The Drazen World: The California Limited (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 7

  Jack chewed his lips. He knew how the answer would sound.

  “Two and a half days.”

  Again Magnus nodded, now condescendingly. “She must have really been something. A sweet dip.”

  Jack got in his face, his fingers curling into his palms so they wouldn’t curl around the officer’s neck. Never let them be right, his father always said. What does it matter what they think of us? It’s what we think of us that makes us who we are.

  “I know how this looks,” he began, desperately trying to restrain himself. “You think I’m some obsessed guy stalking a girl who left me and doesn’t want to be found. And maybe I am. But the way I see it, she’s either a con artist who took me for a chump. In which case, I need to find her. She’s a vulnerable young woman who was kidnapped. In which case, I need to find her. Or she’s fleeing something, leaving no trail for a reason, which now seems a possibility. In. Which. Case,” his jaw was tight, anger barely controlled, “I need. To find her.”

  “Jonathan.” The next day the familiar timbre of his father’s voice crackled into the phone. “How are you doing, son?”

  “Fine, Dad. Fine.” He wondered if his father could hear the sustained panic that had been in his voice since Minnie’s disappearance.

  “Fine. Well, that’s good to hear. You’re mother will be glad to hear that.” But he was not reassured, Jack knew. Seamus O’Drassen had a silk-throated way of lowering the axe. “I’ve had a call from Harry.”

  Of course, Jack thought.

  “Now can you imagine what he might have said?” asked Seamus.

  “I have a good idea, sir.”

  “Then why have you not reported to Columbia? It was no small thing getting you that position. A thousand other boys…”

  When would he be a man to his father? It was impossible to mature to a man who had been old since he was young.

  “…wanted that position, Jonathan,” Seamus continued. “Do you know that?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Then where the fuck have you been?” Though it was an exclamation, his voice was still low and smooth, a curse as lovely as an endearment. “I greased the wheels. I owe that kike now and I think you know how I hate owing people anything. I vouched for you. It’s my name on that position as much as it is yours. Don’t forget that.”

  He wouldn’t dare. “No, Dad. I’m sorry. Something’s come up.”

  “What could possibly have come up,” he emphasized the last words with mocking, “but your dick?”

  “No, I…” His words trailed off. What could he say? His dick was definitely involved. But worse. He thought he was losing his mind.

  “Did you think that money was given entirely without expectations?” Seamus continued. “I didn’t think that I would have to spell it out to you, son, but that money is mine. I did not let you leave so that you could chase tail on my dime.” Jack heard some rustling on the line, as if his father were adjusting himself for more. “I never thought to give you this speech. Declan. Fuck! Declan could recite it in his sleep. But not you. What’s really going on?”

  Jack sighed. “I’m sorry, sir. I am distracted, but it’s—it’s not what you think.”

  There was a long pause and Jack was just beginning to wonder if they had been cut-off when his father spoke again. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Do I need to come out there?”

  “No.” Jack practically shouted into the phone. “No. I’m handling it. Everything’s fine. Really.”

  He could feel his father’s sly smile through the phone lines crisscrossing the country.

  “Ya know, Jonathan, I have never understood your need to get as far away from me as possible. I adore your mother. Gave you nice homes and things, the right education, a bright future. Yet I have felt you considering me at times like a toilet unworthy of your shit. Why?” There was a pause, neither one speaking for a long beat. “No. Don’t answer that. I don’t give a fuck. Only take care of…whatever it is or I will come out there.”

  Chapter 7

  Missing 1 Week, 4 Days

  After his father’s stern lecture, he might have called Columbia and asked if there was still a job there waiting for him. His love of stories, wanting to work with performers, everything he had told Minnie that propelled him to cross the country and it didn’t seem to matter. He no longer had the fire for it.

  Instead he called room service and ordered a sandwich with a bottle of vodka and a bottle of whiskey to chase that. Stomach full and ice-cold vodka in hand, he began calling every Wilson in the Racine and Milwaukee areas. It was the same litany of questions with the same predictable answers:

  Is this the Wilson residence?

