Hellbound

by Chester Campbell

  Troy looked thoughtful. “That’s my problem, too. Since Virginia and I had no kids, and neither did Keith and Marge, looks like I’m the end of the Walden line. I still own half of the old family farm in Sumner County. It’s now just outside the Gallatin city limits and getting more valuable every year. Marge owns the other half. I offered to buy her share after Keith died, but she wanted to keep it for sentimental reasons. Turned out to be a great investment.”

  “You and Sarah Anne both mentioned something about Marge changing her mind on having children. Were they thinking about adoption?”

  Troy squirmed uncomfortably. “No. They had decided against that. It was something a lot more...well, personal.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “It’s also ancient history now, I guess. Was back in the sixties. Keith came up with the idea of using donor sperm. Marge’s only objection was to having some stranger’s baby. So Keith approached me on being the donor. That way the genes would be kept in the family. After talking it over, Virginia and I agreed to it. But just before it was to happen, they went on a trip. When they got back, Marge was a wreck. I don’t know what happened. She would never tell anybody. But she said she couldn’t have the baby. That was it.”

  Bryce stared at Troy, recalling what Betty Lou had said about a strange mid-life crisis. “She didn’t offer any hint?”

  “None. She had a terrible case of depression. It got so bad Keith wanted her to go to a psychiatrist. I thought he would have to commit her somewhere, but she finally pulled out of it. She’s had her ups and downs since then, like all of us, but far as I know she’s never experienced anything like that again.”

  “Where did they go on their trip?”

  “West Virginia.”

  Not exactly a shocking place to visit, Bryce thought. He wondered what could have happened to her. From the sound of it, the trauma must have been even worse than her experience with Capt. Herbert Hunter.

  23

  The hotel was a small one on Canal Street in the shadow of the expressway, just north of the main downtown area. Despite the relatively early hour for New Orleans, the wide sidewalk that ran in front of the hotel appeared deserted. Across the broad thoroughfare, the neon script of a drugstore sign glowed brightly in the humid night air. Chick parked his bus at the corner of the hotel building, and the Silver Shadows streamed off. Most of them hovered around the cargo bays as the luggage was unloaded.

  The small lobby contained a few green plants and a handful of vintage chairs across from the front desk. A restaurant was located opposite the entrance to the parking garage. One of the well-worn chairs was occupied by an attractive, auburn-haired woman who jumped up as MacArthur came through the door. She gave him a big hug and a kiss. He introduced her to Tillie, just as the tour director came around dispensing room keys.

  “Mrs. Ellis, I’d like you to meet my wife, Andrea.” His face glowed. “She’s already got our key. I think I mentioned she was foregoing the Marriott to spend the night with us.”

  With us? Tillie thought. “Nice meeting you, Mrs. MacArthur. Your husband told me you were down here for a business meeting.”

  “Yes, this saves me from having to appear entertaining while some of my colleagues tarry too long at the bar.” Her cultured voice bore an air of authority and her look was classic successful businesswoman, from the stylish hairdo to the pale green suit and matching high heel pumps. She clutched her husband’s arm in what appeared a proprietorial grasp as they headed for the elevator.

  After getting his key, Troy found Betty Lou, Sarah Anne and Marge waiting in a corner of the lobby. “Where’s Fred?” he asked.

  “He and Bryce are looking for one of our bags,” Betty Lou said. “What room are you in?”

  “Four-twenty.”

  “Sarah Anne and Marge are next door to you again. Fred and I are down the hall.”

  Troy set down his suitcase and looked around, spotting the restaurant. “Anybody want to come down for ice cream or pie and coffee after you get settled in?”

  “Didn’t you get enough to eat at dinner?” Sarah Anne asked.

  “I didn’t order dessert over there. Anyway, at home we usually have our ice cream during the ten o’clock news.”

  Marge glanced at her watch. “You won’t have long to wait. It’s nearly nine-thirty.”

  Fred and Bryce showed up with the missing bag moments later. Marge and Sarah Anne decided to call it a night, while Fred agreed to meet the two men in the restaurant.

