The Golden Sparrow

by Samantha Latshaw

  By the time Mrs. Roberts had left later that afternoon, I could smell the scent of dinner wafting through the house while I sat in my chair, The Great Gatsby open in my lap as I waited for my mother to come home.

  My eyes kept drifting to the piano and, finally giving up on F. Scott Fitzgerald, I snapped the book shut and made my way over to the piano.

  I ran my hands ever so gently over the cold keys. I pressed down, testing one. It was still in tune, thank the Lord.

  Pulling the stool out, I settled down, took a deep breath, and began playing a composition I had started the year before but had never managed to figure out how to complete.

  It was a melancholy piece, full of deeper notes and rich harmonies. I reached the bridge and then let the notes fade out. I still couldn’t figure out how to end it, I lamented with a sigh. I had hoped time would have helped work it out.

  “How I have longed to hear you play.”

  My head shot up and I saw Mama standing in the doorway, tears in her eyes. Behind her, I spotted Mr. Hayes peering curiously at me over her shoulder and I looked away, embarrassed at having been caught playing.

  Clearing my throat, I got to my feet and made my way back to my chair, Mama following me with Mr. Hayes stepping into the sitting room at a much slower pace.

  “Well, this is the first I felt like playing in a while,” I confessed, felling ridiculous that I felt like I needed to explain myself.

  Mama looked thrilled as she settled comfortably in her chair, rubbing the palms of her hands over the cushioned armrests.

  “I hope it happens more often,” Mama said. Her eyes moved to Mr. Hayes, who was hovering in the doorway, as if still unsure if he belonged here. Mama beckoned him in and he silently obliged.

  Turning back to me, Mama said, “Now, Hazel, I was wondering if you might do me a favor?”

  My eyebrows rose slightly in piqued interest.

  “Could you play for us at the wedding?” Mama asked and I felt a tiny irrational flame of irritation spark to life.

  No, I would not play for her. I didn’t like to play the piano that much anymore anyways, though I still couldn’t quite figure out why.

  Mama must have sensed the direction of my thoughts, for she quickly added, “Only one song. Something that Anthony and I could dance to. Please?”

  The corner of my mouth twitched with annoyance, but I sighed, relenting.

  “I’m not promising you anything,” I warned, but Mama beamed all the same. “I might play one song, if I feel up to it. It’d only be one song.”

  “To hear you play at our wedding...” Mama sighed with deep contentment. “Oh Hazel, there would be nothing better.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and picked up The Great Gatsby where I had left it on the small, round table beside my chair.

  After making sure that Mama wouldn’t disturb me, I fell back into its pages until it was time for dinner, which ended up being a lonely affair for me as Mama and Mr. Hayes were too wrapped up in their conversation to notice me in between them.

  I stabbed irritably at my boiled potatoes, wishing desperately that I was at the Golden Sparrow.

  I may have hated Basso and everything he did and made me witness, but I did enjoy the music and the drinking. It at least gave me something to do and didn’t make me feel invisible.

  By the next afternoon, I was certain that I would die of boredom. And now, more than ever, I missed Mimi. She would have, at least, known how to breath through the monotony of the day and give us something fun to do.

  What would Mimi do? I asked myself as I walked the hot streets later that day. June was nearly halfway over and the summer heat had already settled in.

  I passed a store with Coca-Cola displayed near the window, the bottles nestled in ice.

  Without thinking too much about the last time—and the first time—I had tried a soft drink, I bought myself one, popped the top off of it, and drank deeply.

  It seemed as though nearly all my memories of doing anything fun were centered around Mimi. It was as if she was the reason I had done anything at all.

  The bubbles didn’t burn as much as they I remembered and I found the sweetness of the drink to be oddly satisfying.

  In short, I told myself with a small smile as I gazed down at the glistening bottled, I liked it. But, after all, I had had worse things to drink since I had first tasted a Coca-Cola.

  Oh Mimi, I thought as I walked lazily through the crowded streets, how wrong I had been before.

  Chapter 18

  “I’m not doing that.”

  I was standing beside Basso, who was holding a gun out to me as we both faced down the poor, bloodied man tied up to the chair. My arms were crossed stubbornly over my chest and I could sense Basso’s anger flaring up.

  “Do it,” Basso said in a dangerously soft voice, “or you will find yourself on the other end of it.”

  I was terrified and my hatred towards him was growing stronger with every passing second, but I would not kill someone for him.

  “No.”

  Basso grabbed my face painfully, jerking me around so that I was facing him. His face was inches from mine, but I glared up at him in silent refusal.

  “She isn’t ready,” Robert suddenly said. “She’s too weak to do it, sir.”

  “She wouldn’t be if I had a gun to her head,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “Maybe,” Robert agreed. “All the same, sir. If she can’t do it, then we best just get on with it. You have that other business in half an hour.”

  Basso still held my face in his hand, his grip agonizing as he mulled over Robert’s words. Then, to my utter relief and astonishment, he released me and stepped away. I swayed on the spot but recovered myself quickly, moving with fast steps over to the sofa, where I sank down and dropped my eyes to the ground.

