Love Me or Kill Me Page 11

  “A plant who is not the same kind as those who associate in the Oculus, but nevertheless he’s an alien who seems to get along in human form quite well. His human name is Joe Lorena. He used to work for a crime syndicate here in the city. Something unpleasant happened and he went underground, where I met him. He had committed himself to a kind of ‘detoxifying’ or re-training program. I was there for some mental and emotional therapy because of what I was dealing with before I called you. It was Lorena who told me to give you a call.”

  “Tell me you’re not one of them.”

  “I’m not one of them. ‘ Underground’ is a safe house for aliens who need correcting—voluntarily, of course—and most of them are pretty nice guys and gals.”

  “Men and women?” I asked. It suddenly dawned on me that I had never considered the fair sex in the alien equation. “How can you tell a female alien—”

  “—they’re moving, Cable. What—what are we going to do?” Benedict Royce sputtered. “Don’t lose them!”

  The switch engine pulled the boxcar containing Zephyr and Lexie to another siding. I knew I had to move now—and fast. “You stay here—or better yet, get Henry and get the hell out of here. Have him drive you back to Mathilda, in the hideout—and sooner or later you’ve got to tell her about Eden. Maybe it’s a good time to help her heal some of those deep gashes she endured because of your ego and selfishness all those years.”

  Royce made a face like a little boy having to face a severe spanking. “Yes…I guess you’re right. I’ve got to save what I can, since I made a ghastly mess of everything else.”

  “Money and power ain’t the end-all-be-all, pal.” I looked him over. “I guess you’re sort of experiencing that. If I had the time or inclination, I’d rub your nose in it.” I opened the car door. “Watch your back and keep your phone line open.” I closed the door and walked away, not sure how I was going to handle this new development.

  Somehow I had to get those murderous bums out of the way, rescue Zephyr and Lexie, and the three of us hightail it for—for—for where? I had no idea. I glanced back over my shoulder to see if Royce had left yet. But the light-green touring car remained where I’d left it. I crept through the lines of freight cars until I spotted the little switch engine and the Tuscan colored boxcar. I made a run for the car, but they must have been waiting for me because I heard three shots ring out and I dove for the gravel deck and rolled under a boxcar opposite where Zephyr and Lexie were kept captive. There were three thugs, two of which now stood guarding the boxcar. One of them was creeping around in back of me, hoping he’d hit me with one of his three shots. I poised myself, aimed and rolled out from under the car just in time to fire point blank into the man’s chest. He got off one round into the air and fell. Now I had the other two coming at me. I blasted one before he could get a bead on me and he fell, mortally wounded. The remaining killer was mad as a hornet, but he left his post and ran around to the other side of the boxcar to obtain better cover. I ran towards the boxcar that held the precious sea-child but the thug came out firing. I dropped to the ground, but he wasn’t shooting at me. Benedict Royce had a concealed weapon and came around from behind a group of small buildings firing away at the gangster! But Royce was a bad shot and he took two bullets in the chest, and staggered to the ground on his knees. I took advantage of the situation and discharged two of my last three bullets into the angry thug. I hit him in the skull and he dropped like a sack of Irish potatoes. I ran to the door of the boxcar and yelled to Zephyr and she quickly slid open the door. But life is funny and in the flurry of things the one man I thought I had killed staggered to his feet and fired his .38 at all of us. One bullet shattered Lexie’s glass tank and the water poured out of the boxcar along with glass and a wounded Lexie. I turned and dispatched the remaining gangster with my last slug. I knew the little dolphin boy could breathe oxygen, so I wasn’t worried on that account. But a large piece of glass was stuck into his side. Zephyr flew off the boxcar to help her father and we both dragged him to the Tuscan boxcar. The engineer of the switch engine had fled to call the cops, I assumed.

  There is always something strange, that when in the middle of chaos and calamity, there is a quiet, an eerie hush that comes over the scene. Royce staggered to where Lexie flopped on the deck of the boxcar. “Son…my son,” he cried. He was bleeding pretty bad and I didn’t think he had too long to go. “I’m so sorry…I was ashamed of you—because—because I was ashamed of—of myself…I never got to say…I love you, because I didn’t know….what…what to feel….”

