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                                            CHAPTER NINE

                                              Lucilva Paley

6:50 p.m.

Fade In, Reggie thought.SOUND of RAIN; SOUND of LAPPING FIRE.

CLOSE-UP: Floating in wax at the top of a red candle, a flame flickers....FLIP-FOCUS: Mascara-lined eyes...a perfect, American nose...full, rosy-pink lips are moving....

Lucilva Paley fingered a thread of gold chain that draped around her neck and over a pale blue cashmere sweater. She was talking, but all Reggie heard was the flutter of the candle flame as her voice swept over it.

I am a damn film maker, he wanted to tell her. He wasn't some punk. But he couldn't say it. She had no interest in his creative mind; she wanted someone to make a hundred pounds of crank.

He dipped his last piece of tri-tip in horseradish sauce and ate it. Otto Steiger’s voice rushed through his mind. The Mission. How could he ask her about her mother? He'd find an opening.

The dining room was situated in one tip of the Paley's lightning bolt-shaped house. "I always liked this house," he said.

"Father built it in '58." She tossed her thick, brown hair off her shoulders. "He designed it, built it, landscaped it, furnished it–it'll always be his." Her pensive eyes roamed the mirrored walls, the open-beamed ceilings, the love seat in front of a cavernous stone hearth. "If there's a flaw anywhere in this house, he put it there on purpose."

With the exception of the spacious window with a panoramic view of town, the walls were covered ceiling to floor in mirrors. It gave the room the tricky appearance of a fun house. In the candlelight and firelight, the multiple images that dominoed into infinity in the mirrors were haunting.

"Was your mother around when it was built?" he asked.

She set down her fork. A grimace furrowed her forehead. In the silence, she stared at him, chewing so sensuously that he could barely take his eyes from her lips. She swallowed. "No." A thought rose in her face. Her nose wrinkled. "You like little girls, don't you?"

"Little girls?" he replied, noting she had quickly changed the subject.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine."

"And how old is your...girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend?"

Lucilva raised her straight-lined eyebrows. She was after something and he didn't like it. "Your little companion up the hill."

"Jackie?"

"Aw, we connect. Yes, Jackie. She's what? Sixteen, seventeen?"

"Eighteen next Friday–but wait a minute. How'd you know about her?"

"Who do you think alerted me to your predicament at the police station?"

"She's here?"

"Parked in the motorhome up the hill on our property."

He started to get up.

"She's fine. Finish your dinner."

"Why didn't you tell me she was here?"

"I just did."

"Earlier."

"What was the point? I want you to know, I don't like her here. She's in the way. Kids are more trouble than they're worth. Besides, she's a meth head."

"Don't look at me. I don't do drugs. A little pot, but no booze, or pills, or coke–and no crank."

"So who got her slammin'–I think that's the word–who got her slammin' speed?"

"Herself. Let's not get into this. This has nothing to do with you. Your father wanted a quick burn–one score–and then I was out of the picture. Everything else about me is none of your business."

"It's all my business," she said, placing her napkin beside her plate. She rose and walked to the window. She opened the louvered section and a breeze fluttered her black, Chinese pants. When she raised up on her tiptoes to move the lever, Reggie envisioned a graceful beast of beauty–a cheetah, a panther–something fast and clever. Something carnivorous.

"You grew up in the San Fernando Valley and went to high school for a whole year. You attended Hollywood Arts Experimental College, where you studied filmmaking and made a documentary at age 24 about careers or something–won an award. You worked as a stuntman in a couple Burt Reynolds movies. And then you didn't do much of anything for almost three years, until you met Otto Steiger. Being Father's investigator for years, he called him when he wanted certain things, as you know, and, I suppose, that's where you came into the picture."

"There you go again," she said, pointing at him with the poker.

"What?" Reggie asked.

"You, like, fade out. You look straight at me, but you don't see me. Your eyes go woozy like you're day-dreaming, and then you're...gone."

Reggie rose from the table, pointed his finger at his temple. Don’t tell her about the monster. Too weird. "It's the right side of my brain taking over," he admitted. "It beats the hell out of the left side with a few sinister thoughts and the left side plays dead for awhile."