  “I’d better come with him,” Betty Lou said, “to make sure he doesn’t overdo this dessert business.”

  In a cramped second-floor room, Ziggy sat in a blue vinyl upholstered chair by the noisy air conditioner. Joe Blow perched on one bed in something akin to a lotus position while Locasio sat on the side of the other bed, the telephone receiver clutched in his hand.

  “Anything you guys want to ask Marco?”

  “I just want to know what shape Boots is in,” said Joe.

  “Ask him to find out about MacArthur’s wife,” Ziggy said, a scowl on his face. “I still think that rusty-haired broad was a hooker.”

  Locasio shook his head. They had been watching from just inside the restaurant when the tour group arrived. “You took too many nine-counts, Ferrante. He wouldn’t have introduced a hooker to the old woman that runs the show.”

  With his credit card on the table, he punched in a long series of numbers and finally got Marco Rizzi on the line at the motel in Nashville. Marco was tough as leather, with a demeanor about as smooth as the underside of a cow’s hide. He was a large, muscular man who would have looked at home in a wrestling ring. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the brightest bulb on the tree, which was the main reason Locasio had left him behind with Boots.

  “How is Boots?” Locasio asked without bothering to identify himself.

  “Not good. The docs say the next thirty-six hours is crucial. If he gets through that, he might make it. You guys find Pagano?”

  “Has he been awake enough to ask him about Pagano’s new name?”

  “No. He ain’t opened his eyes. You still don’t know who Pagano is?”

  “We got him narrowed down to three people. That’s the main reason for my call. We need you to get us some facts about them.”

  He explained in painstaking detail what he knew about Will Chandler, Bryce Reynolds and Hamilton MacArthur, then outlined what he wanted Marco to do.

  “I’ll call tomorrow night to see what you’ve found. Remember, you got to be careful so nobody gets wind of what you’re about.”

  “Sure, Dom. No problem.”

  Locasio wished he could believe that. He also wished he had some other contact in Nashville he could rely on. But he didn’t. So his choice was Marco or nothing.

  Hamilton and Andrea MacArthur occupied a room in one corner of the second floor. She had used her clout with the travel agency people to book it. There was a king-size bed, a round table with two chairs, an oversize counter (compared with the other rooms) with large drawers on each end and a TV set that looked like twenty-five inches or more. The room was the closest thing the small hotel had to a suite.

  Andrea poured two glasses of wine from a bottle of imported Riesling that sat on the table.

  “Come on, Mac,” she said. “You can unpack later. Sit down and relax. Tell me about the big adventure.”

  He sat down, lifted his glass, cocked his head and pursed his lips. “It has been interesting.“

  “Is that spelled B-O-R-I-N-G?”

  “The bus-riding part certainly was. I’m happy we don’t have to travel with the masses on a regular basis. This morning I picked up a copy of USA Today to try and keep the world in focus. Wouldn’t you know, they did not have one single word on that big fraud trial in Nashville.”

  “You poor dear. I don’t know why you get so wrapped up in those cases.”

  “Simple. They fascinate me. I find the criminal mind most interesting. I’m intrigued by the methods people use to separate others from their hard-ea
rned cash.”

  Her green eyes twinkled. “And you’d love to try some of them yourself, wouldn’t you?”

  “Come on, Andrea. You know I wouldn’t touch any kind of deal that wasn’t strictly legal, no laws broken.”

  “Emphasis on the strictly. You wouldn’t mind if a few laws got bent.”

  He sipped at the wine with an emerging grin. “All right. As long as they don’t crumble.”

  “How about your fellow-travelers? What are they like? Lots of good ol’ Southern boys and girls?”

  “Plenty of those. But, surprisingly, I found an oddly eclectic mix among them. One little old lady had been Nashville’s first female judge. She had opinions on just about everything. Another was a retired science teacher who had built her own telescope.”

  “She must have wanted a new perspective on the world.”

