The keepers, p.2
The Keepers, page 2
“Now see here, Terrance. I’ll thank you to let me bring Robert along as I see fit. I believe I know the boy well enough!”
“Easy man, I’ll nay be questioning your judgment. It’s only that we’re growing impatient for the fine supper you’ve promised.” MacDermott’s smile broadened to show a set of strong white teeth and a wicked glint flashed through his pale green eyes.
“The least word of advice I’d be giving, Stanhope, is that ye’d best not be letting him speak over long with Georgi.” With that, MacDermott sauntered away and began talking with Mr. Trello and Roland Perry, a slender artistic looking blond man. Robert watched for a minute, still puzzled by his last remark. He frowned at Chester.
“Who is Georgi?”
“Georgi Mezrulvili. He’s the one over there, slumped in the armchair by the fireplace.”
The man appeared to be no more than thirty, but his thin shoulders were rounded as with the burden of age. He was folded in upon himself, like a paper fan, making it impossible to tell his height.
“I’m afraid Georgi is showing his true colours tonight. Rather awful of him, I’d say. The man has had his six hundred ninety years. And damn me, if they weren’t full ones. Despite what MacDermott says, I think Georgi should be the one to settle your doubts. As I’ve told you our group is limited to ten, a new member added every sixty-nine years...”
“Then it’s his place I’m to take, he being the oldest member.” Robert stared in wonder; he found it difficult to believe Georgi was so ancient.
Chester beamed. “Certainly. As the newest member, you’ll be stepping out into a six-hundred-ninety-year span more bedazzling than your richest dreams. Come now, let’s see if we can’t jolly the old dog out of his doldrums.”
It wasn’t long before Georgi Mezrulvili’s dark mood lifted. The constant refilling of his brandy glass helped, but it seemed the recounting of those years (more history than Robert’s dizzy mind could grasp) that brought a fire to Georgi’s black eyes and loosened his tongue. Several times Samuel Nokato or Marius Trello added some forgotten detail. They had joined The Group sixty-nine and one hundred thirty eight years after Georgi. They spoke of centuries as others mention weeks or months. They talked of the Crusades, the Black Death, the Spanish Inquisition, and of the year Henry VIII came to the throne; and yet, more than three hundred years had passed since that date. As the stories spun out the faces in the lamplight reflected a glow of triumph. Several threw their heads back and laughed as only men at the pinnacle of power can do.
Robert’s heart pounded with the longing that the words they spoke be true. They must; or it was as Chester had suggested, he had fallen into a den of madmen. Still, there was no denying the tremendous wealth of these men. As to the power, well, didn’t the two go hand in glove? He narrowed his eyes and looked round The Group. A deep abiding certainty settled in the marrow of his bones. He would give anything to share what these men had, even if they were lying about the six hundred ninety years.
Georgi rose, clumsy and tottering, stumbling a few steps and then threw his long skinny arm across Robert’s shoulders. It rested heavy as a dead man’s arm. Georgi slumped forward and spoke into Robert’s face; his breath came in hot, spirits-laden blasts.
“It is our night, my friend,” Georgi slurred. “My last feast and your first. A joy for me, a sorrow for you. But don’t despair, at midnight when I depart the joy will be yours and the sorrow mine.”
Perplexed, Robert raised his eyebrows at Chester. Chester frowned at Georgi.
“Come now, Georgi, don’t muddle the boy with your arcane babbling.” So saying, Chester motioned Robert to follow him.
Happy to disengage himself from Georgi’s drunken embrace, Robert slipped away to join Chester. Behind him, Leland Kellerman took a strident lead in a lively discussion of The Group’s future activities.
“I’m positive of it!” His scar stood out white against a face reddened with the heat of conviction. “America is the place for us in the next century, possibly two. I tell you gentlemen, there will be great opportunity for influencing world events in that country. Don’t be fooled by this wave of industrialization England is caught in. Oh, I grant it’s the coming thing and will spread to any country with the ability to adapt, but everything is being poured into it. Agriculture is already beginning to suffer and the importing of raw materials is growing every day.