  The little creature flapped his tail. I hopped up onto the deck of the boxcar and checked out the piece of glass stuck into Lexie’s ribs. I started to pull it out. “Little guy, I owe you my life…this might smart a little—so hang on!” I ripped the broken shard out of the dolphin boy’s body and he winced and let out a little yelp. It looked like I got it all out.

  “Oh, Cable—no!” Zephyr quavered.

  I ripped my shirt off and dabbed Lexie’s wound with it. He seemed okay everywhere else. I looked into his warm, soulful eyes. “I think you’re gonna be just fine, young one,” I said pityingly. “We’ll get you back into some sea water and you’ll heal in no time.”

  Barely able to stand, Benedict Royce bent into the boxcar and embraced the little being. “Forgive me, son…at least…even though I’m dying… I—I can still tell you…I wanted to love you, son…but I—I didn’t know how…”

  Lexie snuggled his snout into Royce’s chest and let out what must have been one of those indescribable sounds, that traveling across the universe can define joy and sorrow at the same time. Police sirens sounded in the distance and I knew this chapter was over. No, there would never be a family reunion on some small island off Nassau. This was the end of the line. Benedict Royce breathed his last breath holding his sea-child son. Zephyr held her father and I held on to her as the police came to haul us off and sort out the body count and mystifying nature of a very active morning in the life of Cable Denning, P.I.

  And so ended the Royce case. Lexie recovered just fine and Zephyr returned with him to her seashell castle, there to frolic with him in the waves for the rest of her days….or so I was told in later years. For whatever reasons, the Oculus never bothered to check Royce Cove Cottage again and the Royce family faded from memory along with their nefarious plans. Eventually as she grew old, Mathilda Royce sold off Neptunia and came to live in the cottage at the cove. She was never told that Lexie was her son. Sometimes it’s hard to put together, but far as I can figure, the maternal bond between Zephyr and Lexie probably came about to compensate for neither Mathilda Royce nor her husband showing parental love for their hybrid offspring. Nor did I discount what the Oculus Transeo Terra did to psychically bond the wonderful, energetic little sea-child to his sister, Fiona Zephyr Royce, who was as soft as the gentle west wind, and above all, I would never forget…. she was the girl who lived…in a seashell.

  CHAPTER 6

  GOR THE HORRIBLE

  1930 seemed to be whizzing by like a boomerang that zips over your head but never comes back. My business was flourishing, despite the rotten economy, Adora and I were getting on great and as far as my nemesis was concerned, all appeared quiet on the western front. The Royce case had pretty much worn me out for a while, so some smooth sailing felt good for a change. There was no way to tell at the time, but it was the calm before the storm—and just around the corner all hell was about to break loose from its fiery confines.

  Some nights I would still sleep at my office to give both Adora and me some space once in a while. She enjoyed having her mother and sister over for Mexican coffee and tortillas, babbling a hundred miles an hour in Spanish. Sometimes they would spend the night with Adora. It may have been my imagination, but I had noticed Adora seemed to be losing weight. Some mornings her skin seemed sallow, her energy more listless, her breasts beginning to sag, as if some of the life in them had been drained away. Something just seemed odd to me. But I let it pas
s and got on with things, the way normal people are supposed to do, we all get older, right? But actually, that crazy music that played in my head whenever I was alone with the world, was a haunting reminder that I wasn’t “normal” and would never be “normal,” whatever that meant.

  Once in a while I missed walking down into a dive and hearing some dish singing great tunes while people jabbered, laughed, drank, smoked and propositioned each other—a life style I could get used to, I thought. But the taste kind of went out of my mouth after Honey and so I figured the straight and narrow might let me live a little longer. But you never know about these things. Life has a tenuous vise-grip, holding you there in the darkest areas, squeezing your throat just enough to keep you aware of it. Then, at any time, the Great Decider can come in for the kill, apply the pressure and bam! —your whole world changes for good.