  MacArthur grinned. “Right. I think she’s ready to take over where Carl Sagan left off. Of course, there were others like the thin-as-a-fence-post woman who sat beside me at lunch. When she learned I was from New Jersey, she proceeded to tell me reams more than I ever wanted to know about that celebrated Southern delicacy grits.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been making out with the little old ladies,” Andrea said. “I’d better check with Emma Gross to be sure you’ve been behaving yourself.”

  “Oh, I met several of the men, too. The inevitable insurance agent, a rather snippety fellow, and a retired DuPont worker who is obviously Lovely Lane Church’s chief booster. There’s one I’m curious about, though. I understand he’s a former investment advisor. Maybe I’ll run into him tomorrow.” He shifted in the chair and gazed across at his wife. “And how about you, love? How was your day?”

  There was a devilish look in her eyes. “I’m more interested in my nights, dear. Finish your wine and let’s get ready for bed.” She stood and began to slip off her clothes.

  MacArthur gulped the last of the Riesling and followed. They had exchanged some harsh words when Andrea adamantly refused to drop her career after his retirement, but he knew the key to holding onto her was his prowess in bed. That was one reason he worked constantly at keeping his body in shape. She was his link to the Fountain of Youth.

  MacArthur’s first wife had divorced him because of a roving eye. Actually, a lot more than his eye had been roving. A private investigator she hired had caught him at a motel in Dallas with a well-endowed Cowboys’ cheerleader. Now he was several years older and more cognizant that his life was a wasting asset.

  He and Andrea had been married about five years. They met while working in the United Way campaign. Hamilton chaired the Allocations Committee and Andrea headed a group charged with studying and approving budgets for several of the key charitable agencies. Hamilton was so impressed that he took her out to dinner to discuss her ideas. The relationship blossomed quickly into something much deeper.

  Andrea was touched to learn that his commitment to charity did not involve merely attending meetings during business hours and making contributions from company funds. Quite privately, he gave his own money to help people who “fell through the cracks” and could not get help from other sources.

  The holder of a law degree as well as a CPA designation, Andrea had a sharp mind and a driving ambition. Her specialty was cost containment. She headed the hospital corporation’s efforts to cut expenses and increase income. Andrea was also a divorcee. She had moved to Nashville from Pennsylvania with her first husband, but the marriage fell apart when he couldn’t cope with a wife who was much more highly paid and held a position of more importance than his. This, of course, was not a factor with MacArthur. Although he had come from a Midwest family of modest means, he had done extremely well and never looked back.

  The small front section of the restaurant was all that remained open. A thin waitress with ebony skin and a Jamaican accent brought strawberry-covered cheesecake for Betty Lou and Bryce, chess pie for Fred and a large chocolate sundae for Troy. There was a round of coffee for everyone. Black, no sugar.

  Troy looked around as he dug into the mound of ice cream. “What has Tillie got planned for us in the morning?”

  Betty Lou pulled out her schedule and looked at Wednesday. “A bus tour of the city in the morning. Then we go to the French Quarter for free time in the afternoon. We have dinner at Le Dauphin–that’s got to be a French restaurant–then go to Preservation Hall for a jazz concert. Sounds like a busy day.”

  “We’d better rest up tonight then,” Fred said.

  Troy grimaced. “Rest up from what? You’ve been sitting on your can all day.”

  Bryce had checked out the place for Mafia minions and, finding none, turned his attention to the television set mounted on the wall near their table. “Take a look at the tube over there,” he said. “Must be a hurricane bulletin coming.”

  As they lapsed into silence, the Hurricane Alert logo was replaced by a long-faced announcer at an anchor desk. A slowly twisting white radar image covered half of the screen. The sound was just loud enough for them to hear the newsman’s voice.

  “The National Hurricane Center in Miami issued a hurricane watch tonight for the Brownsville area along the Texas coast. Hurricane Nora smashed homes and businesses and downed power lines as it unmercifully pounded Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula today.” The video image changed to scenes of destruction, roofs torn from buildings, trees uprooted or bowed like weary old men in the driving wind and rain. “Winds have diminished to just over a hundred miles an hour, reducing Nora to a Category Two hurricane, but they are expected to gain in strength as the storm moves back over the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Weather forecasters also reported her track across the Mexican peninsula had slowed the northwestward movement to twelve miles per hour. If the storm continues on its present path, Nora should strike land again between Tampico and Brownsville. There appears to be no present threat to the Louisiana coast.”

