Thursday's Child (3 page)

In the next instant, of course, Beau realized that his parents were
dead
. He was an orphan and the black hole inside his gut appeared for the first time. Beau tried to be brave, so that Jonathan and Rachel would be proud of him. But sometimes he felt like a scared little kid again. A lost and lonely kid.

When he'd caught the first glimpse of the huge mansion on the hill, Beau thought that the stranger he was on his way to meet—to live with—must surely reside in a hotel. But no, the house and the parklike setting that surrounded it all belonged to Saul Epstein.

As did the gigantic black limousine in which a bedraggled Beau arrived from the airport.

It had all been pretty damned scary. And it wasn't much better now.

Beau sat at one end of the vast oak dining table and his grandfather presided at the other. Just the two of them in the huge room. Harold, who worked for the old man, served them dinner. There were candles on the table and the silverware gleamed ferociously as the two of them ate rare roast beef and oven-browned potatoes. The food, as usual, was very good. Also, as usual, there was very little conversation. At least, there wasn't once Saul got past the point of why the hell Beau couldn't put on a damned tie for dinner. Or, at any rate, some goddamned shoes.

It was all just so much noise by now. Beau liked it a lot better on those nights when Saul was out and he could eat in the kitchen with Harold and his wife Ruth. Nobody bitched about what he was wearing then.

Although Beau was not really aware of it, there were very few people in the city of Los Angeles who would dare to defy Saul Epstein over even something as insignificant as proper dinner attire. Saul was about the last of the old-style movie moguls, but he was one who still had power. The studio he had formed decades ago and continued to run with undiluted authority made a profit most years. Not that it mattered much to him. He had enough money already.

Beau poured more gravy over his food. He had never met his grandfather before that day about four months earlier, had only been vaguely aware that he even existed. Jonathan never liked to talk much about his past. The estrangement between Saul and his only child—caused by politics, a son's rejection of the career his father had chosen for him, and a marriage that was, in the old man's eyes, unsuitable—that estrangement ran deep and never ended.

“Some more beef?” Harold offered.

Beau shook his head. “Thanks anyway.” He liked Harold, who had picked him up at the airport and who, with Ruth, tried to make him feel welcome.

What Beau had still not been able to figure out was why his grandfather had sent for him in the first place. Had even, in fact, pulled strings and enlisted the aid of the American Embassy to demand that Beau be immediately dispatched to California. Given the choice, Beau would not have left. He would have done what his friends were doing and joined the rebels. To hell with stupid pacifism. Look where that kind of thinking had got Jonathan and Rachel. But the choice was never offered to him.

After a couple more minutes, Harold cleared away the plates and disappeared into the kitchen to get dessert. Beau tapped the edge of the table and whistled softly.

Saul glared at him and then seemed to struggle for a mild tone when he spoke. “School will be out next week,” he said, lifting his wine goblet. He took a tidy sip. “Have you given any thought to what it is you might like to do over the summer?”

Beau frowned, pretending to think about it. He picked up his own goblet and took a swallow. Saul was of the traditional school that believed a young man should learn to drink at home. Therefore, Beau was allowed one glass of wine each night with dinner. He didn't like it as much as the homebrewed beer he and his friends used to sneak back in Santa María. He swallowed more wine and then brightened. “I could travel,” he said.

Saul might have been old, but he was no dummy. “No,” he said sharply. “You may not go back to that place.”

Beau was having a hard time adjusting to life within a dictatorship. Rachel and Jonathan had always run things as a democracy, in which everybody got a vote, even Beau. He drank some more wine. “So why even bother to ask me what I want?” he said. “What I say doesn't seem to matter a damned bit anyway.”

Saul sighed. “You're very much like your father, aren't you?” he said. It was practically the first time in all the weeks Beau had been there that Saul had mentioned Jonathan.

Beau toyed with the dessert spoon, sliding it up and down on the white linen tablecloth. “I'm not so much like him,” he said softly. “Jonathan was pretty naive. Right up until he died.”

Saul's lips thinned.

