Lanyon, Josh - Adrien English 04 - Death of a Pirate King (23 page)

His cock entered me slowly, pushing with great care. I tried
to rush him, tried to push back and capture his prick with my body -- reduce it
to basics: a fuck. But he wouldn’t be hurried; he took his time, kissed my
collarbone, the hollow of my throat, all the time shoving slowly past the ring
of muscle, making it last and last, and then he was in, and we were sharing the
same body, adjusting to the fit, trying on for size this being one. I wrapped
my legs around him, pressed my mouth to his shoulder, bit him -- paying him
back for earlier. He grunted.

Pushing against him, I urged him to action, and we began the
seesaw of push and pull, rock and roll, lock and load -- physical sensation --
and I didn’t want to think more closely about it than that.

His hand wrapped around my dick -- and astonishingly enough,
he was right: I was getting hard. Weeks of nobody home and suddenly it was like
I was sixteen again and my parents were gone for the weekend. And there was no
need to say what I liked, a little tighter, a little faster -- because he knew
exactly what I liked -- memory or just very good instincts. His hand slid up
and down, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure, that smooth,
knowing skid of skin on skin. It could have been my own hand, but it was so
much better because it was Jake’s.

He thrust into me, pumped me, we found the old rhythm, the
pattern, the old steps, the way through the wood -- and it moved beyond words
or coherent thought, just skin and warmth and that hum of exquisite tension as
it built and built, his hand jerking me off, his cock lancing past my gland,
fast and faster -- and a little frantic --

I felt him stiffen and then heard him shout.

He kissed me again.

We lay there for a while and then he slid out of me.

After a time he said, “I can’t stay.”

“I know.”

He didn’t move and then finally he sat up, wearily. He went
into the hallway; the light came on, throwing a golden bar across the floor and
bed. I listened to him dressing.

He came back in -- a broad silhouette -- and sat on the edge
of the bed.

“Adrien…”

I smiled. “I know.”

But I didn’t, because what he said was, “I want you in my
life -- you can set the parameters.”

“Oh my God.” I pressed the heels of my hands over my eyes. “
Jake
.”

“What?”

“
Wha
t
? You know what. We can’t pick up
where we left off. And I can’t be pals with you.”

“Then what the hell was this?” The anger and hurt in his
voice was painful to hear.

I sat up, forcing him to retreat. “You know what the hell
this was, Jake. This was us saying good-bye properly.”

Chapter Nineteen

When I was sixteen I managed to catch rheumatic fever -- no
easy feat, by the way -- and it left the valves of my heart damaged; the mitral
valve in particular, which was the culprit in my current predicament. Lisa was
convinced I’d never see eighteen, and I spent several months convalescing in
bed like somebody in a 1920s novel, before I finally put my foot down -- both
physically and metaphorically.

But in addition to reading everything I could lay my hands on
during that long enforced period of inactivity, I watched a lot of TV, so I was
very familiar with Marla Vincenza’s work -- and “work” was probably the right
word for it if running around like a maniac under the blazing Etruscan sun was
anything to go by.

During the sixties, a very young Marla starred in a lot of
those schlocky Italian historical dramas, and while I didn’t find her escapades
as Amazon or Arabian princess quite as entertaining as I did the glistening and
muscle-bound adventures of Steve Reeves and his ilk, I did have a certain
fondness for her cinematic ventures. She made a truly chilling Medea, as I
recalled.

She looked good for a woman in her sixties -- much better
than either Ally or Nina did -- trim and fit. Despite those years filming in
the sun, she had taken good care of her skin. Her hair was an unlikely brown,
but it was skillfully done. She was surprisingly petite given how convincingly
she had portrayed lady pirates and warrior queens.

“I have to say I’m a little vague on why you wanted to meet,”
she informed me, leading me through her spacious and lavishly decorated Santa
Barbara hacienda. “You said you’re working in connection with the police?”

“Er…yes,” I said. And to cover that unconvincing “er” -- and
because I really wanted to know, I asked, “I’ve just realized -- they used your
real voice, didn’t they, in those sword and sandal epics?”

