Incubus

by L. J. Greene

  “I’m well aware of Leo’s proclivities, but they do not absolve him. If Betts here blows your brains out, I too might be charged with your murder. One does not have to be the active hand to be guilty.”

  “It was all Reggie’s doing,” Leo said stiffly. “Lynette Rochelle. I wasn't even there that night! You were right; it was him, the Incubus—the films in the first place. And I certainly didn’t approve of getting the Walker Boys involved. It was a mug’s game. I was trying to get him to stop with the ladies.”

  "What happened to Michael?" Alice asked.

  Mancini said nothing. Michael being the least of my worries right then, I stood and pushed past Leo, making for the bourbon. “If you’ll forebear,” I said hoarsely, “I’d rather die with a bellyful of comfort if I have to die tonight.” I was taking a chance that Alice wouldn’t have me knocked off before she finished her accusations. I was taking a chance, too, that Betts wouldn’t take matters into his own hands.

  But most of all I was taking a chance that I could distract the two of them long enough for Leo to get the safety off the gun behind his back. Just who he’d use it on after he did was anyone’s guess, but he was a safer bet than Betts and Alice as far as I was concerned.

  I drank down one glass and then filled it again before Alice spoke.

  “You never answered my question, Cole. What was your role in all this?”

  I could have told her I was just another victim; Betts had come out of the screening room tonight, which probably meant he'd watched some of those films. But I couldn't be certain what those films showed, whether those black and white records were really as black and white as I wanted them to be. And I'd participated that night in Alice's room, hadn't I? Unwillingly, maybe, but it didn't look good for me. I could see how I might look from a less forgiving perspective, and maybe—well, maybe that was a point. Maybe I should have tried harder to put a stop to things that night, or any one of the other nights when bad things were going on. I sure couldn't claim to be on the side of the angels.

  And I wanted to live. Leo's approach tonight was clearly to antagonize, and maybe he knew better than I did. I took a large swallow of my drink. “What is this, Alice? I try it on with you once in the stables, and suddenly I’m a sex killer?”

  Betts and Leo both stared at me. Alice didn’t blink. “Shoot out his kneecap, please, Betts.”

  I skipped aside at once, bourbon sloshing over my hand as I did. “Alright, alright, I didn’t kill anyone! I had nothing to do with anything.”

  “You know he didn’t,” Leo cut in.

  “I know nothing of the sort,” she said. “He’s exactly the kind of lackey Reggie preferred.”

  “A wetbrain?” Leo said, and it cut me to the quick.

  Betts took up the refrain. “Well, drunks are easily manipulated, aren’t they? Gullible. Blimey, this one believes anything anyone tells him, so long as they look him in the eye when they do.”

  I took another mouthful of bourbon as I thought that over. Leo was such a liar that even his truths had seemed like lies. Betts had always seemed an honest enough fellow, but—“I’m guessing you didn’t get your life saved after all, Betty,” I said. “Not at the Kasserine Pass, anyway.”

  Betts gave me a chummy smile. “You were bloody quick to believe it, though.”

  Biblical phrases bubbled to my lips. Lovers of falsehood. Brood of vipers. But how much worse was I, tempted so easily into their churning nest? Beside me, I saw Leo had got the safety catch off the gun behind his back. I prayed he’d shoot me first, if he were going to shoot anyone. A small kindness.

  I said sorrowfully, “I should’ve known better than to trust the lot of you.”

  “Your problem, bunny, is that you trust whomever it is standing in front of you at any given moment.” Leo wasn’t even looking at me as he spoke, and nor, I noticed, were Alice and Betts. They were transfixed on Leo. Finally. He’d finally got the gun on them.

  “Everyone’s got a line on my problems but me,” I said to an oblivious audience. None of it seemed to matter all that much to me anymore. The bourbon was working its black magic on me; I’d missed my old friend. Tequila just didn’t have the same hug to it.

  “Get behind me,” Leo hissed, but being as I was behind the armchair anyway, it didn’t seem to matter all that much.

