They Thirst Part 13

"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!

Cicero almost laughed as relief surged through his body in waves. But when he began to smile, the priest slammed him back against the wall so hard his teeth clicked. "Come on, man," Cicero said. "How's about backin' off, huh?" The priest stared at him coldly, keeping that hand clenched on Cicero's s.h.i.+rt.

"What kind of filth was in that packet?" he rumbled. "Heroin? Answer me before I break your neck, culebra!"

Cicero snorted. "You ain't gonna break no neck, Mr. Priest. That's against your religion."

With a sharp twist of his shoulder, the man flung Cicero to the ground. "Hey!" Cicero squawked. "You crazy or somethin'?"

"How long have you been dealing heroin to Miguel and his wife?"

"I don't know no d.a.m.ned Miguel."

"Who else have you been selling to?"

Cicero started to get up, but the priest moved forward with fists clenched, so Cicero stayed where he was. "Sellin'? I ain't sellin' nothin'!"

"All right, suppose we let the police decide that, si?" Cicero's hand began the long creep back to his pocket. "Look, old white collar, you don't want to mess with me, understand? I don't want to hear no talk 'bout cops. Now you're gonna step aside and let me go on my way."

"Get up," the priest said.

Cicero rose slowly, and by the time he'd straightened, he had the blade hidden in the hand that dangled loosely behind him. "I said you're gonna let me pa.s.s!" he said hoa.r.s.ely. "Do what I tell you!"

"I've been looking for you for a long time, ever since I knew Miguel and his wife were hooked on that trash. And you've been selling to Victor DiPietro and Bernardo Palamer, haven't you?"

"I don't know what the f.u.c.k you're talkin' about." Cicero grinned widely, and then the tongue of steel lapped at hot sunlight. "Move out of my way, man!" The priest looked at the blade but didn't move. "Put that down or I'll make you eat it."

"I ain't never stuck no white collar before, but I will if you pushes me! And by G.o.d you're pus.h.i.+n' me right now! Ain't n.o.body pushes Cicero Clinton, understand?"

b.a.s.t.a.r.do," the priest said quietly. "I'll stick that knife up your a.s.s and send you running home to your momma."

"Huh?" Cicero said, stunned for a second by the priest's language. That second of hesitation spelled his doom for, right in the middle of it, the priest's fist came flying out of thin air and crashed against the side of Cicero's head. As Cicero staggered back, he flailed out with the knife, but his wrist was suddenly caught in a crus.h.i.+ng vise; he shrieked in pain and dropped the blade. Then another fist filled his vision, bloodily knocking a few teeth into his mouth.

Cicero started to go down, but then the priest grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and was dragging him along the alley. On Machado Street, in full view of a number of people who had watched the whole thing from their windows, the priest picked up Cicero and jammed him down into a garbage can.

"You ever come back to my streets," the priest said, "I'll have to get rough with you. Comprende?"

"Yeth," Cicero croaked, spitting out blood and bits of enamel. When he tried to struggled out of the can, black waves crashed over him and sent him spinning down to the bottom of the sea.

"Hey! Father Silvera!" someone called out, and the priest turned. A small boy in blue jeans and scuffed white sneakers was running toward him. When the boy was near enough to see the arms and legs sticking out of the garbage can, he stopped and stared, openmouthed.

"h.e.l.lo, Leon," Father Silvera said. He rubbed the skinned knuckles of his right hand.

"Why aren't you in school today?"

"Uh ... I don't know." He stepped back as one of Cicero's arms twitched. "I didn't do my homework."

"That's not an excuse." Silvera looked at him sternly. "Your father let you stay home from school?"

Leon shook his head. "I have to take care of my sister. Papa didn't come home last night."

"He didn't come home? Where did he go?"

"Out." The boy shrugged. "He said for me to stay home with Juanita, and he was going to play cards. That was last night."

"He didn't go to work today?"; Leon shook his head again, and Silvera's shoulders sagged forward slightly;5, he'd helped Sandor La Paz get that job at the garage, he'd even vouched for the good-for-nothing b.a.s.t.a.r.do. Now Sandor had probably lost a week's wages in a card J game with the neighborhood hustlers, and he was drinking himself into a stupor in a bar. "Are you and Juanita okay?"

"Si, Father. We're doing good."

"Did you eat anything for breakfast?"I The boy shrugged. "Taco chips. But I gave Juanita a gla.s.s of milk."

"Your papa left some money for you?"

"A little bit in a drawer." His face clouded over slightly. "He's gonna come back home, isn't he?"

"Of course he will. He's probably home right now. You'd better get back there yourself and keep and eye on Juanita. She's too young to be left alone. Hurry now. I'll be by later this afternoon."

Leon beamed and started to turn away, then suddenly he heard a soft moan that didn't come from the man in the garbage can. When Leon looked back, he saw Father Silvera wiping sweat off his forehead with the palm of a trembling hand.

"Father?" he asked. "You all right?"

"Yes. Hurry on now. I'll see you later. Go!"

The boy scurried on away. He felt better now that Father Silvera was going to come by to see him. If the padre said things were going to be all right, then they would be. And Papa would be home, too, just like he said. Truly, he was a miracle man.

Silvera was aware of the people watching him from their windows. Not now! he told himself. Please don't let it happen now! When he let his hand hang by his side, it jumped and twitched with erratic spasms. He felt a boil of anger at the pit of his stomach, and suddenly he kicked over the garbage can, spilling Cicero out over the curb into the gutter. Cicero stirred and began to stagger to his feet. "Remember," Silvera said. "Don't come back around here. I'll be looking for you."