This, she liked. She took a cigarette from a pack lying on the fireplace mantle and lit it. As he walked towards the love-seat in the sitting room area, Reggie watched her face turn into a healthy big grin, before she erupted into mischievous laughter.

Reggie chuckled with her, but he had to work at picturing himself the way she'd described, his eyes going woozy–getting that faraway look–and blanking out. Had to look like a screwball. It was the movies in his brain...they were so clear–clearer than any dream he ever remembered. If he ever got the chance to direct a film again, he'd be ready with this...what was it? Gift? Talent? What?

Lucilva poked the orange embers, stirred up sparks.

"You're doing it again," she said. "Are you sick or what? Don't let me depend on you if you're screwed up on something."

"I'm clean and sane," he assured her. "And I have one of the best alchemists in the business ready to cook. Problem is, you got me out and not him."

"That's because you didn't do it and your partner was holding."

"How do they know I didn't do it? And what about the dog? I killed it."

"I told Tom Lee you couldn't have robbed my father's grave. And nobody but Sam Poteet cared about that damn dog."

"You told them I didn't do it and they believed you."

"Why would I lie to them? It was my father's body that got–"

"But how do you know I didn't do it?"

Lucilva hesitated. "I have proof."

"Terrific. What?"

She slunk over to the love-seat, sat and cautiously said: "I can't tell you that."

Reggie grunted. He turned away and banged into a telephone on a tiny table at the end of the love-seat. He caught it before it tumbled off. He hated unidentified flying favors hanging over his head.

"Would you like to listen to some music, or–"

"Pulling pure meth from industrial chemicals ain't easy," he interrupted. "I need Ivan. Got the word from Josh you want 100 pounds. That'll take time."

"Don't worry about Ivan," she sighed. "I've arranged for Dan Birdforth, who happens to be my cousin and a great lawyer, to appear at his arraignment tomorrow. Dan said the cops got 27 grams of pot–a gram short of an ounce. It's a lousy infraction. He is clean, right?"

"Yeah. So why they holding him if they only got 27 grams? The D.A. ought to let him go."

"Well," she said, halting long enough to bite her lip and think about it, "they don't know they only have 27 grams–yet."

Lucilva drug the last puff from her cigarette and flicked the butt into the fire like a punk on a street corner. "He'll be out tomorrow, I promise."

"No more surprises." He paced in front of the fire. "You let me in on what's going on as it goes–not later."

"If you're not happy with the pecking order, I can find another cook. You're here because...because my father wanted you to be here. He made a deal with you. I'm only carrying out his wishes."

That didn't ring true. "How noble," he said, softening the sarcasm with a tight-lipped grin. He stepped away from the fire and sat on the arm of the love-seat.

She entwined her fingers like a nun, cupped them under her chin, then slowly lowered them. She thrust her two index fingers at him like a double-barreled shotgun. Her flat eyebrows rolled down over her eyes. Cast in shadow, her eye sockets were black holes. "You are expendable."

He didn't believe it. She was too smart for that. The burn would net a million dollars. She wouldn't keep him just because her father liked him. But she would keep him. The chemicals were coming. The connection was arranged. Finding a meth cook, not already working for the bikers, would take time–and she didn't have time. Josh said it. It had to be done quick. The deal was in motion. And her father was dead. There was no stopping it now.

The phone rang. In a moment, a young Salvadoran woman came to the door of the sitting room. "Mr. Quinn, ma'am."

Lucilva excused herself and left the room. Why didn't she take the call in here? Reggie slid down from the arm to the love- seat, eyed the telephone beside it. He tilted the receiver up so he could get a finger on the dial-tone button. Receiver at his ear, he held his breath until he got his finger off the button and his hand over the mouthpiece. He exhaled.

"...and I don't think it's a joke," a familiar, proper male voice was saying.

"Where am I supposed to get fifty thousand dollars?" Lucilva said, hushed.

"I know, dearie; they're sons-of-bitches."

"He was my father...but why...why would I pay to get back his body?"

"Who knows how sons-of-bitches think? Maybe they figure you'd pay out of respect–or loyalty."

"Respect? My father dies of a stroke and leaves me with a mountain of bills. The avalanche falls any day."

"I understood Chris had cash."

"He was in worse shape than anyone knows. Feds were on his butt, so he started selling things short."

"Oh, honey. I'm sorry. I had no idea. Why didn't you tell me?"