  Yes.

  Do you have a daughter named Mae?

  No.

  A daughter named Minnie, perhaps?

  No. I think you’ve got the wrong number.

  One time the woman who answered did have a daughter named Mae and Jack’s heart had begun racing in the same excited way that it had when he had first reached the Lucky Lounge. But predictably he learned, as was his luck of late, that young Mae was only eight. He pressed the disconnect button chuckling pathetically and took another drink.

  Why, he had wondered a hundred times and more, was he doing all this for a woman with whom he had only spent less than three days? His father was right. This easy disintegration was completely out of character for him. For twenty-two years he hadn’t known how to do anything but be the good son.

  Even moving to California had not been so extraordinary or even brave. He might have been following the family script. After all, his grandfather had done the same thing when he was not much older than Jack, leaving Ireland with his wife and three children to start something new.

  But there had been something about Minnie – she would be Minnie to him – about who he was when he was with her, that made him know he might be someone else. Someone he desperately wanted to be. His own man. She had given her hand to a man who had been happily drowning. He was alive on that train with her. And now he couldn’t breathe again. But this time it was worse. Because he knew it.

  So he drank. And drank. And drank. Whiskey. Vodka. Gin. Rum. Indiscriminate. Uncaring. It was alcohol. All of it depressing. Sedating. Perfect.

  Missing 2 Weeks, 2 Days

  Five days after they first spoke, Artie called again.

  “Jack.”

  “Yeah.” He swallowed down a bite of steak and hash, then cleared his throat. It had become a morning ritual, stuffing food down his throat to soak up the alcohol and clear his mind. “You have something for me.”

  “Not much, but…”

  “What is it?”

  There was a pause, then the sound of Artie dragging in a heavy breath.

  “You called me, Artie. Spit it out.”

  “I can’t tell you their names.” He was whispering.

  “What? I can’t hear you. You need to speak up.”

  “I can’t. Speak up,” Artie spoke, enunciating clearly in a stage whisper. “Do you understand?”

  Jack leaned over the table, covering his other ear, his elbows resting on the table. “What is it?”

  “Do you remember what I told you? About all those fine gentlemen being interested in Mae?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well…” Again he paused.

  “Tell me, Artie.”

  “I can’t tell you their names.”

  “Whose names?”

  “I’m calling you out of courtesy. But I won’t risk my wife and kids, you understand.”

  “Listen, I already hate this conversation, so just get on with it.”

  The phone went dead. Jack looked at it. “Artie. Artie.” He hit the disconnect button a few frantic times. “Well, hell!” He slammed the receiver back on the phone. A moment later it rang again and Jack picked it up on the first ring. “Artie. Stop fucking with me.”

  “I’m not trying to, only…I can tell you what I can tell you and that’s all I can tell you.”

&nbs
p; “Fine.”

  “Some gentlemen came in here looking for Mae. Three of them. A big man. Important, not fat. Maybe 50, 55. And his heavies. I recognized him. Anyone around here would. He’s been in a few times. Always with his son. The son, he, uh, took a shine to Mae.”

  “And now he’s looking for her?”

  “Not the son, the father. Look, I’ve said too much already. I only called because…they’re bad men and they’re looking for her. I don’t know you. You’re looking for Mae. They’re looking for Mae. But I have to hope that you’re better than them because they’re dangerous.”

  “I need names,” said Jack.

  “I can’t tell you that,” said Artie.

  “I need names or this is nothing but fear. You can trust me not to hurt her, Artie. I promise. I care for her.”

  “I believe you do. That’s why I called. But I can’t give you their names. I’ve already told you too much. If they knew…” He muttered and seemed to pull away from the phone.

  “Wait. Please. Don’t hang up.”

  Artie got back on the line. “Yeah,” he said, his voice resigned.

  “Let’s talk geography for a minute,” said Jack.

  “Geography?”