“Sword and skivvies, don’t you mean?” She was amused. “Yeah,
they used my voice. I grew up in Little Italy. My grandparents were from Sicily.
I spoke Italian like a native before I ever set foot in Europe.”

“Did you meet Porter in Italy?”

“I did. Jonesy was interested in the historical epic market.
In the end, he decided he preferred America and American film making -- and I came
back home with him.”

We settled on the tiled patio beside the oblong pool. Marla’s
garden was filled with tropical flowers and fountains and small-scale classical
statuary. “How long were you married?”

She gave me a quizzical look. “Over thirty years. Do you
think I knocked Porter off because he dumped me for Ally Bally Beaton?” She
poured pink lemonade from a pitcher on the table, and I noticed she wore
wedding rings. As far as I knew, she’d never remarried.

“It’s hard to believe you’d wait five years to do it.”

“Well, you know what they say: revenge is a dish best served
cold.”

I had a sudden memory of her as Medea.

“True, I guess.” I studied her. “But something tells me
Porter’s life with Ally would have supplied all the revenge you needed.”

She burst out laughing. “Very good, sport! Yeah, that little
bitch made poor old Jonesy’s life a misery. Served him right.” But her eyes
were sparkling with humor. “So if you don’t think I knocked my ex off, why
exactly are you here?”

I said, “I got the impression that you and Porter stayed
friends despite everything.”

She inhaled slowly and let it out quietly. “This is true,”
she said.

“Did you know he was terminally ill?”

“Yeah. He came straight to me when he got the news.”

“To you?”

She lifted a slender shoulder. “Like you said, we stayed
close. Or, I guess, we grew close again.”

“Who else knew that Porter was ill?”

“He didn’t take an ad out in
Variety
, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Did Ally know?”

“Not at first. He told her after he decided to…” She didn’t
finish, lifting her lemonade to her lips. “He shared it with a few trusted
friends.”

“Was he going to divorce Ally?”

“In the end, no.” Her smile was tight. “In the end, she
convinced him that she did love him.”

“That must have taken some doing.”

“I always told him she was a better actress than he gave her
credit for.”

“But he knew about the affair, right?”

“With the health nut? He knew everything. He hired a private
dick to follow her. But she broke off the relationship, and she was willing to
k --” She swallowed hard.

“She had an abortion, I know. She got pregnant with Duncan
Roe’s child, and then terminated the pregnancy.”

Marla looked at me, and I was dismayed to see the glistening
in her eyes. “We didn’t have children,” she said. “I wanted them, but we weren’t
able to have them.” Rather hastily, she retrieved her glass and sipped more
lemonade. “Ally wanted to stay married. I give her points for resolve.”

I tried my lemonade. Lots of ice and the pink was nice, but
it tasted like the regular kind of lemonade as far as I could tell. “You were
on the yacht the night Langley Hawthorne died, weren’t you?” I asked.

Her sloe eyes flashed to mine. “Now there’s an interesting
leap of subject. Yeah, I was there. We were all there. The old crowd.”

“What did you think about that accident of Hawthorne’s?”

She stared at me for a long moment. “I thought it was very
sad. He was a charming man, Langley. A real gentleman. And it was a tragedy for
Nina. She was a very troubled young woman.”

“How did it happen?”

She shook her head. “They were playing cards. Langley, Al,
Paul, Jonesy. And drinking. We always drank too much when we got together for
those weekends. All I know is Langley went on deck to get some air. He didn’t
come back, and when they found him, it was too late.”

I’d read a bit about Langley’s accident so I knew that he had
apparently hit his head going over the side -- although exactly where and how
had never been determined. However, it was the single inconsistency in the
case. Langley’s blood alcohol content had been high enough to sink an armada.

“I think I read you were in your cabin asleep?”

“Yes, Nina and I had turned in earlier. It was just the boys
being boys. I woke up when I heard the commotion on deck…when they were
searching for him.”

A butterfly swooped down to a feeder hanging from one of the
silver dollar eucalyptus trees. I watched it for a moment, its fragile wings
opening and closing languidly in the dappled sunlight.