  “For God’s sake, don’t get sentimental,” Alice said to him. She was quite pale. “It doesn’t suit you.” She came forward a few paces. Wanted a better view of my demise, maybe. She’d never struck me as the bloodthirsty type before, but I’d been wrong about her, hadn’t I? Underestimated her, just like Bella had told me. I wondered if I’d go on being such a chump if my life were to continue after this night.

  Odds were, I would.

  “You’re right, Alice,” Leo said. “One had to be quite cold-blooded to put up with Reggie. I’m no bleeding heart; but then, neither are you. I don’t believe for a moment that you didn’t know what Reggie was up to before you heard it from the lips of a torch singer.” He gave a crooked smile. “Do you know what I think? I think you could see your untouchable world was about to crumble. Because if some gutter wench had figured it out, and had a bee in her beautiful white bonnet about it, it wouldn’t be long before more influential people were asking questions. Would it?”

  Alice had gone very still, but the little list to her smile was utterly familiar to me. How had I not noticed it before? The cruel turn of the mouth, the ice-chip eyes: she was as like to her brother as a twin, and her temperament was no different, only held in check a little more due to her sex, and her lack of infinite resources.

  She said nothing, but something occurred to me. “And you wanted to marry,” I said. “To get hold of your part of the money. But if the family reputation came into question, that well of suitors might dry up. And you’d never get your riches then.”

  “Besides,” Leo drawled, “why settle for one half of the family fortune when you could have it all? Do you know, I think there’s something in you Cresswickhams that goes off right around a certain age. Something turns in the brain, or wires fizzle out, or something. And you’re none of you quite right after that, are you? Something terrible crawls out of that dark part of the Cresswickham soul and just…takes over.”

  I’m not sure if Alice gave a signal. Some days I think she did, because she closed her eyes a moment before the blast sounded. Some days I’m a little more charitable, figure it must have been Betts’ itchy trigger finger. Doesn’t really matter, because the result was the same.

  I sprang at Leo, baptizing us in bourbon as we collided. He staggered and fell against the bar, more ungainly than I’d ever seen him, but landed unharmed, though the whole bar shuddered and clattered with shaking bottles. My ears rang and my gut burned. I put a hand to it and felt wet warmth.

  The bullet had gone right through me, back to front. I could see where it had driven into the bar, about an inch away from Leo’s hip.

  The blazing in my belly subsided. I couldn’t quite feel my legs and I seemed to be tipping over. I landed heavily on my knees and fell to my side. Leo was breathing hard, his hair falling forward on his glistening brow as he stared down at me. I reached out to grasp his ankle.

  When he looked back at them and spoke, he was as cool as ever. “You missed, Betty. Bad luck.”

  I raised my head weakly. Alice was poised as if to flee, with Betts next to her, his arm outstretched across her as though it would block the bullet. For a moment, Betts looked at me. I don't know why he didn't shoot at Mancini again. There might have been a shade of regret in his eye, like he was awful sorry he’d done me harm, but it was wiped out an instant later. A sharp pop sounded above me and Betts’ left eye exploded, a black hole where the white had been, and Alice’s cheek flecked red. His arm dropped and he crashed to the floor.

  Leo seemed as surprised as I was, gazing at the pool seeping from Betts’ ruined face. With a quick, birdlike movement, Alice bent to snatch Betts’ gun from where he’d dropped it. She ra
ised it fast, knuckles white.

  With a curse, Leo took aim back at her.

  She bared her teeth in imitation of a smile. “Well, Leo. Here we are, then.”

  “Here we are,” he agreed.

  “Don’t,” I whispered, but the blood loss was too much for me. I drifted in and out of consciousness, voices talking and talking. I was aware of movement. Leo’s ankle slipped from my hand and I closed my fingers on air. There was a fading click-clack-click-clack noise. I could feel the carpet under my cheekbone, soaked with something. I thought it was blood for a moment, until I realized it was the source of the bourbon stench filling my nostrils.

  And so here I am, back where I started my tale, bleeding to death in a Bel-Air mansion. Came round just a minute ago to find myself in Leo’s arms, him looming over me like he can protect me from the whole world.