  “If I were to spin a globe, would my finger fall on a very large country? Spanning half the globe large. Or small? Quite small.”

  “Ah. Small.”

  “And would this small country happen to look like a boot?”

  Click.

  “Christ!” He slammed the receiver down. If he didn’t know any better, and certainly he didn’t, he’d think his canary had knocked off some Italian mobster’s son.

  Missing 2 Weeks, 5 Days

  Three days later the phone rang again. Still drunk from the night before, Jack struggled to sit up, then scrubbed his hands down his face, blinking eyeballs dry as dirt. He ran his hands through his wavy hair, trying to smooth it back from his face as he stumbled into the too-bright living room to answer the phone. Mere steps from it, the ringing stopped and he stood, blankly staring at it.

  When it began ringing again, he cleared his throat and answered.

  “Mr. O’Drassen?”

  “Yes,” he managed to croak out, clearing his throat again.

  “It’s Officer Magnus. Beverly Hills PD.”

  “Yes?”

  “I hope I didn’t wake you, sir…”

  Jack glanced at a clock. 9.04am.

  “…But there’s been a discovery at La Grande.”

  He barely managed to turn from the phone before he vomited all over the couch, his stomach heaving long after there was nothing left.

  “Sir? Sir? Mr. O’Drassen? Mr. O’Drassen, are you all right?”

  He could hear the officer on the line and a shaky hand pulled the phone back to his mouth as he wiped it. “A body?”

  “No, sir. No. But something of interest.”

  “Is it Minnie’s?” And even as he was asking it he shook his head at himself.

  “Of course we can’t confirm that, Mr. O’Drassen, because the truth is, we don’t know. That’s why we called you. We were hoping you could identify it.”

  Jack nodded as if the officer could see him through the phone. “I’ll be in as soon as I can.”

  Whatever it was, he didn’t want to see it. He was certain. His body drooped as he blinked slowly and looked around. He had never really noticed the bungalow when he first arrived, the tall ceilings and soaring columns, the pale walls and warm wood inlay floors. He supposed it was nice once, but now, after shunning maid service day after day, it was a wreck, dishes and bottles, far too many empty bottles, were everywhere. And now the stench. He glanced at the couch. There was no help for it. It would have to be replaced. Immediately.

  As soon as he could turned out to be more than two hours later. If there was something there of hers, it was almost certainly bad. He had run a bath and soaked in it until it was cold, sobering up and cleaning up. Anything to avoid identifying something of Minnie’s. After his conversation with Artie, now he wanted her to have run off, to have gotten as far away from those men as she could. But, damn it, she should have told him, trusted him to help her.

  At the station he buttoned his coat and smoothed his hair back as he approached the desk. Magnus nodded and directed him to a conference room where a buff vinyl suitcase trimmed in red leather lay on a table. Jack swallowed, his eyes filling with tears even as he desperately tried to blink them back.

  “It’s hers?” Magnus asked.

  Jack pursed his lips, swallowed again, then nodded. He caressed it. “Where was it found?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

  “In the tropical garden that surrounds it, of all places. They were doing routine care of the plants there and spied it, thrown into a bougainvillea.

  Jack reached for the clasp, then looked to Magnus. “May I?”

  Magnus assented with a hand, then said, “Of course.”

  Shaky hands clicked the latch. What did he want to see? Full? Empty? Did it matter? He opened it. The contents were disheveled from the suitcase being tossed, but it was very nearly empty. Hair pins scattered. Some ear bobs that looked to be tin. A slip. A pair of stockings. His mind raced. She wore the one outfit. Whether she carried another he had never known. Nor a nightgown, for that matter. He had left the coach car before she could turn in and with him she had only slept naked. He didn’t know if anything was missing. What had she carried?

  “Her purse,” he said still staring at the contents of her suitcase.

  Magnus shook his head. “Haven’t found any purse.”

  This was nothing. Worse than nothing because he didn’t know anything more from it. He knew less, his mind scrambled with even more questions, if it were possible.