  It was about 8:30 on a Tuesday night. I sat at my desk preparing some papers for a court hearing, puffing on a Lucky Strike. A half-filled glass of gin sat opposite me. But I was still thinking about the music—that lonely sax weaving haunting melodies through my soul, making me remember what beauty is all about. Beauty is a falling oak leaf in Bronson Park, an ocean view, an exquisite smile, an Irving Berlin tune that transforms the moment, or some doll who looks too perfect to be a human woman. And since meeting Joe Lorena and Benedict Royce, I’m not so sure that some of those dishes weren’t aliens! I was mulling all of this over when the phone rang.

  “Yeah, Cable Denning here.”

  “Cable, it’s me, Zelda—how are you?”

  “Zelda! Good to hear from you. Oh, I’m fair to middlin’—how about you? Gees, it’s been a year or so? Whatever happened to those plants you were supposed to decorate my office with?”

  “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through. After I finally found a nice place to live—I mean, us to live—my plants and all, I met this guy, and just like you said, I found him among the white coats in an experimental laboratory. Botany, of course. He was researching this and that, stuff my Dad had done years before. Anyway, I kind of went for him, Cable. We dated for about three months without having sex. You know me, Miss Cautious. So when we decided to move in together so he could help me pay the rent at my new place, he sits me down and tells me he’s a fag—a damn homosexual—and that he’d like to experiment with me, a woman, to see if he might like it. And that would make him bisexual—and that I couldn’t stomach.”

  “Tough break, kid,” I said, feeling for the little non-descript, bookworm.

  She drew a big breath and let it out. “So I broke my heart, licked my wounds and here I am—talking to you, my old friend. Still want some plants?”

  “Yeah, sure, the place looks a bit barren. Adora just hasn’t got around to—”

  “—who’s Adora?” Zelda’s voice suddenly grew stiff and cold.

  “Uh….well, someone I met, Zelda. Life goes on, in case you haven’t noticed. I grieved a long time, and actually wouldn’t have made it through without this young woman’s assistance. So…there you have it.”

  “Oh.” Again, her voice was aloof. “Well, I hope you’re both happy, Cable.” Then she got over that bump in her road. “I’ve always thought the world of you. I know you know that. After all, you were the only man who ever took me out dining and dancing—”

  “—yeah, and helped you get sloshed,” I laughed.

  “But I loved getting sloshed with you, private detective. When can I come over so you can help me upstairs with the plants?”

  “Where do you live?”

  “I—I just moved in at Argyle Apartments. I’m sort of your neighbor. I’d love to see you, Cable—I’ve missed you…and whenever I would think about you and—and…well, you know…I don’t—”

  “—it’s okay, Zelda. You can say Honey, because love doesn’t go away that fast, doll. She’s still singin’ in my ear, you know, sometimes late at night when nobody else can hear.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Cable. The longer she’s gone, the more I realize how much I loved her. She’s still kind of with me, too. So that makes two of us. When can I come over? How about tomorrow—I’ve got some time off from that horrible, boring lab while they’re rebuilding some project or something.”

  I looked at my calendar. Crap, it was already November 22—in a few days Thanksgiving would signal my least favorite time of the year, that obligatory desert between Turkey Day and Christmas the merchants called the holiday season. “Let me see…tomorrow’s Wednesday…what about late afternoon. I’ve got a few things to do earlier in the day.”

  “Sure, swell!” she said with her old enthusiasm. “Maybe we can go out for a drink or something…it’s been a long, dry spell, Cable.”

  “Well, I don’t know about going out, but I can offer you some fast company and cheap gin for your trouble.”

  She giggled. “That’ll do. I really like the fast company part. I’ll see you tomorrow with a station wagon full of plants.”