  “You should’ve let me take the bullet,” he says, and his big eyes fill with crocodile tears.

  “Aw, cut it out, will you?” I’ve got a hole right through me and a guy who still wants to make it all about him. “You’re no good, Mancini. You’re a no-good son of a bitch, and you don’t need to pretend any different, not when we’re coming to the grand finale. You told me you were poison and you were right about that. Only honest thing you ever…” I have to stop. It’s hard to breathe.

  “I love you. You know I love you.”

  He tries to kiss me but I push him away. The effort makes me gasp in pain, and the gasp makes him stop trying. “You love money and comfort and fucking,” I tell him. “Just get outta here. Gather up some collectibles you can cash in, and go. I’ll be dead long before the cops get here but at least my corpse can still serve your purpose. Blame me for Betts. It was always supposed to be a set up. So set it up.”

  He hoists me up to slump against the chair leg and I smile grimly. The knowledge that I’m right about him, finally right, gives me some small measure of satisfaction. But after he scrambles to his feet I hear the tinny ding of a telephone receiver being lifted and his voice, shaking and afraid, asking for an ambulance please hurry, tell them they have to hurry…

  My vision’s going white around the edges, so when I see his face again it’s like he’s at the end of a long tunnel.

  “They’re coming. Hold on.”

  “It’s too late,” I cough. I can taste more than spit and bourbon in my mouth.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  I don’t know whether I believe him, but it doesn’t seem worth my dying moments to fight over it. He folds himself up beside me and eases me into his arms again.

  “You’ll get blood all over you,” I tell him.

  “I don’t care.” He’s dropping fat tears onto my face in an irritating way. “Don’t die. You can’t die. I’m telling you, Cole—”

  “Oh, God. Just be quiet.”

  “I love you. You know that. Tell me you know that.”

  “I won’t die with a lie on my lips.” I’m glad he seems upset. I’d be gladder if I believed it. It doesn’t hurt anymore, so that’s something. In the distance I hear sirens. He’s rocking me gently, like he has to move to quell the panic.

  “Don’t die,” he says again, so plaintive my fists twitch.

  “God help me, I’ll get up from my dying and beat your face in if you say that again.”

  He lets out a sobbing laugh until I cough again, and blood splatters from my mouth. I never pictured my death would be so long and messy. Sudden: that’s the way I thought I’d go. “You say you love me? Then put me out of my misery. A quick twist of my neck, or—or stop up my mouth and nose—”

  “No. No, no, no, not you. Never you. You’ll be alright, you’ll be just fine, and when you’re better I’ll take you away and treat you the way you deserve to be treated.” He wipes my mouth down with a handkerchief. A goddamned handkerchief. I want to push it away, but I don’t have the strength.

  “Listen,” he says, lifting his head. “I can hear them.”

  I can’t. I hear rushing water, something gurgling, some dame singing…I don’t think it’ll matter anyway if they get here; I’m done for. Leo’s eyes are huge in his head, like in the fairy tales my ma used to tell me…eyes big as dinner plates, like he could eat up my soul with them…

  God forgive me.

  Part XI

  Dark Passage

  Chapter 50

  The Atlantic Ocean is nothing like the Pacific. It churns different, maybe. There’s an underlying greyness to the water that never really disappears, no matter how blue the sky is or how bright the sun shines. These seas have a pallor to them.

  I noticed it the first day when we hit open waters, that murky shadow under merry breaking waves. We were out on the deck and I made my slow, painful way to the railing so I could look over. Leo sprang up to follow me, hovered by my elbow like I might be inclined to throw myself in the drink. Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong. “It’s bleak,” I said. “Pacific’s much more cheery.”

  Leo laughed and shook his head as though he just didn’t know what to do with me, and I guess that’s true enough. He has no idea what to do with me, not anymore. Not since they turned me out of the hospital and into his care. You’d think I was the most delicate of his possessions, the way he wraps me up and keeps me close. I’m not that fragile, I’ve wanted to say on more than one occasion.