Cicero struggled behind the wheel of the Imperial and started the engine. Then he spat blood toward Silvera and shouted, "I'll get you, c.o.c.ksucka!" Then the car roared away from the curb, leaving a blue haze of exhaust and scorched rubber.

Silvera thrust his hands in his pockets and began to walk away from those watchful eyes. He'd made it around the corner when the bile came up volcanically from his stomach; he leaned over and threw up against a wall, and as he was heaving, he could feel both hands jittering in his pockets as if pulled by unseen strings. He took them out, leaned his back against the graffitied wall, and watched the fingers jerk, the veins twitching under the flesh. They seemed to belong to someone else because he had no control over them anymore, and he never knew when the spasms would start or stop. The spasms hadn't yet begun their slow creep up his forearms, as the kind doctor at County General had told him they would. But it was just a matter of time. The death dance of the muscles, once begun, was irreversible. After a moment more he walked on, past more sunburned apartment buildings and more low, dusty houses jammed in between brick walls. The barrio seemed to go on forever, one narrow garbage-strewn street after another. The place smelled of rotting, stifled souls to Silvera, the reek of corpses that had died at the dead ends in the huge, tangled maze of life. There is so much to do, he told himself as he walked. So much to do and so little time. He was going to have to find Miguel and Linda and get them off that h.e.l.lish junk, but it would be hard. Once hooked, it was easier to drift in that limbo of heroin-induced dreams than to face the stark reality of life. Silvera knew; he had the needle track on the insides of both his elbows to show for two years of life on the edge of b.e.s.t.i.a.lity. So much to do and so little time. G.o.d help me, he thought. Please give me strength. And time. Please.

At the end of the block, he could see the bell tower of his church pressed close between tenement buildings. The tower was painted white, and through the open shutters the large bra.s.s bell caught a shard of golden sunlight. Silvera had found that beautiful bell in the abandoned mission of a town called Borja, near the Mexican border. The town had been almost deserted, and it exuded a strange aura of old evil. One of the remaining residents had told Silvera that several years before a man who'd called himself Baal had come to the town and since then Borja had been tainted. Silvera had brought that bell back from the desert in a pickup truck over a hundred miles of winding, sun-scorched road. He'd rigged a hoist and with the help of a few neighborhood men had lifted the bell to the tower. He'd worked on it many weeks, polis.h.i.+ng away the last of the corrosion, and now it sang-joyful and clear to beckon all to Sunday Ma.s.s or announce Sat.u.r.day weddings, solemnly mournful tolling for a funeral procession-as a symbol of the Church of Our Sainted Mary. Not very long ago a crack had appeared at the very top of the bell and now was gradually snaking its way down to the rim. The bell's destiny was clear, and yet it had so much more work to do. Silvera smiled when he thought of what Leon and several of the other children called it-Mary's Voice.

Father Silvera reached his church and climbed a few rickety wooden steps to the front door. He was feeling better now; he'd stopped sweating, and his hands weren't trembling nearly as much as they had been. It had been the strain of throwing that heroin dealer around that had done it. He knew better than to do things like that, but he was still a bullishly strong man, and in this case his temper had gotten the best of him.

Inside, the church was almost claustrophobic with the wooden pews packed closely together, and a wine-red runner spread along the narrow aisle from front door to altar. Atop the altar stood a heavy bra.s.s crucifix, brightly polished, on an ornate base. Behind that altar with its chipped ceramic statue of Mary cradling Christ child in her arms was a large oval stained-gla.s.s window that split the light into a kaleidoscope of white, azure, violet, umber, and emerald green. In the, window's center was a representation of Jesus carrying a staff and behind him a green knoll dotted with sheep. On sunny days His eyes were circles of kind, warm brown light; on cloudy days His gaze turned stormy, the light stern and grayish.

It intrigued Silvera to watch those changes and reminded him that even Jesus Christ has His bad days.

Silvera walked through the church to his living quarters, his steps sounding hollow on the wooden floor. It was a single room, painted white, with a thin mattressed bed, a chest of drawers, a reading lamp, and a sink in the corner. There was a shelf of hard-cover books, most of them more political and sociological than theologic: Future Shock by Alvin Tofler, The Politics of Evil by James N. Virga, Drawing Down the Moon by Margot Adler. On another, lower shelf was a toaster and a hot plate, neither of which worked particularly well. The walls were decorated with crayon drawings given to him by some of the younger children in his parish-sailboats skimming a green ocean, stick figures waving from windows, rainbow-colored kites among the clouds. There was a ceramic crucifix hanging near the door, a bright travel poster that said See Mexico's Wonders, and a framed painting of a fis.h.i.+ng village featuring nets drying in the sun. It reminded him of the village he'd been born in, Puerto Grande on the Gulf of Mexico. Another door led into a tiny bathroom with a noisy toilet and a stuttering shower. He crossed the room, drew water from the sink into a drinking cup, and gingerly tasted it. Not so bad today, he thought. He drank it down gratefully, spilling only a few drops on his s.h.i.+rt because his hand wasn't trembling quite so much.

And then he listened; he thought he'd heard the front door open and close. Yes, there was the noise of footsteps now. He put the cup aside and hurried out.

There was a young man standing at the altar, staring up at the stained-gla.s.s window. He wore a pale blue s.h.i.+rt and faded, tight-fitting denims. His eyes were dark and haunted, very tired-looking. Silvera stopped and looked at the young man, hardly recognizing him. "Rico?" he said quietly. "Is that Rico Esteban?"

"Yes, Father," Rico said. "It's me."