Part 13 (1/2)
”Oh?” She opened it wider and turned it upside down. A small white card fell out; it was engraved with the words Requesting The Pleasure Of Your Company Prince Conrad Vulkan. ”What's this?”
”As it says. I've been instructed to invite you to dine with Prince Vulkan at eight o'clock tomorrow evening if that's convenient for you.”
”Where?”
”Why, the castle, of course.”
”The castle? Then I take it you've somehow convinced the power company to repair the lines running up there? That's more than I could ever do.”
”No.” Falco smiled slightly, but it was a smile of the mouth; the eyes remained vacant and faintly troubled. ”We have no power yet.”
”What's your prince going to do then, have something catered? I'm afraid I'm going to have to say-”
”Prince Vulkan is very interested in meeting you,” Falco said softly. ”He a.s.sumed the reverse would be true as well.”
Paige regarded the man for a moment-sad-looking guy, she thought, doesn't he ever see the sun?-and then lit a cigarette of her own, placing it in a long black holder with a gold band. ”I'll be honest with you, Mr. Falco,” she said finally. ”When you came to me in September, wanting to rent these pieces of property, telling me you represented Hungarian royalty, I was highly skeptical.
Before the deal was signed, I made a few transatlantic telephone calls. I could find no one in the present Hungarian government who knew anything about a Prince Vulkan. So I was ready to pull out, until you made your first payment in cash. I may not trust very many people, but I do trust the dollar, Mr. Falco. My last husband left me with that philosophy. Yes, I am interested in meeting your Prince Vulkan ... if indeed he is a prince.”
”He is. Most definitely.”
”Of a country that doesn't even recognize his existence? I don't think I'd be out of line if I asked where he gets his funds from, do you?”
”Family money,” Falco said. ”He's currently involved in selling some pieces from his very old and valuable art collection.”
”I see.” Paige ran a fingernail over the raised lettering on the invitation. She recalled what a Hungarian official had told her during the last of her overseas calls, ”Miss LaSanda, we have found a Conrad Vulkan mentioned in a fragment of Magyar history dated around 1342, but that would hardly be the gentleman you're seeking. This Prince Vulkan was the last of a long line of pretenders to the throne of the northern provinces. His carriage went off a mountain road when he was just seventeen, and it was a.s.sumed that wolves ate his body. As for someone pa.s.sing himself off as Hungarian royalty, that's a different story indeed. We would hate for the name of our government to be involved in any . . . shall we say, unsavory practices?”
”For a man of royal tastes,” Paige said to Falco, ”this Prince Vulkan doesn't seem to care very much about his living conditions, does he?”
”The castle suits him perfectly,” Falco replied, crus.h.i.+ng out his cigarette in an onyx ashtray at his side. ”He lives now approximately the same way he lived in Hungary. He needs no luxuries, no conveniences of a modern world. He's never used a telephone and never plans to. For light there are always candles, aren't there?”
”And he used the fireplaces for heat?”
”That's right.”
”Well, I've sold and rented both houses and commercial property to all kinds of people, but I'll have to say that your Prince Vulkan is quite a unique individual.” She drew on her cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling. ”I bought that old place for a song. At the time the Hilton people were thinking about converting it into a hotel, but the plans fell through for one reason or another . . .”
”The castle is built on unstable rock,” Falco said quietly. ”Prince Vulkan has told me he can feel the walls vibrate from time to time.”
”Oh, really?” Paige's cheeks reddened a bit; of course, she'd already known that fact from the Hilton surveyors. ”Well, it's stood for over forty years, and I'm confident it'll stand for another forty. At least.” She cleared her throat and felt the old man's stare fixed to her. ”But Prince Vulkan isn't involved in local commerce is he?”
”No.”
”Then why did you want those warehouses? Of course, it's none of my business. As long as he pays the rent, I don't care what he stores in there, but . . .” Falco nodded. ”I understand your curiosity, and so does Prince Vulkan. I would therefore suggest that you accept this invitation. All will be explained.” mrf ”I've never met a prince before,” Paige said thoughtfully. ”A couple of sheikhsf and some rock stars, yes, but not a prince. Or an ex-prince either for that matter. ” How old is he?”
”Old enough to be wise, young enough to have ambitions.”
”Interesting. Eight o'clock?” She picked up the card again and looked at it, then looked at the signature on the check. ”I have a previous engagement for tomorrow night, but I suppose I could break it this once. Well, what the h.e.l.l?
I've never had dinner in a drafty old castle before. Tell him I'd be honored to have dinner with him.”
”Very good.” Falco rose to his feet and moved unsteadily toward the door. He put his hand on the k.n.o.b and paused, standing still for a few seconds.
”Anything else?” Paige asked.
Falco's spine seemed to stiffen. Very slowly he turned to face her, and now his eyes had retreated so far back in his creased, weary face that they seemed no more than small black circles somewhere at the brain. ”I've spoken for Prince Vulkan'' said in a soft, tired voice. ”Now I'll speak for myself, and G.o.d help me. Turn down the invitation, Miss LaSanda. Keep your previous engagement. Do not come up that mountain to the castle.”
”What?” Paige smiled uncertainly. ”I've said I'll come. There's no need to twist the knife of suspense . . .”
”I mean what I say.” He paused, staring straight at her so intensely Paige felt a chill run up her spine. ”Now, what reply shall I take to the prince?”
”Uh . . . I'll come. I guess.”
Falco nodded. ”I'll tell him. Good day, Miss LaSanda.”
”Good ... uh ... good day.”
And then Falco had slipped through the door and was gone.