"What could you do? No one could do anything. Father had his way of doing things and no one told him otherwise. I don't know, John. Maybe I could raise the money. I might have to."

There was dead air. Reggie heard clicking sounds. "You know, today, when I dropped off the city charter for Monday's council meeting, the gate phone rang. I couldn't get into the office. I had to run all the way into the kitchen. Was there a reason it was locked?"

Dead air again. "Yes." Lucilva hesitated. "Amalia has family working at the bank, and, you know, the bank's under investigation, so I don't want her in there snooping around."

"Very smart of you, dearie. Don't trust anybody." He laughed. "Not even me."

She laughed back. "Who else can I trust if not you, John?"

"Do you love me?" he said dramatically but insecure.

"Yes, John."

"Does Josh suspect anything?" A trickle of fear in his voice.

"That you love me? Of course not." She sighed harshly, and the years of smoking made it sound hollow. "Josh and I had the same father, not the same mother."

"I know."

"Then you also know that my little brother is a homicidal orangutan with an attention span about as long as a monkey's tail, and if there aren't drugs around, he won't pay any attention.

"That's what I thought," the man said. He sounded wimpier by the second to Reggie. "At Monday's city council meeting, we're going to carry the vote. You'll make a wonderful–and beautiful–mayor."

"So it's in there?"

"Haven't you read the charter? It's in there. Chris put it there. His heir has legal authority to take over his position in the event of his death–with a majority of the council's approval. You have me, you have the doc."

"That's only half the council."

"Even in death, Chris's vote counts. That's three. Dearie, I still don't understand why you want this headache. You have so much to do now with Chris gone."

"The name of this town is Paley. That's why."

"May I be so bold as to give you some advice then?"

"Yes, John."

"Give the people a chance to buy back the land. Keep your father's promise. Turn Paley into a real community."

"What would you call it now?"

"A giant theme park. Except nobody goes home at the end of the day."

Lucilva snorted. She didn't like the characterization.

"Don't take it wrong. It's just that...well, people in town are talking. There was a government vehicle seen up at your place on a couple of occasions last month. A man was seen in town, too. Drove all over. Didn't stop. Just looked. What's going on with that?"

"I honestly have no idea. Father knew lots of people. Maybe it was the Bank Board. They've been harassing us for weeks."

"Oh, honey. I'm sorry. You're having a terrible time, aren't you, and I'm not helping matters at all."

"It's okay."

"I'd come up and keep you company, but...well, Amalia said you have a man over for dinner."

"Yes. And he's patiently waiting for me."

"Would he be the same Neanderthal-looking fellow from L. A. who's been getting all those goodies for Chris?"

Reggie's hand slipped off the mouthpiece and his mouth opened. A distant rapping of an engine anchored his tongue from giving him away. He was going to look out the window and see what was out there, but he didn't want to miss the rest of the call.

"That's my business, John. And you shouldn't be talking about it."

"You know, don't you, that your dinner guest came by your house this afternoon looking for you–with a shotgun. He parked down the road. Walked up the driveway in the rain. All that tells me he had something up his sleeve–or, shall I say, down his loincloth."

"There you go," Lucilva said lightly, "staging life, always directing the facts into some...some improvisational fantasy."

"There's a thought."

"He had a fight with my brother. He was trying to avoid him, that's all."

"Well, I called November. He picked him up on the road. Your dinner guest threatened him with the shotgun."

"Threatened him?"

"Something about being run over by a pick-up that resembled November's old piece of junk. Point is, he's not a stable person. Be careful."

"I will."

"You and I need to have dinner. There's things to discuss. Honoring Chris's pledge. And The Plunge."

"I already told you. Your vote, your support, and it'll be quitclaimed back."

"Wasn't right what Chris did to my father to get it."

"John, not right now. In the morning, alright?"

"I didn't like your father, you know. But I think it would be a wise, if not politically resourceful, choice to get his body back. Perhaps they'll take less money."

"You might be right. I'll try to come up with some money. Won't be easy."

In the following silence, Reggie recognized the clicking sounds. Crickets. Was he outside? Using one of those cellular phones?

"I'm sorry," John said. "I'm not helping, am I? Get back to your dinner with Fred Flintstone."

"Thanks for your support, John."