  Then he spied a gold box under the slip. He took it from the suitcase, the letters J and P on the cover, and opened it, the smell hitting him instantly, floral and pear musk. Something inside him broke. It wasn’t based on anything clear and salient but pure and visceral. She was gone. His hand covered his mouth as he fought the grief that was surging. Her perfume was called Joy.

  Jack held his emotions in check in that conference room. On the drive back. Down the tropical garden-lined pathways leading to his bungalow. Until his eyes slid up to meet the man who stood waiting for him. More handsome than ever at forty-five, the bastard, with his ginger waves smoothed back, debonair as always in a sapphire suit and burgundy tie, Seamus O’Drassen stood with his hands in his pockets and pure love and caring in his eyes.

  Then he came slowly towards him. “Jonathan.” And there was something in his voice, some deep empathy and compassion that allowed his heartbreak to crest the surface.

  Jack collapsed into his father’s open arms, sobbing, great gulping breaths. “There now, son, you’re all right.” He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried like this. Maybe he had never cried like this. Even as a child he needed to be upright, unflappable, the right example for his younger brothers and sisters.

  His father could be very affectionate. He was a very touchy man, especially to Jack’s mother. But he fought it. Brahmin Boston looked down their noses at such undignified displays. Seamus O’Drassen would never give anyone a reason to look down his nose at him. Not when he thought himself better than the lot of them. So he never held his children as much as he wanted.

  Yet somehow, none of it mattered. Jack cried and Seamus held him for long moments, even as hotel staff moved past them with the soiled couch and trash.

  When he finally stepped back to collect himself, Seamus tipped his head to peer into Jack’s eyes. “I was worried. It seems I was right to be. Come,” Seamus directed him to sit on a bench outside Jack’s bungalow as if it were his. “Tell me,” he crossed his legs, pulling the crease in his pants, “what’s going on?”

  Jack sat and looked at the staff attending to his bungalow.

  “Don’t mind them,” Seamus said, flicking a dismissive hand. “It’s their job to be discreet. They see nothing. They h
ear nothing.”

  Jack nodded lamely. He was suddenly so tired.

  “I met a girl.” His voice was soft, strained. So he cleared it and started again. “I met a girl on the train.”

  Seamus sat back and nodded as Jack told him about Minnie and their time together.

  “And then?” Seamus looked at him.

  “Then she simply vanished. Right here in the train station. She went to use the ladies’ room and I haven’t seen her since.”

  Seamus sat forward and scratched his head, his mouth parted as if preparing to speak. “Is it possible that she didn’t feel the same about you?”

  “Anything’s possible,” said Jack. “I’ve thought myself a chump conned by a con artist. I’ve thought her kidnapped. And I’ve thought myself jilted by a lover. Until today. That’s where I was when you got here. At the police station. They found her suitcase at the train station.”

  “She’s gone,” Seamus dared with deathly finality.

  Again, Jack’s throat filled with emotion, so painful that it physically hurt. His heart physically hurt. He nodded. Not trusting his voice.

  “You’ve been looking for her. That’s why you never showed up to Columbia. You miss her. You’ve been worried. That’s why all the alcohol.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Why else would I?” Just then a valet brought out Jack’s trunk. “What is he doing there?” He stood. “What do you want with my trunk?”

  Seamus stood and put a gently restraining hand to Jack’s chest. “Relax.” Jack glared at him and he put his hands up in surrender. “That bungalow reeks of failure. It’s depressing and now I know why. It’s all right.” His tone was light and reassuring as if he were breaking a mare. “We’re just moving you for awhile.”

  “Moving me. What do you mean, moving me?” This was the Seamus O’Drassen that Jack knew. Always firmly in control of every situation.

  “You’ve had an ordeal, son. Terrible. A terrible ordeal. The poor girl. Your nerves are agitated. Clearly you’ve been drinking too much.”

  This was rich, particularly from his father, who could drink any man under the table and still manage to get home and get it up enough to fuck his wife. That’s why he had nine brothers and sisters.