The Prince Of Deadly Weapons

by Boston Teran

  * * *

  CHARLES STOOD in the deep shadows of that forty-room mansion the family owned. The white schist stone gave the vast grounds an intensely silent feel. While he'd been talking to Damon a light went on in his bedroom that left an impression on the terraced stone patio below.

  The music must have woken Claudia. He stepped out of the grainy darkness to see his wife watching him. Before he could turn away, that bit of light on the patio stone went black.

  They say masters can play the game blindfolded. Time would tell.

  * * *

  EMPHYSEMA HAD pretty much devoured the General's lungs, so he and an oxygen tank were now constant companions that had to be chaperoned in a wheelchair.

  What Korea could not do, nor Vietnam, nor Laos and Cambodia, nor napalm, nor Agent Orange, Philip Morris had successfully achieved.

  Forty years of hard inhaling had turned retired Brigadier General, and former President of the People's Bank of Rio Vista, Merrit Hand, into nothing but lung-choked body slop.

  When the stairs of the mansion became a breathing impossibility Merrit had his daughter Claudia and her husband Charles move in as he built himself a one-story greenhouse on a long, sloping lay of grass across the driveway. From his screened-in porch he could see the levee and the landing that led out into Steamboat Slough.

  His life was predominantly down to watching his grandchildren, and the cruisers and runabouts that worked their way through a warm river breeze. But tonight the Fates had come calling. His immobile face watched from the screened-in darkness as Charles and one of his carriers talked on the dock.

  * * *

  DAMON WAS running on adrenaline fever as he explained how everything went like some perfect accident of events; first, tweaking his date at the St. Francis with a few well filled cocktails, and conning her into a little romantic starlight at Disappointment Slough. Then Damon slapped his hands together to mimic the shot.

  "No one saw Tommy or Shane, or their boat?"

  "They crossed from the far side of the island to Ringe Tract."

  "And Taylor's girlfriend was at the landing?"

  "Yeah… but you know what else… when I talked to Tommy… he said Greene shot himself when he saw them coming."

  * * *

  THE GENERAL glanced at one particular photo on his wall; one of the many that included congressmen and senators, that showcased presidents glad handing him, that center staged celebrities and authors and heads of foreign state. Out of this self-centered cosmography that one particular photo would become unbearable after tonight. It was taken at Taylor Greene's baptism, where he played godfather to the newborn.

  The sound of a motor caught his attention and the General could see the hull of Damon's open-bow Offshore making its way back down Steamboat Slough and leaving a trail of white tide that rose then folded away.

  Again, the photo pulled at him, but the General had to avert his eyes. He had allowed the son of the man who had served him in war and peace, who had been a loyal and steadfast friend, to be swept from the earth. This photo would now point out the proximity of disgrace. In his old age, his dying old age, within that deserted edifice his body was becoming, Merrit Hand would be known to himself by the worst four-letter word he could imagine— traitor.

  * * *

  CHARLES ENTERED the greenhouse without knocking. That was a cheap show of power he would not have even attempted on the General three years ago.

  "I came to tell you, it's done."

  The General did not bother to move his wheelchair around to face Charles. Charles had no intention of wading through the General's last play at control. And so they remained two milky sketches with only moonlight to tie them.

  "Did Taylor come to us when he found out? Did he give us a chance to even cop a plea with him? Or pay him off? No. Mr. Righteous, he knew his old man had to be involved and what did he do? He contacts some investigator with the Federal Reserve. And you can bet he would have turned us all over if it would have helped his old man get immunity."

  The General turned his wheelchair toward the bedroom and passed right in front of Charles. He stopped. "You never told me how you found out Taylor contacted an investigator."

  "And I'm not going to. I have my alliances, and they won't be jeopardized."

  The General stared at this void he called son-in-law. This thirty-seven-year-old piece of cash-pampered deficiency. And to think he had a hand in creating it. A punks hit Frankenstein. Well, the only excuse was, Charles had been what his Claudia wanted.