I said, “Did you ever wonder whether Langley’s death might
not have been an accident?”

After a moment, she said, “That’s another one of those odd
leaps. What are you getting at, Mr. English?”

“I have a suspicious mind,” I admitted. “Hawthorne’s death
left two people very wealthy. And it was the kind of accident that can be…something
else.”

“Those two people loved Hawthorne.”

But the interesting thing was the way she said it -- like it
was something she had often puzzled over herself. She didn’t reject the notion
of Hawthorne being murdered -- in fact, it was something she had considered.

I said slowly, “Did Porter ever mention anything about
writing his memoirs?”

Marla was motionless. Her gaze rested on the glass-smooth
surface of the pool. The sunlight through the tree leaves speckled the water
with snakeskin shadows.

She said at last, “Jonesy was always saying he was going to
write his memoirs.”

“But did he actually ever start them?”

She nodded. “He was working on them. He wanted to finish them
before he…” She sipped her lemonade. “You know what you’re suggesting?” she
asked when she could.

“Yeah.” I said, “Do you know what happened to those memoirs?”

She shrugged her shoulders -- very Italian in that moment.
“At home in Bel Air, I guess. If that little bitch didn’t dump them with
everything else of his.”

“You don’t think he would have taken some precaution to keep
them safe?”

She stared at me. “It wouldn’t occur to him. Jonesy wouldn’t
be thinking along those lines. He wouldn’t consider…” She smiled, and I
recognized that smile from many a candlelit cinematic moment. “Jonesy was no
Machiavelli,” she said.

We talked a little more, I finished my lemonade, and then I
left her in her lush suburban paradise with the sound of the lawn birds and
pool generator filling the silence.

* * * * *

When I got back to the bookstore it was after closing and
Natalie was sitting inside with the security gate drawn and the lights off. She
was crying.

“What happened?” I questioned, grabbing the box of tissues
from beneath the counter. “Did something happen to the cat?”

“To the
ca
t
? I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.
I’m crying because --” I lost the rest of it as she sobbed the words into the
Kleenex.

“Sorry?”

She looked up with red, swollen eyes. “I said, I asked Warren
if he wanted to move in together and he said no.”

That was the best news I’d heard all day, but I said, “Oh.
Well…”

“Well
wha
t
?”

So many things I could have said, but none of them would be
conducive to peace, love, and harmony. I said, groping, “Uh…did he give you a
reason?”

“He said he wasn’t ready.”

“Well…that seems…reasonable.”

“After three
month
s
?”

She was talking to the wrong person. I asked curiously, “Why
do you want to move in with Warren?” I could just imagine what Warren’s pad was
like -- what Warren was like in his own lair. What a shame parents couldn’t
send their wayward daughters off to the Continent anymore to get them over
these disastrous misalliances.

“Why? Because
I love
him
,” she said very clearly. “And because I can’t stand living in that
house with Lisa.”

I blinked at her. “Oh.”

Her face crumpled and she sobbed into the tissue some more.
Then she said, muffled, “It’s nothing against Lisa. Really. I love her.
But…it’s her house now. I don’t belong there anymore. And if Lauren moves
home…”

“Why would Lauren move home?”

“She and Beavis are getting divorced.”

Beavis? Oh. The Corporate Clone. When had all this happened?
Where had I been?

I said, “Couldn’t you just get a place on your own? Moving in
with someone because you’re not happy at home doesn’t seem like the right --”

“I just told you, I
love
him. Don’t you have any useful guy advice?” She glared at me -- and with those
red eyes, it was pretty scary. Medea could have learned a trick or two from my
stepsis.

“Right. Okay. Well, here’s my guy advice. Drop it, Natalie.
Don’t mention it to Warren again. Let him see that you’re okay with it. I mean,
if you want to keep seeing him.” Which I could not for the life of me imagine.

“That’s
i
t
?”

I nodded.

“You don’t think we need to talk about it?”

“Me and you?”

“Me and
Warre
n
!”

“God no, I don’t think you need to talk about it. Leave it
alone.”