These Mortals

by Alan Lee

  “Then I’ll find her the old-fashioned way.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “A preternatural disposition toward obduracy.”

  “Oh.”

  “Being a pain in the ass,” translated Manny.

  “I know, Sinatra.”

  Timothy chuckled, kind of a sniff. “Sinatra. What a name.”

  “The place they took Ronnie, you called it the Appalachian Palace. Tell me about it,” I said.

  “It’s a luxury fortress for the underworld. Something of a no man’s land, or gray area on American soil. It was built in the ‘60s by gangsters from Jersey, and sold in the ‘80s to a shadowy umbrella group that caters primarily to the mob, but really anyone with enough money and the desire to disappear for a while. We know it’s there, we know it caters to criminals, and we know it’s breaking a dozen laws. But it’s nearly impossible to prove anything, they’re so good. We raided it a couple years ago, thanks to Sinatra, and came up empty.”

  “No chance the employees would be sympathetic to Ronnie’s plight?” I asked.

  “The Palace is its own kingdom with two laws—obey the rules, and money talks. Darren’s paying the bill so they’d kill Ronnie and dispose of her body, if he asked. She can’t escape and we can’t get in. Too heavily guarded.”

  “Could try.”

  “Anyone could get in, hombre, it’s me.”

  “But you can’t,” I said.

  “I can’t.”

  “Wimp.”

  “After you get Ronnie back, maybe I shoot you in the toe.”

  “Boys. Focus,” said Beck.

  “This could get dicey, Noelle. If you want out, you should get out.”

  “I’m in. And don’t ask again—it’s insulting.”

  “Besides, we need her contacts with the Kings. It might behoove them to share what they know with us,” said Manny.

  “You have contacts with the Kings? I am poleaxed,” I said.

  “No.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t. I only know—“

  “You hear that, Mack? I said behoove.” Manny grinned.

  “I heard.”

  “Good, right?”

  “Sure, for a tiny word,” I said.

  The grin left. “Not so tiny.”

  “Who is your contact inside the Kings?” I asked.

  “Rocky Rickard,” said Beck.

  “And he is?”

  Manny answered, “Beck’s boyfriend. Big shot in the Kings.”

  “He is not,” said Beck, turning red in the cheeks, “my boyfriend.”

  “You visited him last week.”

  “I…will contact him about Darren.” She twisted the top off her water bottle, fidgeted, and twisted it back on again.

  “Maybe better if we knock on his door,” said Manny.

  “You’re dating someone on the Kings’ board of directors?” I said. “Wait till the neighbors hear."

  “It’s not like that, and he’s not on the board.”

  “It is like that,” said Manny. “And Rocky is the con signal hairy to the chairman.”

  “Consiglieri.”

  “What I said.”

  “Aren’t you a Mormon?” I asked.

  Beck nodded. “Yes. My relationship with Rocky is…complicated. And unwise. Aren’t you a Christian?”

  “Yes. My relationship with walking the straight and narrow is complicated. I’m doing my best.”

  “Me too,” she said.

  “A mess.” Manny crossed his arms. “Both of you.”

  Timothy August smiled into his cup of tea.

  I said, “Okay, in summary, here’s what we’re doing—we’re chasing information. I want to know why Darren faked his death. I want to know why he’s after his ex-wife. I want to know where they take Ronnie after the Palace. And I want to keep her alive. To do this, I’ll chat with Marcus and I’ll find Darren’s ex-wife. It’ll take several days, at least. In the meantime, you two connect with Beck’s boyfriend and get the Kings’ point of view. They may be our allies in this thing.”

  “He’s not—”

  “Rocky’s in Washington. We’ll wake him up, knocking on his door bright and early tomorrow morning,” said Manny.

  “What can I do?” asked Timothy August.

  “You’re on standby. And watching Kix when Roxanne can’t.”

  “You should let me help. And the sheriff.”

  “I will. Something will come up, and I will,” I said. “Until then, you can be praying.”

  “I don’t pray.”

  “Not even for the life of your daughter-in-law?”