  "If Nathan finds out what you did, he'll—"

  "I had this done with your approval," said Charles.

  "You did this over my objections."

  "If you call silence an objection."

  "It should have been good enough."

  "Why you Mt. Rush more–faced obscenity."

  Chapter Six

  TAYLOR GREENE HAD a bumper sticker on the back of his Volvo that read: DON'T TAKE YOUR ORGANS TO HEAVEN— HEAVEN KNOWS WE NEED THEM HERE.

  Immediately upon his death, as was Taylor's wish, organs were removed. Kidney— liver— one lung. These had not been damaged by the bullet. His corneas were removed, along with valuable bone, skin, heart tissue and tendon.

  While the doctors went about their precious task Essie watched the streets of Stockton from the back seat of Ivy's Range Rover. Essie's image on the rolled up window was like that of some ill-fated butterfly impressed upon glass.

  "Why…?"

  To Essie the word sounded almost immaterial as Taylor and his father had voices that were remarkably close. She turned to Nathan, to that sad tale of a face and told him, "Something was troubling Taylor. He was despondent. And secretive. That's what I was going to see him about tonight."

  * * *

  NATHAN STOOD behind a wall of glass and looked out over Discovery Bay Marina. Its size and affluence were untouched by any in that thousand-mile waterway known as the California Delta. From its church and school to a stunning clubhouse Nathan had birthed it, and built it. It was to be his son's legacy.

  It all seemed pointless now. The town houses and the condominiums of bleached white stretching on for waterside acres, the yachts and speedboats docked alongside the architecturally undigestible homes. This was all now stark contrast to the catastrophe within him.

  He pushed down another glass of scotch and returned to his grand room's wet bar. The eighteen-foot ceilings absorbed each step across the hand painted Spanish tiles. He thought back over the last few weeks. Taylor had been unusually distant, making excuses to avoid a lunch or after-hours drink.

  Nathan had thought little of it then, but now, did this signal some sea change in his son's life? Dear God— Nathan was struck with the image of his son discovering who his father really was.

  * * *

  IVY POURED pills from a vial into her hand. They were an extensive potluck of mood altering colors and sizes. Essie sat on the bed in one of Nathan's guest rooms. She wore a robe he'd lent her.

  Ivy found the appropriate Valium. "I'm a walking pharmacy." She handed the pill to Essie. "This will cut the edge enough to sleep."

  Essie took the pill and started for the hallway bathroom. "It was a good idea me not going home tonight."

  "Yes, you wouldn't want to be alone."

  Essie stopped at the door, "But I am."

  * * *

  NATHAN WAS behind the bar when Ivy joined him. She sat and rested her hands on the tin and stone bar surface.

  "How's Essie?"

  "I gave her a Valium."

  Nathan held up a bottle of white wine.

  "Please," said Ivy.

  She watched while he worked out the cork. His jaw kept wincing, as if something were biting at the flesh. She could not bear to see him suffering through this. She turned her attention to that glass wall where a sloop could be seen gliding smoothly from the harbor and up Drake's Bay toward Indian Slough.

  "Fuckin' doctors," said Nathan.

  Her eyes came around to f
ind him.

  "Taylor's not gone two minutes. Not two minutes and those fuckin' ghouls are telling me, 'He's an organ donor and'—"

  "It's not the doctors."

  "Like I didn't know. Like I was a mental invalid."

  "It's not the doctors."

  He passed the wine to her. She drank with little or no energy. She looked back at the glass wall trying to see the sloop.

  "Roy said the police found pills, vials of pills, on Taylor's desk. He wasn't into pills. What was that about?"

  "I gave him some Valium."

  When she turned to face him, she saw the roots of confusion spreading across his face.

  "When?"

  "Two weeks ago."

  Confusion turned to anger. "Why didn't you say something?"

  "He asked me not to."

  "And when he said that, you didn't think to—"

  "I respected his privacy as much as I want mine and yours respected."

  "Did he say why he wanted the pills?"