"Love you, dearie."

She hung up. Reggie dropped the phone into its cradle and stood up. He stared at himself in the mirrored wall beside the fireplace.

Fred Flintstone! A caveman with a civilized expression, for sure--nonetheless, I resemble...the Apple computer guy--Steve Wozniak--without all the facial hair!

He wasn't handsome. Brown shaggy hair, dominating eyebrows, a flat forehead, a low rocky jaw line, and that monstrous mouth, full of teeth. Maybe Lucilva's caller was right. He looked very Neanderthal. But be felt like....

"What are you doing?" Lucilva said behind him.

He spun around and shrugged. "Thinking."

She came to him, stood close. He smelled the wine on her breath, her rose-scented perfume. He felt a self-conscious desire come over him.

"What was I saying?" she asked.

"That I was expendable."

"Don't take it personally."

Outside, in the distance, was an eerie wailing. It stopped abruptly. Lucilva turned in the direction of the hill behind the house. Another short wail, a gasping scream, like a dying animal...or a little girl playing.

Reggie's body tensed. "What was that?" His senses pitched to listen.

"An animal, I think. Can't tell."

"What kind of animal screams like that?"

"Rabbit. When a coyote gets it."

Reggie looked out the picture window. He could see most of the driveway, but there was nothing there. He would've sworn he heard a motorcycle. The rain had paused. Far below in the valley he saw the black hole off to his right to the east. That was The Plunge. And then...something slowly pierced his skull at the base of his neck. At first he thought it was going to be one of those neck spasms he got when he was uptight. It turned into a creepy shiver. It exploded into an image of Chris Paley–short, fat, saggy-jowled, perpetual tan, a full head of white hair–standing at the same window gazing over his desert like a king.

Another scream–long and clearly human.

Instinctively, Reggie ran through the dining room, through a hall, turned right into a huge family room in the rear, charged onto a porch, down the stone-lined stairs and into the back-40 of the Paley estate. Mud sucked his shoes down as he ran through the grove of fruit trees. He hurdled irrigation troughs that traversed the hill. He came to a shed halfway to the crest of the hill. From the left in the grove, a deep voice swore in a staggered huff. Reggie sunk to mid-calf in mud, pressed his body against and watched around the corner of the rain-soaked shed.

The man resembled a fat fairy-tale ogre, covered head to boot in mud, as he staggered through the trees. He fell. Mud sucked around his legs and arms. He swore again. When the man rose, he stepped out of the grove. Distant light from the house shone on the face of Josh Paley. He'd come from the top of the hill, where the motorhome was parked.

Reggie rushed around the back of the shed and blindly ran up the hill aiming for the top through the trees. Half-way up, he saw the motorhome in silhouette and ran faster.

Something tripped him. He lurched forward, lost his balance and cracked his head on a low tree branch. Pain shot through him; rain-water spilled from the leaves and soaked him. Then something groaned. All he could see was black ooze. Then a moving figure, covered in mud, drew him to look closer.

The nude girl groaned as she rolled to her back. Her eyes widened with fright.

"Jackie, it's me, Reggie." He took her naked body in his arms. She resisted, pushing away and flailing her arms. "I'm here, it's alright." Her black hair matted against her face. Slowly, as recognition came to her, she wrapped her arms around him. She squeezed him so tight it took his breath away.

As she cried softly in his shirt, he lifted her out of the mud.

Jackie's voice quivered. Barely audible, she said:

"He raped me."

Reggie rocked her gently, trying to feel in control, while his hatred and anger boiled in his stomach and turned the meal into a bomb.

"It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay." He kissed the top of her head and carefully lead her down the hill. She held on to him around his waist and nestled her head under his arm.

"I want to go home," she wept. "I want to go home."

Reggie wished the image of Josh Paley out of his mind. The lightning bolt-shaped house came into view again. He stopped. A sucking sound. He turned.

From the night sky came a silver flash and he instinctively ducked. Then he felt the burst of pain as it came down hard on his back, causing him to release Jackie, dropping her into the mud. He couldn’t move his feet in the mud fast enough to square up to the attack and swung wildly, connecting with the body of a man, who merely grunted. And then he saw who it was and what he had in his hand. The piece of pipe came down before he could react.

Fade To Black.