Harold returned and served them chocolate mousse. Nobody spoke until he was gone from the room again. Saul tasted the mousse. Then he said, “I imagine you must miss them a lot.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Beau used the curved bottom of his spoon to make canyons in the thick chocolate. It was several minutes before he spoke again. “The thing is,” he said carefully, “I feel like I'm all alone. There just isn't anybody out there.” He glanced up, but there was no expression that could be read on his grandfather's face. Beau stuck the spoon into his mouth and licked it clean. “What's funny,” he went on at last, “is that I've always sort of felt this way. Even before they died. Because they had each other, see? They didn't need me much. But the difference is that I just never had to think about it much before.”

Saul looked at him for a moment. “You know, Beau,” he said, “I'm here for you. I'm family.”

“Yeah, I guess. But it's not the same.”

“If we both try, maybe it could be.”

Beau stared at him. “How come you hated my mother?”

“I didn't,” Saul protested.

“Jonathan said you did. He said that was one reason we never came back here. Because you hated Rachel so much.”

Saul shook his head. “I didn't hate her. I didn't like what happened to Jonathan after they met. He dropped out of school, threw away his future. She got him all excited over things that he never cared much about before. Like the war. I didn't hate Rachel. But I hated what she turned my son into.”

“Yeah? Well, that's sort of like the same thing, isn't it?”

After a moment, Saul just sighed and shook his head. “That was all a long time ago,” he said. “How much can it matter now?”

Beau shrugged. He bent his head over the table and began to eat the mousse quickly.

3

1

It had been a real zero of a day.

Most of his time had been spent chasing around after that bastard in Santa Monica, another man who seemed constitutionally unable to keep his word on a business arrangement. There seemed to be a lot of that going around these days, and while Robert was glad for the work such behavior brought him, it did sometimes make him wonder just a little about the moral climate in the country. Why the hell were people so reluctant to accept responsibility for their own actions?

On a sticky day like this one, when the air quality outside had to rival that which would be found, he imagined, in an equatorial garbage dump, there were a lot of things Robert Turchek would rather have been doing. But because he was a man who believed in doing the job he was being paid to do, he spent hours chasing an irresponsible asshole named Berg through the bars, porn flicks, and fast-food restaurants of Santa Monica and its environs.

His mood after such a day was not good. If he didn't have strict orders from LoBianca about how he wanted Berg handled, Robert would have been very tempted to shoot the bastard on sight.

As soon as Robert walked into the McDonald's, he spotted his prey sitting alone in a rear booth. Instead of going right over to him, however, Robert stopped at the counter and ordered a Quarter-Pounder with cheese and a large Coke. Then he carried his tray back to where Berg was sitting bent over a ledger. Trying to figure his way into the big time, probably. Berg didn't seem to understand that some people were destined for greatness and some for the manure pile.

Berg was definitely headed for deep shit.

If he hadn't been so pissed off about the miserable day that Berg had put him through, Robert might have found the whole thing a little pathetic. But the way he was feeling at the moment, he didn't give a damn if the man had a dying mother and six hungry brats to support.

Berg was a dead man who didn't have the sense to stop breathing.

Robert set the tray down onto the table with a crash. Berg, startled, looked up quickly from his avid study of the figures in the ledger. Although they had never met, a sick sort of look crossed his face when he saw Robert standing there. It was as if he knew immediately that something was up and that it wasn't going to be good. It had probably been a long time since anything good had happened to Berg. Of course, he deserved all the shit, because of being so stupid and trying to play in the same ballpark as the big boys.

Robert didn't say anything. He just sat down opposite Berg and opened the slightly moist Styrofoam box. He took out the cheeseburger.

Berg set his pencil down carefully. Its end had been chewed nearly clear through to the lead. There were tiny flecks of yellow paint around Berg's mouth.

Robert swallowed the first bite of his sandwich and then took a long gulp of the Coke. It felt good going down his parched throat. He smiled. “Mr. Berg,” he said then, “you're a very hard man to find.”

“I didn't know anybody was looking.”