  She got up and walked to the glass wall. The stress of all this was starting to break her down feature by feature. She searched out that sloop, but it was far up into the bay and all but a bled out shadow.

  Nathan rubbed at the dreadful tension in his neck. "My mind's been going round and round about which is worse, suicide or murder?"

  She closed her eyes. "You can't allow yourself to think like that."

  "I say it, but the mind rebels. I don't believe it was suicide."

  A sigh emerged from within her. "Please."

  "Do you suppose Charles might have—"

  Her eyes opened. "Please, stop."

  "What if Taylor found out we—"

  "Stop." She'd had enough. She walked across the grand room and opened French doors that led onto one of the terraced grottoes. At the short stone wall overlooking the harbor she put her head back. She let the night breeze have at her chest and throat. Moments later Nathan joined her. She tried in some way to shut down this line of questioning. "The General wouldn't allow the scenario you're considering."

  "The General is dying, and Charles has it in him to believe he's a turk."

  "Charles won't do anything to ruin his relationship with you. He may be the bank now that the General is not well, but the brokers know it's you who cleans their money and invests it so—"

  Through the streaming image of the harbor lights and yacht club restaurant reflected in the half open French doors Ivy made out a form passing on toward the hallway. She ssshhh'd Nathan with a hand, started for the door. Ivy put a finger to her lips and pointed, then went inside.

  Leaning into the hallway entrance Ivy caught the back of Nathan's robe pass into the guest room and the door close behind it. She walked back out onto the terrace, her eyebrows pinched with trouble.

  Nathan asked, "Do you think she could have heard?"

  "I think that silence on this subject makes the best sense."

  She eased the French doors shut.

  Nathan went to the ledge of the terrace stone wall and sat. He was falling into a deep despondency, a benumbing stasis, knowing there would never be another life print left upon this earth by his taken son.

  Ivy joined him. They sat together in silence under the tall potted facias, with the scents of night heavy as musk. Ivy held Nathan. He breathed into her chest and spoke: "Taylor told me when he signed up to be an organ donor…" Ivy could feel against her chest bone Nathan's voice shunt "… it was his way of passing on a few hopes and dreams to someone who… who… might need a hope or a dream."

  She could feel him start to cry again. "Something good will come from this," she said. "I know to believe that now is hard. But just wait and see. I promise. Wait and see."

  Chapter Seven

  THE DAY OF the burial began with rain. The funeral procession made its slow way from the Immaculate Conception Church in Sacramento to All Souls' Cemetery in Vallejo through a slab lit drizzle. Turning onto Redwood Parkway a small pickup skidded the lane and sideswiped the hearse. The whole procession pulled onto the shoulder, and that wagon train of vehicles strung out in the mist waited as license and registrations were exchanged.

  "I guess Taylor's telling us he's not ready to go into the ground yet," said Charles.

  Claudia glanced at the girls sitting in the back with their grandfather. They had not heard his remark. She now turned to her husband, "Why don't you say something else not fit to be repeated."

  * * *

  THERE WAS no sign of a break-in. No sign it was a robbery in progress."

  As Roy lit a thin cigar, Flesh answered him. "Taylor could have heard something outside. Confronted a prowler. A fight ensued."

  Roy held that short, thin cigar toward his chest as if it were a gun, "Residue on Taylor's wrist suggests the gun was held like this. Close and consistent with someone shooting himself."

  Flesh watched through the windshield as Essie walked that line of cars in the rain. No umbrella, nothing to protect her, alone, leaning in each window trying to assure and reassure the mourners. "His cheek and head were bruised," she said.

  "And possibly consistent," answered Roy, "with his body recoiling from the impact of the shot as he hit the door frame. And we'd know more if Essie had not contaminated the murder site by moving the body."

  "Her concern was not the fuckin' contamination of evidence."

  "I'm just making a point. We were discussing—"

  "I don't like your tone."

  * * *

  STILL, SAD human figures gathered around the casket and were covered by a sovereign white canopy that rose like a wind-rolled shroud above them.