  But it would be a lie. I am fragile: I’m see-through and cracking all over, in danger of shattering and spilling all the bourbon out of me at the drop of a hat. I don’t know what it’ll be that finally sends me splintering, and I don’t think Leo knows either, so he’s been a shade careful with me ever since I got out of the hospital.

  Tonight, our second night at sea, he’s waiting on me like a servant, like I suspect he must once have waited on a dead aristocrat—but I haven’t asked. I’m not strong enough yet to face the whole truth, and he might even give it to me if I asked for it. We dine in our suite, because I hated the looks of pity that first night that accompanied my heavy limp through the first-class dining room. All those fat cats and diamond-dripping broads carefully not staring at the way I lean on my cane as much as I lean on Leo.

  So tonight we stay in the suite, my half-numb knee bumping up against his under the small dining table, and I let him take care of me.

  He sets out my water glass and fills it. He arranges food on my plate from the buffet trolley the waiter wheeled in for us. He shakes out my napkin and drapes it over my lap like a shroud.

  He leans over to kiss my cheek and murmur at me, “You really must eat, sweetheart. Surely something will tempt you. Look, they have oysters. You adore oysters.”

  “I’ve never eaten an oyster in my life.”

  He frowns, perplexed, and arranges his own napkin. “I don’t think that can be true, can it?”

  “I’ve never been a good liar. Why don’t you look me in the eye and see if I’m lying?”

  He looks at the oysters on my plate. “Alright, my love, I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I just worry about you. You must get your strength back up.”

  “Where’s yesterday’s paper? I saw you pick one up before we boarded.”

  He gives a small sigh. “Eat your dinner, why don’t you?”

  I stab an oyster with the tiny fork he’s laid out for me. It looks like a doll’s toy in my big paw, makes me feel twice as ungainly as I usually do. I get the damn thing into my mouth at last, and swallow down the slippery flesh before I can taste it. “Where’s that paper?”

  Leo winkles his oyster out delicate as you please, a surgeon’s precision in his fingers, and savors the taste. “I’ll show you after dinner,” he says at last. “As long as you eat it all.”

  There’s nothing gets me angrier than when he does this, bargains for little things, holds me hostage to his whims. A cigarette if I get out of bed before noon, a glass of bourbon on the rare occasions I dress in something other than pajamas and a robe.

  Back at the Bel-Air mansion, that promise of bourbon was sometimes enough
to make me drag myself out of the drawing room—my bedroom, I should say; he converted it for me since I couldn’t get up the stairs without difficulty—and into the parlor or the library.

  But I was allowed the newspaper in LA only when Leo saw fit to supply it, and I couldn’t get my hands on it any other way but direct from him. He got rid of most of the old staff and never let the new servants speak to me. Even Gabriel disappeared. Leo watched the papers for anything that might’ve upset me, and he warned me about it before I read. “They’re trying to make something stick to Jimmy Wu again,” he might say before he hands it over, or, “God, these rags are dreadful. Editorial on organized crime and the Walker Boys, but completely off track.” And then there were the days there was another story on the Incubus. “A woman was murdered,” Leo would say curtly.

  They try to connect every dame’s death to it these days, blonde or not, but none of them are Incubus victims.

  I know it. Leo knows it.

  But there was a run of days a week back when he claimed he never got the paper. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth or if there was something he didn’t want me to know. But if he’d let me see the Incubus stories, what could be so much worse that he wanted to keep from me?

  It was just after that when he suddenly booked our passage to England.

  I eat my oysters and as much of the duck galantine in aspic as I can stomach. Leo allows me a glass of champagne. “To celebrate,” he says, though he doesn’t say what we’re celebrating.

  “Why by boat?” I ask for what must be the thirtieth time.

  “Ship,” he replies absently, like he always does. “You know why.”

  “You never mentioned your fondness for sailing before this. Airplane would be quicker.”

  He sips his champagne. “Air crossings are so hurried and tiresome. I want the best for you.”

  I ignore him as I eat my way through a dinner that not a year ago would have been the best meal I ever ate. My only thought as I push it down is that I want that newspaper. I want to know what it is that he’s trying to hide from me. I even take a few bites of something he insists on calling a dame blanche for dessert.