Ah, good. Berg had decided to play it tough. That made Robert very happy, because a guy who wanted to show his balls at a time like this was just asking for trouble. Especially if he couldn't even hope to back up the belligerent attitude with action. Robert didn't think that the skinny, balding Berg could. The only amazing thing was that the dope had summoned up the chutzpah to try and cross LoBianca in the first place. “I've been looking,” he said after another bite.

“So who the fuck are you, anyway?” the tough guy said.

Robert didn't answer right away. He was thinking that maybe he should have ordered some french fries, too, but he didn't feel like walking all the way back to the counter. Which was exactly why he hated restaurants without waitresses. “My name is Turchek,” he said finally. “Robert Turchek.”

Berg blinked. The name obviously meant something to him and that realization pleased Robert in a way he couldn't really define.

“You know, Berg,” he said conversationally, “you don't look like a complete dope to me. So how come you've lately been acting like one?”

Berg was playing with the pencil. The look in his eyes said clearly that he'd like to drive the damned thing right into Robert's heart. Fat chance. “Hey, Turchek, this is a free country. Capitalist system and all that shit. Somebody can't stand a little competition, maybe he should get the hell out of the business.”

Robert just had to grin at that. “You're talking here about Mr. LoBianca, I guess. Well, see, he doesn't care much about the capitalist system when it starts interfering in his own private business.”

“The market is big enough for both of us. Tell that to your boss, why don't you?”

Now he was being treated like nothing but some kind of damned errand boy. Killing Berg—which he would do, sooner or later—was going to be a real pleasure. Robert finished the Quarter-Pounder. He picked up the paper napkin and wiped his mouth carefully. “First of all, Berg, I don't have a goddamned ‘boss,' okay?” He crumpled the napkin and tossed it across the table. It fell into Berg's lap. Berg didn't pick it up. “Second of all, your fucking whining about just being part of the free-enterprise system doesn't mean shit to me. Or to the man you're trying to muscle in on. But see, he's giving you a break. Killing you is liable to bring him some complications. Which he'd prefer to avoid, if possible.”

A faint look of hope seemed to cross Berg's face.

Robert almost smiled. “So you have twenty-four hours to get your pathetic ass out of this city. Out of the whole fucking state, in fact.”

“Or?”

Berg was attempting to sneer, but not quite bringing it off.

Robert knew when to talk and when just to look. Now he just looked.

Berg stared at him as if trying hard to read some expression through the sunglasses. They were too dark for that, which was exactly the point. He tried to keep up his hardcase front, but his mouth opened and closed a couple of times with nothing being said. Then the air just seemed to whoosh out of him. “I don't have enough cash on hand,” he said in a choked whisper. “And my family is here.”

Christ, in another minute the dope would be bawling all over the table. Robert
really
wasn't in the mood for that. He finished his Coke quickly and set the paper cup down. “Twenty-four hours, Berg,” he said wearily. “You won't get another warning. Mr. LoBianca is being real generous to let you leave. Most guys, they'd have your balls in the chopper right now.” Of course, they both knew that generosity had nothing at all to do with it; LoBianca was just looking out for number one. It made sense to avoid murder whenever possible. Robert didn't think it was going to be avoided here, though. Berg was just too dumb. With a sudden move, Robert snatched the pencil away and, quickly, broke it in two. He dropped the pieces onto the table and started to get up.

Berg reached out and grabbed him by one wrist. “Jesus Christ, man, I got kids. Can't you be a little understanding?”

Robert just looked down at him until Berg released the grip. “Don't ever do that again,” he said very softly. “I'll kill you
and
your fucking kids, you ever lay a finger on me again. You got that?”

“Yes,” Berg said helplessly. “I get it.” He slumped back in the booth, staring at the greasy used napkin that was still in his lap.

Robert left the restaurant. He walked around the parking lot until he found Berg's sea-foam-green Pontiac. After checking to be sure that nobody was being nosy, he took a Swiss Army knife from his pocket. Quickly, methodically, he slashed each tire on the car. Just for good measure, he also broke off the rearview mirror and left it propped on the hood.