  He set his mug of tea down. “Well, when you put it that way.”

  Saturday Afternoon

  Ronnie

  The security bar raised at a front gate hidden by trees. Darren Robbins gave a perfunctory salute to the two sentries and drove through the check point, beyond the stone wall.

  “Look at this. The middle of nowhere,” he said.

  The Lexus climbed the winding drive, through a forest barren and waiting for spring. Veronica Summers watched with a numb fascination.

  She’d been detached from the shotgun barrels, duct tape sliced through with a razor blade. Mario’s fist was still taped to the stock—Darren didn’t want it going off by accident and deafening the car.

  They reached the inner security wall. Black barricade poles lowered into the ground and they drove into a spacious cobbled courtyard. Her breath caught—this was a resort in the middle of the Appalachian mountains. At least three stories of glass were facing her. A fountain gurgled at the center of the drive, encouraging traffic to move in a counter clockwisedirection around it. Service trucks sat at the far end. Gardeners were turning over flower beds and fertilizing with manure. Without much effort, she located four armed sentries.

  A man waited for them. A kind-looking man in his sixties, wearing khakis, a blue jacket, and a white belt. Darren parked and killed the engine.

  “Home sweet home, yeah?” he said and got out.

  Ronnie did too, stiffly.

  “Good evening, Mr. Jefferson,” said the waiting steward. “I trust you found our home in the hills easily enough? My name is Hubert and I welcome you to the Appalachian Palace.”

  Ronnie cocked an eyebrow. “Mr. Jefferson?”

  “What?” Darren grinned, causing her stomach to churn. “It’s got some glamour. Some history to it. Besides, Darren Robbins is dead, babe. I need a new name. Jefferson.”

  Hubert offered his hand to Ronnie and led them out of the February chill into a warm and towering vestibule. The floor was travertine and another fountain churned here. Divans and settees were arranged in sitting spaces. Dueling stairs led to upper levels. Classical music emanated from somewhere.

  Ronnie caught her reflection in a mirror.

  Yikes. She looked worse than she felt.

  She did her best to smile. “Hubert, your house is magnificent.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Summers, though I’m just the steward. We are honored by your stay and I will personally give you the grand tour once you’re refreshed.” Hubert stopped them at a security checkpoint where armed men waited. The men were more interested in Mario and his shotgun than with her. “A pardon for the inconvenience, but I’m sure you understand. We are a private residence and take a great deal of precaution.”

  “We understand precaution,” said Darren.

  “Your phone, shoes, belt, and anything in your pockets must remain here. Then you’ll be subjected to a scan. At the far side, we’ll provide you with fresh slippers and belt. And, of course, your weapons will be confiscated until you leave.”

  Darren cocked his head to look down at Hubert. “Belt and shoes. Is that a joke?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Jefferson.”

  “You said precaution. Not invasion. For what I paid, you’re going to search me? Rookie move.”

  Hubert remained unimpressed and Ronnie’s heart warmed to him. “On the contrary,” he said, “we’ve been in business for decade
s, sir, and it’s precautions such as this which keeps our guests safe and our doors open.”

  Darren said, “Do you know who I am?”

  “My guest.”

  “I mean, do you know—”

  “I do, Mr. Robbins. I was grieved to read about your demise in the correspondence.”

  “That’s right,” said Darren.

  “If you refuse our precautions, I am happy to make other arrangements for you, Mr. Jefferson. There’s a Holiday Inn Express in Gate City which might suit.”

  Ronnie pressed her lips together but the smile came through anyway.

  “Holiday Inn,” said Darren.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Got’damn it, Hubert.” Darren stepped out of his leather loafers and pulled at his belt buckle.

  The steward nodded politely at the shotgun duct taped to Mario’s hand. “Would you like help, sir?”

  The giant nodded. Barely.

  One of the sentries who’d followed them came to help, snapping open a Buck knife.

  Hubert offered his arm to Ronnie. “May I show you to your room?”

  “She stays with me,” said Darren, his belt half off.