“This frenzied leap into mechanization will congest England, whereas it will stretch out and bind the United States together, giving their natural abundance the means to fully develop. The world is a huge rotting apple, we must move on to the still juicy, succulent parts.”
“But they are in such turmoil, so weakened by their civil war...” William Gresheim raised a halfhearted objection.
Marius exhaled a blue fog of cigar smoke and picked up Leland’s place in the discussion.
“Kellerman is right. As for the turmoil and confusion what better cover for our activities? And we know, if things go according to plan, what is ahead for the European countries.”
Robert’s ears were like funnels, their words flooding his mind. Chester tapped his arm to get his attention.
“Enough of that for now, Robert. You must concentrate on the matter at hand. You’ll soon have your turn to play the game.”
Robert pulled his gaze away from the other men.
“Is it true then? Can this small group actually control such important events?”
Chester fingered the heavy gold chain across the bulging front of his waistcoat and nodded.
“But how?”
“Simply, m’boy. Money in the right hands, a bit of information to the right ears, and when necessary the removal of a stubborn party. After a while it becomes child’s play.” A crafty smile pushed his fat cheeks higher, squeezing his small eyes into narrow slits. “But the ease doesn’t lessen the enjoyment.”
Chester led him out of the drawing room, across the wide centre hall, and through the dining room to an alcove, which was once a minstrel’s gallery. However, Robert surmised there would be no music to entertain the guests tonight. There were no servants in sight and Robert had the distinct impression that the one who had opened the door for him was gone for the evening. The eleven seemed completely alone in the huge old mansion. Chester sank down on a small Chippendale chair, which quickly disappeared under his voluminous bulk. Robert stood for a moment surveying the richly appointed room and then placed himself on a settee opposite Chester.
To Robert’s left, the long dining table was covered in sparkling white-on-white damask laid with silver. Plates, knives, forks, and goblets were of the polished precious metal. The yellow glow of two candelabra struck the neatly placed dishes and bounced off in glittering bursts, the sharp dazzling reflections were almost a sound rather than a sight. Chester beamed with satisfaction.
“We don’t always perform the ceremony in such luxurious surroundings. Much of it depends upon our new member. I can see we were right in judging your tastes.”
Then Chester got down to the business of explaining Robert’s price of admission to The Group. As Robert listened he chilled, the knuckles of his clenched fists blanched as white as the table covering. He grew faint and lightheaded, as if his own blood were being poured out into the silver goblets. Yet behind it, a powerful fiery liquid surged into his veins filling him with a desire that demanded satisfaction. It seized him like an unbearable ravenous hunger. Soon he understood completely. Yet, what was being offered was of such tremendous value that the payment grew more and more insignificant.
“Are you ready, then?” Chester’s eyes sparkled and he ran the tip of his tongue over his cherry pink lips.
Robert jumped up and laughed. His head reeled as if he were drunk. At last, ah at last! Already plans were forming, what Kellerman had said made sense. It was a task he could throw his heart and soul into; he’d be the greatest of them all! How fortunate they were in gaining him as a member.
Chester stood beside him and clapped him on the back. Robert resisted the urge to throw off the pudgy hand; no one could touch him this night. A few short hours and the world would be his. Chester seemed to understand he quickly withdrew his hand.
“Come now, the others will have already donned their robes. We’ll do the same and then it’s down to the cavern for us.”
Chester bubbled with boyish glee and every part of his stocky body seemed to vibrate in anticipation, while his hands slithered one over the other.
“I say, Robert, you’re going to do me proud. I can see it in your face.”
Chapter One
All the sins and evils
In the heart of man concealed,
Will stand as feeble efforts
When the last great Evil is revealed.
H. L. Chandler
Ft. Lauderdale, Florida-One hundred years later.
Stan Nolan got off the elevator, at the third floor in the red brick building on Sunrise Boulevard, and headed toward the frosted glass door of Jenkins, Withers, and Kendal: Attorneys at Law. Each time the toe of his ten-year-old wingtip Florsheims touched down on the cinnamon colored carpeting he counted his steps.
