty seconds later he was at the top of the metal fence, shining the powerful flashlight beam down onto the lush grounds. He checked again for cameras and quickly found a few placed discreetly atop poles and among the trees. He recognized 'sweepers' that were designed to move constantly and search the grounds below. These didn't seem to be activated. He considered, then slithered down some ivy and dropped loose-kneed onto the slightly damp grass. Burke figured he was here legally anyway. The guard could testify to his name having been on the list.
The Pressure of Darkness Page 8