  Ronnie rolled her eyes. “Go to hell, Darren. It’s not like I can run away.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Jefferson, all our guests are quite safe and secure. No one can get in or out.” Hubert led Ronnie to the staircase, arm in arm.

  Darren called, “You’re not going to tell anyone I’m here. That’s an order, Hubert.”

  “Confidentiality is one of our primary pillars, Mr. Jefferson. It’s why our home has lasted these many decades and while it’ll remain long after you’re gone.” He said it smoothly but Ronnie caught the subtle rebuke underneath—the Appalachian Palace was a far bigger fish than Darren Robbins, and he’d be wise to remember it.

  He led her upstairs and through a hallway, followed by a sentry.

  She knew she had an ally in Hubert, but no means of rescue. He was a gentleman, but also a steely fixture in the underworld, immune to her plight. And to seduction.

  She leaned a little against him anyway, finding comfort. “Thank you, Mr. Hubert.”

  “You’re very welcome, Ms. Summers. Or would you prefer Mrs. August?”

  Her heart quickened and a spasm of emotion that’d she been repressing tugged at her lower lip. She blinked back tears.

  “You are…” She stopped and peered silently down the grandiose hallway a moment. Took a deep breath. “You are well informed.”

  “I must be so, in my position.”

  “No one has called me Mrs. August. But I accept.” She pulled him on.

  They strolled by a salon with a leather settee and an ottoman, and an indoor garden with jardinieres and mosaic tiled walls. A man waited for them at her door, bearing a flute of champagne.

  “An aperitif, Mrs. August, before dinner, which is in two hours,” said Hubert.

  She took the flute, the most beautiful and welcome thing she’d ever seen.

  “The bottle is on ice in your room. Piper Heidsieck, brut, vintage 2002.” He pushed open the door for her. “We took the liberty of ordering clothes. Please make yourself at home.”

  “I’m so happy I could cry, Hubert.”

  “It may interest you to know, our mutual friend Manuel Martinez stayed in this very room last year.”

  Ronnie nearly dropped her flute. “You’re kidding.”

  “He made quite an impression. We closed our doors for a month after his visit.” Hubert smiled in fond memory at the disaster. “Plus I had to replace two chairs he destroyed at dinner.”

  “The Palace hosted a federal marshal?”

  “He came at the request of one of our guests. A fascinating man. I tried to have him killed, but failed. Which is saying something. We made our peace afterward.”

  “There must be more to Manny than meets the eye.” She smiled, exhausted, hand on the door lever. “Which is also saying something.”

  “I suspect there’s much his friends don’t know. Please call, Mrs. August, if you require anything.”

  “Thank you, Hubert. You’re a life saver.”

  “Ah. Anything other than that, I mean.” He offered a polite bow of his head and turned away.

  Ronnie closed and locked the door. She drained her flute, laid on the most comfortable mattress imaginable, and fell asleep within seconds.

  Saturday Evening

  Mackenzie

  I’d never been to the home of Marcus Morgan, though he’d been to mine plenty.

  He lived on the crest of a hill in the Wasena neighborhood. A stately craftsman, similar to mine but his was owned by a wealthy drug lord, so it was bigger and more stylish.

  Kix and I rang the doorbell and he answered, looking as he always looked—eternally wise and stoic. Black turtleneck, black slacks, silver belt buckle, silver Tag Heuer watch, and silver wedding band. He wore black Prada loafers, and my Nikes felt sheepish.

  “August,” he said.

  “Pablo Escobar.”

  “In my house, you play nice.”

  “That’s no fun.”

  He led me inside. Everything was dark hardwood and dark leather. The walls were hung with tribal masks, and the rugs were bright orange and green and yellow and black, and looked newly purchased from weavers in a Kenyan village.

  “I get it,” I said. “You’re African American.”

  “Damn right.”

  “Why’s this place smell so good?”

  “Courtney’s cooking. Or the incense.”

  “It’s the incense,” I said. A blue curl of smoke rose from an incense burner in the shape of a waterfall on the coffee table. And another from the hallway. “The scent makes me want to kill a buffalo with a spear.”