  “Thank God for that,” said Fred, turning back to what was left of his pie.

  “He said if the storm continues on its present path,” Betty Lou reminded him. “What if it doesn’t?”

  Bryce lifted his napkin and brushed a morsel of cheesecake from his lip. “In that case, I’d say things could get pretty exciting around here.”

  24

  A contingent of ten Lovely Lane Silver Shadows basked in the glory of a brilliant October morning as they strolled the broad sidewalk along bustling Canal Street. The sun glowed from a vast, seamless canopy of blue, moderating the hint of chill in the air and touching off a chorus of smiles. The day appeared fashioned by a generous Providence especially for sightseers. After a rocky start, their prayers had apparently been heeded.

  Bryce would have preferred a more lively pace, but he held himself in check and strolled along with Marge and Sarah Anne. He thought he had spotted one of Locasio’s accomplices just as they were leaving the hotel lobby, but he could detect no one following en route to the lunch (or, in this case, breakfast) counter at a five-and-dime store a few blocks down Canal toward the Mississippi River. The smell of bacon and eggs greeted him as he perched on a high stool at the counter, something he had not experienced in many a year. He felt a perverse charm in the idea, however, as he tried to imagine MacArthur and his suave wife seated there.

  Aside from other obvious tourists, the counter, arranged in semicircular islands, appeared to be inhabited mainly by regulars. In addition to several likely workers headed for New Orleans’ canyons of commerce, there were a few who looked rumpled enough to have slept on park benches. One disheveled old woman with dirty gray hair shuffled toward a stool, stopped, tottered back and forth like a windup toy as her weight shifted from one unsteady foot to the other. She pulled a coin purse from her pocket, painstakingly opened it and peeked inside. Though appearing somewhat uncertain about what she had seen, she carefully closed the purse, returned it to her pocket and climbed onto the stool.

  Fred, who was seated beside Bryce, motioned to the waitress. When she came over, he l
eaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice. “Tell that little old lady her breakfast has been paid for by an anonymous friend. Give her whatever she wants, then bring the bill to me.”

  A large black woman with long hair tied up in a red-and-white-checkered bow, the waitress wrinkled her broad brow. “We call her Millie the Moocher. Sometimes she has enough to pay; sometimes she don’t.”

  “This time she does,” Fred said with a grin. “Don’t let her know it was me. I don’t want any thanks.”

  Bryce smiled. “That was a nice gesture, Fred. I should have thought of it.” He realized his preoccupation with the Mafia stalkers had caused him to miss a lot of little things lately. He didn’t intend to let down his guard, but he would try to get at least a whiff of the roses as he passed by.

  “Fred does that a lot,” Troy said. He was seated just beyond Bryce.

  “Aw, that’s no big deal.” Fred sounded a bit embarrassed. “Really, it was kind of selfish. I get a big bang out of stuff like that.”

  The chatter slackened off as they ate, then Betty Lou spoke up beside Fred. “You boys better get a hustle on. Tillie’ll have you drawn and quartered if you’re not on that bus ready to roll by nine.”

  They paid their checks–Millie the Moocher’s was only $3.50, not much by mooching standards, Bryce thought–and headed back up Canal Street to the hotel. He was pleased when he failed to spot either Locasio or the other two mobsters among those milling about the lobby.

  Promptly at nine o’clock, Tillie checked for empty seats. Finding none, she introduced their guide for the morning tour. She was a small woman with short reddish-blonde hair, dressed in a candy-striped blouse and white skirt. Yvonne Deschamps, in her mid-thirties, had married a member of an old New Orleans Creole family.

  Taking the microphone from Tillie as Chick pulled out into the traffic on Canal Street, she greeted them with a cheery, “Good morning!” To which the Silver Shadows replied with an equally fervent, and more drawn out, “Good mornnnning!”