  The gunshot was loud, but I didn’t look up or even jump. I had expected it, so it wasn’t so much of a surprise anymore.

  There was a flurry of motion immediately following the gunshot, but still, I did not move. I wasn’t entirely sure I could. I had narrowly escaped killing someone and only because Robert told Basso I was too weak to do it.

  “Why her?” I heard Robert say in a low voice. “You never made anyone else.”

  “She has potential,” Basso said in an equally quiet tone. “She normally doesn’t refuse me.”

  “It’s been two months, sir,” Robert reminded him and I could almost see them watching me from their spot off to the left of the door. “Maybe she’s just scared of you.”

  “Not scared enough to tell me no,” Basso snorted then I heard his footsteps approach, felt his hand close around my shoulder.

  I jumped at the touch but got to my feet without a word.

  “Soon,” Basso said to Robert as I moved around the sofa to the door. “She will.”

  Robert nodded once then went to help James and Ralph with the body.

  My gaze shifted to Basso and I curled in on myself slightly when I caught his eye.

  I tried to ignore the hungry look in his eyes. It made my stomach fill with dread. I had almost been forced to kill someone and he was angry with me, but yet, his hunger for my body seemed to be insatiable.

  Bile rose in my throat at the thought and I quickly swallowed it back.

  Please, no. Not tonight.

  “Come,” Basso said, leading me from the room. “Let’s go.”

  I listened to his slow, steady breathing beside me but I refused to look at him. If I did, I knew I would feel myself soften towards him. Everyone always looked sweeter when they slept and Walter Basso would be no different.

  Instead, I rolled over so my back was to him as I faced the star-drenched skies beyond the windows.

  Pulling the covers close to my chin, the fabric balled in my fist, I took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then slowly exhaled.

  I had been too close to becoming a murderer, it made me sick to my stomach. And my life had been threatened in respo
nse to my refusal.

  But Robert had pointed out that he had never made anyone else do as I did. What sort of potential did Basso think I had? The potential to become a cold-blooded killer like him? Someone who reveled in misery and pain? That would never be me, I told myself firmly. I would never be like him. I may obey most of his commands, but I would hold out on killing anyone for as long as I could.

  The more time I spent with Basso, the more uncertain I felt about my making it out alive. And even if I did manage to survive, I would be an entirely different person. And that’s what it was, I thought. It was survival. I was doing whatever it took to survive. It’s what I had to tell myself every time I did anything under Basso’s orders.

  Pretending like I was seeing someone else’s memories when images of the man I tortured popped into my mind did not make it true. I had been the one to do it and I would never be able to take that back. My hands were stained permanently with blood from, not only my victim, but Basso’s as well, because I had stood by and let it happen. I had watched silently as he tortured a woman to death and prayed that that would never be me. Everything that I had done, the person I was becoming, was because of him. But I would never have been put in the situations I was in if it hadn’t been for him enticing Mimi into his dark world.

  I frowned deeply at the thought, pulling the covers even closer as I curled myself slightly into a small ball.

  Why had Mimi gone to him? I had never known the answer and now that she was dead, I doubted that I would ever know.

  Had it simply been for extra money so that Leah and her son could leave comfortably? Or had it been more than that?

  Sometimes, Mimi sought adventure where it was best left alone. Had Basso been one adventure she miscalculated?

  Behind me, Basso sighed deeply and I heard him shift. Then his arms were around me, pulling me closer to him.

  I shut my eyes tightly, heart hammering in my chest as I clamped my lips down for fear that I would make a noise of distress. But then I felt his slow breath on my bare shoulder and knew that, even if I had made a sound, he wouldn’t have heard it. He was far too deep in sleep to hear anything.

  He sighed again and nuzzled me.

  My skin was beginning to crawl under his touch and I had to fight the urge to scramble out of bed, naked or not. I wanted to go home, to sleep in my own bed. I wanted Danielle to make me hot cocoa and my mother and I to sit in companionable silence after supper. But what Basso wanted, he made sure he got.

  Slowly, I began inching out from his cage-like arms. I was nearly out of the bed when he suddenly tightened his arms again, murmuring softly as he pulled me back in.

  I couldn’t tell if I wanted to scream or cry.

  Behind me, his murmuring got louder and clearly more agitated the longer it went on. Finally, I heard him say, “No” and I went still, listening.

  He was so guarded while he was awake that it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if his secrets came tumbling out while he slept.

  But that was all he said. His breathing got faster and I could feel his heart racing. His arms tightened painfully around me, but I didn’t move. I just waited, wondering if he would say something else. I was sure my heart had stopped beating, I was listening so intently.

  He shifted then, releasing me and I wanted to see his face, but before I could decide what to do, he suddenly shot up in bed, panting as if he had just ran for miles. He didn’t even realize that I was awake as he swiftly slid out of bed.

  I watched through cracked eyelids as he crossed to the window and stood before it, staring out at the dark expanse before his great house.

  “Fucking ridiculous,” he muttered. He shot a glance over his shoulder at me, but seeing as I looked like I was asleep, he didn’t bother keeping his voice down.

  My leg was beginning to cramp and, unable to bear the pain, I shifted. The motion drew Basso to my side in an instant and, in a move that took me completely by surprise, he stroked back my hair from my face while softly murmuring for me to go back to sleep.