  “You mean rhino. But white guy like you better stick to gazelles,” said Marcus.

  Kix thought that was hilarious.

  Marcus said, “Courtney always burning incense. Don’t like the way I smell. I’m black. She don’t like the way black people smell.”

  “Is she not, herself, black?”

  “Listen, August, you got a button to fix crazy people? I’ll push it right now.”

  Courtney met us then and we stopped disparaging her, and not only because she had good cheekbones, large green eyes, and great teeth. No, it was also because we were gentlemen.

  She took Kix, who went willingly because of her cheekbones, and said, “Dinner is ready in twenty minutes. And there’ll be no business discussed at the table, so you two fix whatever it is now.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I said.

  “Hello Mackenzie.”

  “Hello gorgeous.”

  “That’s enough,” said Marcus and he moved to the kitchen. It was a long galley kitchen and appointed better than mine. He poured two cups of hot tea and slid me one.

  “Decaf,” he said.

  “Good grief, you’re so old.”

  “You think I’m staying up till three in the fucking morning for you?” We sat at the counter. “You look awful. Why’re you in my kitchen on a Saturday night?”

  “Darren Robbins has Ronnie.”

  He straightened a little. “Shit.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Darren died.”

  “You don’t strike me as surprised he’s not.”

  “Heard about his death from someone who heard it from someone else. All of us thought maybe he faked it.”

  “He wants to exchange Ronnie for his ex-wife, whom he lost years ago.”

  “Needs you to find her,” said Marcus.

  “He does.” I sipped the tea. It was strong. And tasted bad.

  “I wanna help. I like Ronnie. But this gets tricky for me, like the thing in Naples. Mixing business and personal.”

  “It’s personal for you, too,” I said.

  “How so.”

  “Darren killed Fat Susie. Or had Fat Susie killed.”

  He stiffened. “The hell Darren Robbins killed Fat Susie.”

  “Ronnie told me.
Darren confirmed it.”

  “Bullshit. Fat Susie works for me,” said Marcus.

  “And he worked for Ronnie. He was walking around with her in DC.”

  He leaned back far enough to get his phone. Ran his thumb across the screen a few times. Grunted. “Susie ain’t texted me in a few days.”

  “Darren said he wouldn’t cooperate. So."

  “Darren Robbins killed Fat Susie. My Fat Susie,” he said, testing it out, trying to absorb it.

  “He did.”

  “When? Where?”

  “Probably Tuesday or Wednesday, last week,” I said. “Fat Susie drove Ronnie up for work.”

  “Fat Susie been with me for years. Almost family. Not suppose’ have to protect Veronica from other Kings. Got’damn.”

  “It’s personal,” I said.

  “Damn right it’s personal. How do I help?”

  “I need information.”

  “About Darren and his ex-wife?” He shook his head. “Didn’t know her. Or him that well.”

  “His story’s not good. Pieces don’t fit. Something else is happening and I want to know what,” I said.

  “You want more intel on his involvement with the Kings.”

  “It could help.”

  Marcus leaned back on his stool and drew a deeply pensive breath into his lungs. Let it out through his nose.

  He said, “Darren’s a necessary evil. Or he used to be. Before he died, I mean. He was the right guy in the right place, willing to be bought. Wormed his way in through his usefulness, could say. Endeared himself, and by the time he knew too much he was too valuable. He shoulda been killed, but he could blackmail anyone and he greased a lot of wheels in court. No one liked the guy, but he was tolerated. Trouble started when he wanted more responsibility.”

  “Prostitution.”

  Marcus nodded. “That’s how he got started, too. Just kept taking and taking. Took it upon hisself to run high end whores to his clients. Then friends of his clients. Grew his circle and his influence. Ronnie came along and made him a superstar.”

  “She has that effect.”

  “She do. But the whole time, he’s wearing people down. Not great at business, ran his mouth too much, pissed off the wrong folk. Like he did just now with me and Fat Susie.”