They Thirst (27 page)

"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, crushing 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 uses 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 his invitation. All will be explained."

"I've never met a prince before," Paige said thoughtfully. "A couple of sheikhs 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 hell? 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 knob 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," he said in a soft, tired voice. "Now I'll speak for myself, and God 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 bastard'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 documents.
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 a 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 Wilshire 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 sexy 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.

A blood red 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 sunglasses 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 passed by a window—a woman in a printed dress, a man in a stained undershirt, 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 tinny transistor radios, the rattle of pots and pans, the long wall 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 washing 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 shirt 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 shift 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 shivered; her teeth were chattering. Cicero tore open the envelope and counted the money very slowly, relishing 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 shits,
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 knuckles grasped Cicero's collar and wrenched him up until he was standing on the toes of his gray alligator skin boots. His sunglasses 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 thick, 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 shimmers 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 fucker wants to rob my ass, maybe kill me, too!

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 shirt. "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 re-ligion."

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 damned 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. "Sell-in'? 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 pass!" be said hoarsely. "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 fuck 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 God you're pushin' me right now! Ain't nobody pushes Cicero Clinton, understand?"

"Bastardo,"
the priest said quietly. "I'll stick that knife up your ass 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 crushing 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.
Comprendo?"

"Yeth," Cicero croaked, spitting out blood and bits of enamel. When he tried to struggle 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, open-mouthed.

"Hello, 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."