  But I wouldn’t, of course. I would stay awake until tomorrow came and then, when I finally got back home, I would sleep all day in my own bed.

  He had stopped stroking my hair, but his hand lingered, his touch still gentle.

  I had the sense that he wanted to say something and he even took a breath like he was going to speak, but then after a moment, he exhaled and removed his hand.

  Cracking my eyes open again, I saw him move back towards the window where he stood for a few more minutes before pulling on a dressing gown and slipping quietly from the room.

  I rolled over onto my back, arms splayed out as I relished the empty expanse of the bed for a few more minutes before sitting up and throwing off the covers.

  The chilly air hit my skin, causing gooseflesh to rise, and, shivering slightly, I got out of bed.

  I didn’t know what I was planning on doing. Maybe make him think that I missed him, make him think that I didn’t hate him as much as he might suspect. I could find him and say the empty bed woke me.

  It sounded almost silly enough for him to believe.

  Pulling on my chemise I had been wearing earlier, I then tied on my silk dressing gown before following Basso from the room.

  Lights glowed downstairs, so I followed them. The sound of Dead Man’s Blues reached my ears where it played quietly in the study.

  Tiptoeing the rest of the way down the stairs, I sidled over to the study door and listened. The door was slightly ajar and aside from the gramophone, all I heard was Basso shuffling around the room. There was a soft clink of glass and I could almost see him pouring himself a drink.

  I stood there for a while, thinking maybe he had a telephone and was going to call someone. But as the minutes ticked by, I began to realize that he had simply had a nightmare and was listening to the Red Hot Peppers to soothe him.

  What nightmares haunted the formidable Walter Basso? I found myself wondering.

  At the sound of his sudden approaching footsteps, however, I backed quickly away from the door. My heart was racing and just as I darted into the dark sitting room across the hall, Basso emerged. He looked a little haggard with dark circles under his eyes and mussed hair.

  And then I watched, in silent horror, as he began to climb the stairs.

  Now frantic, I hurried after him, but was completely thrown when he did not go into the bedroom like I expected him to. Instead, he kept going up to the third floor and, though I knew it wasn’t worth it to follow him, I did, making sure to keep at a distance in case he looked behind him.

  He reached the top of the stairs and immediately took a left down a long, dark hallway.

  Nervous but far too curious, I crept after him.

  Basso came to a stop before a single door at the end of the dark hall and reached up above the door, felt around for a moment, then brought his arm back down. I heard a lock unlatch and the door swung open.

  I had only enough time to glimpse a lone candle and an empty high back chair before the door closed and I was left alone in the hall.

  Shivering from something other than cold, I debated on returning to the bedroom, but something in me kept my feet moving forward.

  What was so secret that he had to keep it locked up in this great big house?

  Pressing my ear against the door, I heard nothing for a moment, but then Basso’s voice rose and I listened intently.

  “...stupid of me to keep you here, but if Hazel finds you,” he was saying, “then that could be bad for us both.”

  “I know.” It was a woman’s voice, low and rich.

  Stepping away, heart in my throat, I hurriedly made my way back down to the bedroom.

  As I removed my dressing robe and crawled back under the covers, I debated with myself if I should tell Emerson that there was someone hidden here. But no, I told myself. No, I would need something more than saying Basso had a woman tucked away.

  I would just simply have to wait for him to leave me alone for even
a few hours so that I could find out for myself who was important enough to be locked away from the world.

  I met Frankie at the park the next day, keeping up the casual acquaintance appearance for anyone following me. I hoped it was Judd, but I could never be certain if it was.

  He had sent a simple note, asking to see me, and I couldn’t resist.

  I had decided to tell him all that I had seen and even voiced my frustration that Emerson didn’t seem to think that him torturing Emily Murdock to death was enough evidence to arrest him. But I didn’t tone anything down. I wanted Frankie to know everything and, somehow, him knowing what I had seen made it a little easier to bear.

  “So you just sit by and watch him torture people?” Frankie asked as we walked slowly along the park path. I longed to even just loop my arm through his as we walked, but I knew I couldn’t. I missed his touched, craved it, more than I had ever wanted anything in my life. It was almost physically painful for me not to be able to touch him.

  I wondered if he felt the same.

  “Well, he doesn’t do it himself,” I reminded him before I spotted Judd a little ways ahead of us. I nearly cried in relief when I saw him, but a flicker of frustration bit at me. I couldn’t even take a walk without being followed. “That’s why the detective won’t move against him.”

  “But you said he tortured someone,” Frankie pointed out. “Isn’t that enough?”

  I shrugged. “I guess not.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” he said after a moment. My eyes were on Judd, who had taken a seat at a bench and hid himself behind a newspaper as we passed. I almost smiled at his lack of subtlety. “If you told him he tortured someone to death, then that should be that. Why hasn’t he nagged Basso yet?”

  I didn’t say anything, only kept my eyes on Judd, watching as he turned a page.

  “He’s gotta have enough dirt on the man,” Frankie went on when I didn’t speak. “And something else that’s been bothering me...”