Twenty-five.
The number didn’t mean a damn thing. Had it come up thirty-six, his age, that could be a good omen. But thirteen might have shattered the composure he was struggling to maintain. Thirteen was unlucky; it was also the number of months he’d been out of work this last time. Stan patted the breast pocket of his blue plaid sport jacket; the letter there crackled reassuringly. He was sure as hell due some good luck, and if he pulled this off, he’d have it.
The construction business was slow; at least it was for Stan. When he and Jessie first came to Florida, there had been a couple of good years, but after that, nothing went right. If they didn't throw him off a job for one soup-simple thing, it was another. Yet, what could you expect working for some two-watt dim bulb? If Jess hadn’t hung in at Southeast Bank, they’d be on welfare by now.
Stan brushed his sandy hair back from his broad tan forehead and reached out to open the door. The brass knob was cool and smooth against the hot stickiness of his palm. For an instant anger stiffened Stan’s back. He despised being nervous. It was a sign of weakness. Still, if anybody had a right to be on edge he sure did. By now, he should be a big time contractor, with crews out on several locations. When he thought of the things that had gone wrong it twisted him into a knot and spiked his anger to higher peaks. Quickly Stan put the brakes on the negative nagging whispers; after all, he wasn’t here for an interview. With any luck, this could be better than getting a job.
The receptionist behind the glass and chrome desk was about twenty-two, blonde, long red fingernails, and displaying an extremely bountiful bosom. Standard decoration for any successful front office. There wasn’t a scrap of paper on her desk, just a white phone that she toyed with lovingly. The chairs in the waiting room were strips of black leather stretched taut above shiny metal legs, and there wasn’t the slightest sag in the seats to suggest anyone ever sat on them. The whole room looked lifted from the pages of Modern Office Design, shiny, spotless, and untouched.
As she asked Stan for his name the receptionist continued smiling, and she kept one red-tipped hand on the white telephone. Then, proudly demonstrating her command of the instrument, she buzzed another office. While he waited, Stan glanced around. The Time and Newsweek magazines on a low glass and chrome table were slick and wrinkle-free as though they, too, had never been touched. They matched the pristine view from the window behind the table. In the distance, the Ft. Lauderdale strip of the Atlantic ran a sea green band at the base of a calamine blue sky.
“Mr. Nolan?”
At the sound of an older, more mature voice, Stan swung around. A woman stood in the doorway to the inner office. She wore a starched, white long-sleeved blouse and her smoke-colored hair matched the gray of her linen skirt. She stood prim and proper enough to be the receptionist’s maiden aunt.
“Come this way, please.”
Stan followed her into a darkish office lit by filmy natural light streaming through an east-facing window. In a shadowy corner lurked a waist-high Oriental vase; deep, blood red, covered in a design of navy-black leaves and twisted branches. A Tiffany lamp, its shade supporting a cluster of purple grapes, set on the desk, which was a massive carved mahogany monstrosity. It was like stepping into an antique shop in Dania. A place where spiders might confidently weave their webs, except here the heavy chairs, tables, and tall grandfather clock against the far wall were gleaming, as if wiped down with lemon oil only minutes ago. For a second Stan caught the odor of oily citrus mingled with musty old wood. The office of Clayton Withers was the exact opposite of the waiting room.
The small man behind the huge desk popped to his feet with the precision of a toy soldier, and came toward Stan with his hand outstretched. He smiled and his amber bright eyes, behind sparkling rimless glasses, came alive with intense vitality. Stan hadn’t known what to expect, but surely not this elf of a man surrounded by a collection of ancient furniture; yet, what he lacked in size he made up for in energy.
“Right on time, Mr. Nolan. How considerate. I appreciate that in a man. Here, have a seat.” He indicated a squat, round-backed chair in front of the desk. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
When Stan sat down, he moved as stiff as a rusty hinge, he almost expected to hear an accompanying squeak. The coil of tension in his stomach tightened a full turn, cranking up the nervousness again. He tried to loosen it with logic. He was gambling in an unknown game against undisclosed odds; the strain went with the risk. Mr. Withers took his seat behind the desk. The light from the window behind him spun his thin white hair into a lacy, silvery cap above a face left in shadows.