”Now, what in the name of Christ was that all about?” she asked herself. She held up the check-I hope this b.a.s.t.a.r.d's good, she thought grimly-and looked at the signature, trying to envision the man through it. The lines were thin and elegant, and under the name there was a looped, intricate flourish that reminded her of the signatures on old faded, yellowed doc.u.ments. Probably used a quill on this, too, she thought, no Bics or Mark Cross for the prince. He would, of course, be dark, very tall, and as thin as a drawn rapier, he would be in his late forties or early fifties, and he probably had a list of ex-wives as long as Wils.h.i.+re Boulevard. That's probably why he came to the States-to get out of alimony payments. She wondered what to wear-her sensible gray business outfit?
Her sleek and s.e.xy black dress? She decided to run over to Bonwit Teller during her lunch hour and check out the display windows.
The intercom crackled. ”Mr. Doheny is here, Miss LaSanda.” ”Thank you, Carol. Send him right in.” She folded the check and, smiling dreamily, tucked it away in a drawer.
FIVE.
A bloodred Chrysler Imperial with a foxtail tied to the radio antenna pulled smoothly to the curb of Machado Street in East L.A., three blocks from the Santos's apartment building on Dos Terros. From the car a young black man wearing sungla.s.ses and a pale blue suit emerged, at first glancing warily up and down the street and then swaggering toward an unpainted wooden bench a few feet away. He sat down to wait because he had just finished a deal up on Whittier and he was early.
Across the street, lines of multicolored clothing hung between the dark, brick buildings. Occasionally someone pa.s.sed by a window-a woman in a print dress, a man in a stained unders.h.i.+rt, a child with thin shoulders-and stopped to stare out vacantly at the rest of the world. From other open windows the black man could hear the blast of boombox stereos, the rattle of pots and pans, the long wail of a child, voices raised in feverish anger. Sometimes jammed in between the tenements were ramshackle houses with sagging front porches, hulks of cars, or remnants of was.h.i.+ng machines in rock-strewn front yards. It was just after noon, and the sun was merciless, beating down like a hammer on the dry flat streets; it seemed that everything trembled at the point of ignition, ready to flare into fire with each tick of the clock. The black man turned his head, beads of sweat glittering on his cheeks, and stared across at a clapboard bar decorated with white-painted music notes. It was, not surprisingly, called El Musica Casino. At the corner of Machado there was a flat-roofed grocery store, its windows plastered with Spanish signs. A slat-ribbed dog sniffed around garbage cans, stopped to stare balefully at the black man, then scurried away down an alley.
It was a neighborhood ripe for the dreams that Cicero sold. When he looked to his left again, he saw a man and woman approaching, holding hands like frightened children. The man, a walking skeleton with deep blue hollows beneath his eyes, wore faded brown trousers and a s.h.i.+rt with a green and brown floral pattern; the woman would have been quite attractive but for the acne scars on her cheeks and a feral look in her eyes. Her hair was dirty, and it hung limply around her shoulders, and she wore a bright blue s.h.i.+ft that barely covered her swelling belly. Their combined ages would hardly have added up to much more than forty, but their faces carried ancient, desperate expressions.
Cicero watched them coming, his teeth flaring white. He hooked a thumb back toward that alley, and the two figures hurriedly entered it. Cicero looked up and down the street again. Everything was cool, he thought. The cops never prowled around here. He got to his feet and took his sweet time in going back to the alley where they waited.
”Gimme,” Cicero said when he reached the man.
He gave Cicero a coffee-stained envelope, his hand trembling. Beside him the woman s.h.i.+vered; her teeth were chattering. Cicero tore open the envelope and counted the money very slowly, relis.h.i.+ng the cold waves of need that washed in off the two bodies. Then he grunted, said ”Lookin' good,” and withdrew a small packet of white powder from an inside coat pocket. He dangled the packet before the man's face and saw him bare his teeth like an animal. ”Sweet dreams,” Cicero whispered. The man grabbed it with a soft moan and raced off along the alley with the woman shouting at his heels. Cicero watched them vanish around a corner and put the money in his pocket. Stupid s.h.i.+ts, he thought. Fool didn't even wait to check the horse. Junk's cut so much they'll barely get a buzz, and before nightfall they'll be needin' again. Well, they know where to find old Cicero . . .
He laughed to himself, patted his pocket, and walked back along the alley toward the street.
At the mouth of the alley, a hulking figure stepped into his path. Cicero said ”Wha-?” and that was all because in the next instant a hand had slammed into his shoulder, sending him flying back into the alley. Cicero collided with a brick wall and went down to his knees, all the breath squashed out of him. A hand with scarred knuckled grasped Cicero's collar and wrenched him up until he was standing on the toes of his gray alligator-skin boots. His sungla.s.ses dangled from one ear, and his first coherent thought was Cop. The man who held him pinned against the wall was over six-four with wide shoulders that looked as solid as concrete. He was a Chicano, possibly in his mid-forties, dark complexion with fierce black eyes under thich gray-flecked brows. He wore a mustache, also flecked with gray, and there were swirls of gray at the temples in a head of hair so black it seemed to hold s.h.i.+mmers of blue.
His eyes were narrowed into fierce slits above a craggy nose, and there was the faint pinkish line of a scar running through his left eyebrow and up into the hairline. This man had a deadly look, and he was crowding Cicero too close for him to reach the ten-inch blade in his back pocket.
Not a cop, Cicero thought. This f.u.c.ker wants to rob my a.s.s, maybe kill me, tool And then Cicero's gaze dropped to the man's throat. And the white collar he was wearing. A priest!