  We said good night and I hung up the phone. Then I picked it right back up again and rang the cottage. I wanted to check in on Adora. She seemed okay, but a bit tired. She said she was glad I wasn’t with her tonight because she had begun her period two weeks ago and was having terrible cramps tonight. I asked if I could help and she said a couple of aspirin and a hot bath would take care of it. I told her I loved her very much and we said buenas noches. That Denning intuition was working overtime as a prickly, strange feeling ran up and down my spine like a bad dose of electric therapy. For about three months, Adora’s behavior had been changing and I sensed her health didn’t seem quite right. It wasn’t that she didn’t have the warm, giving love and harmonious demeanor she’d always had, but she had difficulty in accessing it—centering in on her old and wonderful self—not to mention how incredibly sexual she was naturally prone to be. I thought I would get her to a doc for a thorough checkup.

  Finding Goldilocks at the Teddy Bear’s Picnic

  It was a cold February. 1930 had whooshed by and now it was already 1931 and the country was sinking deeper into a Depression that had already lasted longer than it should have. This was a prosperous country with untold natural resources. Someone somewhere had pulled the wrong strings. Or had they intended it to turn out that way?

  Wednesday brought in a fresh rain from the northwest. It was early afternoon and I was finishing up a court prep-case when I heard a light knock at my office door. I got up and went to open it. “The door’s usually open, lady,” I said as I took a double take at a babe who knocked me to the floor before the first round bell as she entered.

  “I—I didn’t know,” she said in a low, breathy voice. “I took a chance you might be in—you are Mr. Cable Denning, are you not?”

  “Yep, that’s who I woke up as anyhow. Please, come in. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m—I’m looking for a private detective to assist me on a very important—and personal—matter.”

  “Well, that’s me, lady. Important is my specialty and I’m incredibly discreet when it comes to personal matters,” I bragged, having a little fun with this young dish who stood about five-four, had wonderful hazel eyes and a warm smile, reddish hair with a stylish grey-felt hat. Her face was petite with carefully plucked eyebrows, an almost orange-red lipstick painted on a pair of inviting, puffy lips and she wore a fine off-white gabardine skirt and jacket with a dark blouse underneath. She also wore very loud and shiny red leather high-heels. That stood out to me. Something didn’t quite fit, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “Thank goodness you said that. You just don’t know who to trust these days. Living in such desperate times. I mean, a woman could easily get accosted simply—simply crossing the street, now, couldn’t she?”

  “There’s an old theory, Miss…”

  “…Miss Mapleton—Sarah Mapleton.”

  Standing above her, I extended my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Sarah Mapleton.” She took my hand and clasped it tightly. I could feel fear running throu
gh her and her hand was very cold, kind of like the hands you hold at the local morgue when you’re checking out a bracelet tag. “As I was saying, I’ve got this theory that we attract what we fear. It’s kind of like, oh, say…a law of attraction…an automatic given in this newfangled pop-up toaster world we’re increasingly tossed into.”

  “I see what you mean, but I’m not much of a believer in myths, fairy tales and old home-spun remedies. I’m more at home in the world of facts and those things I feel we can verify—shall I say—scientifically?”

  “Yeah, I get your point, but don’t you think there are layers of aspects to us—unknown things we can maybe only guess at?”

  “Forgive me for saying so, Mr. Denning, but you speak most strangely and I must ask you to refrain from philosophical discussion if we are to associate.”

  I got a little miffed at the uppity character wrapped up tight in this good-looking gal. “Well, then, Miss Mapleton, perhaps it’s best that we don’t start now—associating, that is.”

  “May I ask why you say this?”

  “Because your sophisticated prattle, haughty manner and stiff-upper-lip approach may not be compatible with my slightly more—if I may use the term—lenient viewpoints of life in this swirling cosmos we dwell in, Miss Mapleton. Therefore, I suggest you seek your private dick elsewhere.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, I suggest you seek your private dick elsewhere…are you also hard of hearing—or did something I said offend you?”

  She seemed flustered. “I…I’m not sure. You mentioned a certain phrase that, uh, may have seemed offensive to me—”

  “—private dick, Miss Mapleton, short for private detective, not necessarily in capital letters. Are you one of those puritanical sweethearts brought out on Sunday mornings to parade after church so as to convince the local gentry into believing that if such a sophisticated young woman can attend the land of mythologies, then so can they?”