  With the come and go of the rain and the priest's final moving words Essie should have been choked up with loss, with memory. But she wasn't.

  She could hear the tears in others, but a steady stream of anxiety in her turned the half sentences and distressed, plate glass looks between Nathan and Ivy that night into unholy scenarios.

  * * *

  WHERE DID he get the pills?" whispered Roy.

  Flesh whispered back, "The Percodan was from his dentist for an abscessed tooth."

  They stood at the rear of that small world around the casket.

  "They haven't found any prescription for the Valium."

  The ground had gone soft from the rain and Roy's crutches began to slip. Flesh braced him by tucking an arm under his. "You sure you don't want to sit?"

  A mourner turned, staring them into silence, then the mourner turned away. Roy mouthed "fuck you" to the mourner's back. Flesh leaned over and whispered in his ear. "If there is no Valium prescription, I bet I know where he got them."

  * * *

  NATHAN'S HOUSE was peopled wall to wall. He stood with his arm around Essie and told some of his business friends and their wives about Taylor's infamous "State of the Union" twenty-first birthday party.

  "He rented a houseboat and invited exactly fifty friends. Male and female. But there was a catch to the invitation. Everyone had to be on board naked and everyone was issued a state and they had to spray-paint the name of the state down the front of their bodies.

  "Well, the party took place just off Bethel Island, and for those who don't know, there's about a dozen marinas there. So it wasn't long before sheriff patrol boats cruised over to find the kids drinking and dancing away.

  "There wouldn't have been any arrests. They were gonna just let them go except my son climbed on top of the houseboat and started dancing to"— he forgot the song—"just as a sightseeing boat goes past. Well, he told me later, when I bailed him out, he did it only because he wanted to make sure the tourists got to really see one of California's natural wonders."

  * * *

  THE RAIN had stopped. From the grottoed terrace where Roy and Flesh sat Discovery Bay drifted in and out of a fluid haze.

  "What does the sheriff's department think of the witnesses' statements?"

  "The man owns Romeo Boat Sales," said Flesh, "and the woman is an accountant with Southwestern Airlines. N
either has any baggage. It was their fourth date. The sheriff's department can't see how their being at the slough could be anything but coincidence."

  Roy noticed Nathan approach the General and Charles. A whole conversation lasted about three curt sentences and then Nathan pushed the General's wheelchair toward his private den.

  Ivy walked into Roy's view, knocked on the glass wall to get his attention. He motioned for her to come and join him. He turned to Flesh, "Get yourself a drink while I have at her."

  * * *

  IT WAS the first time Nathan and the General had been alone since Taylor's death.

  "I know Roy feels it was a suicide, even though he won't come right out and say it."

  The General looked away. He wanted a cigarette, the full blow, even though his lungs were a wasteland.

  "Was there anything," asked Nathan, "ever, that said to you, Taylor might… kill himself?"

  The General felt like an imposter of the man he had once been. He wheeled over to the couch, where Nathan stood waiting for an answer. He went to speak, but before he did he looked away. "You are going to have to leave yourself open to that possibility. I tell you this as a grandfather, father, and a friend."

  It was, to Nathan, a timorous response. He sagged into the couch's deep down cushions. Maybe the General's answer was a corollary of his age and illness. Or maybe death breaks down human walls and feeds distrust; about life, about friends.

  Nathan folded his hands, leaned forward to go face to face with the General. He began his best gold-plated pitch, "Merrit, I am at the crossroads of my life. And for everything I have ever done that you asked of me, I come to you with a request."

  * * *

  DID TAYLOR get the Valium from you?"

  "From small talk to straight talk in two sentences. Well." Ivy took Roy's cigar. "And who is asking me this? The bereaved friend… the prosecutor?"

  "Bereaved friend."

  "And it goes no further."

  "Correct."

  She drew in the smoke, then answered, "Yes."

  "Why did he want them?"

  "If I tell you, you must swear on your life… no, on Essie's life… you will never mention this to Nathan."