“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. That will be all for now,” he said.
Stan swiveled toward her, but the woman was gone. He caught sight of the door swinging shut. Stan sat straighter, his moist fingers curling over the ends of the chair’s padded arms. Then he waited for what would happen next. He had been waiting for two days now, since receiving the letter.
Chapter Two
Three months ago, Stan had given up the pretense of looking for work. Now he had nothing to do except shuffle down the sandy driveway of the trailer court in Davie and get the mail. That and waiting for Denise and Andy to come home from school were the highlights of his day. Then the letter came, and it shattered his dull routine like a brick hurled through a plate glass window.
The stationery was a deep cream color, not the thin white stuff sent by bill collectors, and it stuck out stiff and imposing among the advertisements and throwaway papers. Clearly, it was something important. As he had walked back to their rented trailer, parked across from the cinder block laundry room, Stan opened the letter. When he finished reading, Stan came to a stunned, abrupt halt on the patio. His uncle, Farley Pritchard, had died. He, Stanley Andrew Nolan, was the heir and sole beneficiary. Would Mr. Nolan please contact Mr. Clayton Withers as soon as possible? Stan’s armpits grew damp under his tee shirt and his toes clutched the edges of his rubber thongs.
This was fantastic news.
There was only one thing wrong. Stan never had an uncle named Farley Pritchard!
All afternoon Stan slouched in the plastic lawn chair outside the trailer and read the letter time after time. It didn’t give a clue as to what this old guy might have left in his will. It could be anything from a junk car and some old clothes—to a million bucks. Several times Stan almost went inside to call the number printed on the letterhead, but he didn’t. Instead, he kept racking his brain in an effort to graft the dear departed Farley onto his family tree. Stan squinted into the clear Florida sunlight.
His dad had a brother in California, but naturally his name was Nolan and Stan hadn’t seen him since his dad’s funeral back in 1989. Then in 1992, his mother had married a man named Harris and they moved to Trenton, New Jersey. His mother was an only child, and if this Pritchard were anyone from the Harris family the money, or whatever, sure wouldn’t find its way to Stan. Harris had three kids of his own.
Stan even thought about Jessie’s family. Maybe this Pritchard was a bachelor with something against women and thought the money should go to the husband. Stan shook his head and gave up there, too. He didn’t know much about Jessie’s relatives. Her parents had died in a car wreck when she was two years old, the same smash-up that had left Jessie unconscious for three days. After that, an aunt and uncle took her to raise, but from what Jessie said, they never cared much for her. It was probably true because all she got when they passed on was a call from a distant cousin. It didn’t seem likely there would be anything coming from that direction.
Stan stood, the letter still in his hand, and went inside for a beer. He flipped the top off a Busch, tossed the ring into the trashcan, and ambled back outside. He would wait and talk to Jess when she got home from work. No use calling her, she would ask a bunch of questions that he couldn’t answer. Besides he wanted to go slow and make sure he managed this thing right. He was sick of other people taking what should be his, shoving him aside and screwing up his chances, he deserved a shot at some high living as much as anyone. Maybe more because he would know what to do with it.
The afternoon sun sent lemon-colored beams slanting into the drooping Ficus tree that kept the concrete patio shaded and cool. Stan sat there staring into the tree and thinking. He was still sitting outside when Denise and Andy came down the street. As usual, Denise was far ahead of Andy. At fifteen, she had no patience with her nine-year-old brother, and secretly Stan sympathized with her. When Denise was born Stan had wanted a son, but by the time she was a few months old Denise’s charm had began to work. Since that time, Stan had remained dazzled by the small dark-haired girl who was fast turning into a beautiful woman. She was going to be taller than Jessie, already was by an inch. She had Jessie’s same great figure, but in Denise it was refined somehow and, although Jessie was pretty, Denise would be stunning.
