The Merry Pranked (9 page)

“What does that matter?”

“There’s no point in going where you’re going,” said Walter. “What will it accomplish? If you have good memories of your Father, the two of you playing catch or going to baseball games, whatever, why tread on those? I’m sure your father kept his other life away from you guys, especially at that age. Why not just remember those family moments; embrace them? Why dig up dirt? The ugliness?”

“That ugliness destroyed my family,” said Leslie. “That other life brought death to our home.”

“Nothing will change that.”

Walter watched as Leslie got up from his seat. He could see he was deep in thought and watched as he started pacing back and forth.

“All these years and no one,
NO ONE
, has told me the truth,” he said, as he stopped pacing. “The truth about my Father has been hidden from me. I have a right to know.”

“Why GODDAMNIT?” asked Walter.

“To see what I’m made of,” answered Leslie. “What I’m capable of.”

“You’re not your father, kid. Trust me, I know.”

“Well maybe I want to be.”

Walter just looked at him. He had an idea how Leslie had acquired his wounds, but didn’t know for sure. He did know, however, that his young friend was heading down a very dangerous path; one that could lead to his ultimate destruction. But how to stop him?

“Really?” said Walter. “There are some things in life you shouldn’t wish for. That you should never want. EVER.”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

Walter knew this day would come; lately he figured he might just kick the bucket before it did; and in many ways wished he had. Dan Marshall had been a real piece of work, but Leslie, his boy, the only surviving member of the Marshall family, he was a gem; a good person who had made something out of his life, despite circumstances that might have wrecked others forever. Looking into the true nature of his Father wasn’t going to do anything except derail that good life, but if Leslie wanted it, what could he do? He’d either get it from him, or elsewhere.

“I’ll put together a file,” said Walter. “Everything I covered in the past with your Father’s involvement. That’ll have to do.”

“Thank you.”

“And while I’m at it, old friend, maybe I’ll work up an obituary for a good friend, because the road you’re heading down isn’t going to lead anywhere good.”

“Fine,” said Leslie, heading for the door. “I’ve always liked your style. I’ll consider it an honor.”

Walter just watched as Leslie exited his office.

chapter
TEN

traffic
WAS
at a crawl; it was later in the evening, but that was how cities were, always busy. The majority of the problem was the cars slowing down as they passed the Sylvia Cumming’s Art Gallery, which unlike other nights, now had a couple of large klieg lights in front of it, shooting spotlights into the sky, a red carpet leading from the curb to its front door and valets standing at the curb, ready to park the cars of the various well-to-do individuals who were attending tonight’s private showing, and who were blocking one of the two lanes on Chester Street that made things move faster.

Leslie made his way towards the lights. He had almost decided not to come out tonight, preferring to stay at home licking his wounds and thinking about his father; he’d hit the library and looked up books on organized crime, but had only found a few footnotes about Morgan Neil’s early career and only one mention of his father in passing. No one had yet to write a definitive book on Morgan Neil’s rise to power, although he was sure down the road it would happen.

After his parent’s deaths, he had been placed in numerous foster homes, outside of the city. He had no immediate family, and while he didn’t realize it at the time, the Feds were keeping him away from Lakeview and Morgan’s gang, probably fearing he’d end up dead. He wondered how many times from the age of ten to eighteen that the Feds had wondered if he’d be up to testifying against Morgan; there was no statute of limitations on murder, and he had been an eyewitness, but he guessed they felt he was never strong enough to take the stand, and as the years passed, was probably a prime candidate to be taken apart by the various high-priced lawyers Morgan employed when trouble did come his way. It must have been so hard for them to have an eyewitness, but realize he was a troubled and emotionally damaged ten-year-old; somebody in law enforcement must have been looking out for him, to have encouraged them not to put him through such an ordeal.

When he had turned eighteen that was when he was free to make his own way in life; and that was when he finally made his way back to Lakeview. He attended college here and stayed on after finding work with the newspaper. The Feds that had checked in on him from time to time over the years, stopped doing so, and he went about the city safely, unaware that the Morgan gang, that had once had a hit out on him, had forgotten him as well. Time had passed and he’d been no threat, so why waste time worrying? It had never occurred to him that by moving back to Lakeview he was in any way putting his life in danger.

Why he had never wanted to know more about his parents, he didn’t quite understand. Maybe it was because he knew there was no one around to tell him much. He just lived with whatever memories he could recall; the good times; family laughter and family fun. Now he wanted more. There was more to the story of how he had gotten where he was than even he knew and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. He wanted to know who his father was; where he had come from, good or bad.

Leslie used the time it took to walk from his condo building to the art gallery to review all of this in his mind. He hadn’t wanted to come here tonight and disrupt those thoughts – although, really, he wasn’t getting anywhere by obsessing on them and wouldn’t get anywhere until Walter gave him some information – but at the same time his Editor was counting on him and it was highly unprofessional to blow off a story - definitely not his style. Even though he was dressed for the occasion in his finest expensive suit, his fellow gallery goers would have to put up with the fact his face was still banged up from his adventure the other night. He laughed to himself knowing it would offer some of them a cheap thrill as they tried to figure out what had happened to him; these were people who didn’t get their hands dirty.

Leslie paused outside the gallery, to take in the scene. It seemed a little overblown, but then again what did he know. Maybe this was how they did it in the world of art. He looked at the sign in the art gallery’s front window: THE MERRY PRANKED by GAIL RUSSELL it read. What really caught his attention was the picture of the artist, Gail Russell, whom he immediately recognized. She had been the woman lying about her name at the Survivor’s meeting; the one who had caught his attention and held it, until she had fled the scene.

Interesting,
he thought.

It could be coincidence, but then again, he knew life liked to play with you from time to time; he just didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

The gallery was jammed with the city’s wealthy; a gaggle of well-dressed people sipping champagne and cocktails, chowing down on hors d'oeuvres, and pretending they understood the art they were looking at. The only ones there who weren’t playing a role or pretending, were the various Waiters and Waitresses who were moving around the crowded gallery serving the drinks and hors d'oeuvres. In his article, he’d probably say the event brought out the city’s best and brightest, but that would be just a standard line, as he looked around the event and wondered,
If these were the city's best and brightest, just how bad a shape were we in anyways?

He took in the art. He wasn’t much for art analysis, but this was interesting and unexpected. Gail Russell had used the style of psychedelic rock ‘n’ roll posters of the 1960’s with their distinctive look and colorful presentation to focus on some of today’s modern images, such as President Barak Obama, Wall Street, the Twin Towers, Iraq, Afghanistan, and so on. As far as he could tell, and he had no idea if he was reaching and full of shit, Gail was using the simplicity and hope of the 1960’s and its artistic style and placing the horrors of today within that framework. It was an interesting juxtaposition of the perceived simplicity of a bygone era with the complications of life today. Surprisingly, it appealed to him. Whether he was full of shit or not, that’s what he got out of it, and wasn’t that what art was all about – each person’s interpretation?

As Leslie focused on the art, from time to time he’d glance over at someone who had called out his name and said ‘Hi.’ As a published author in the city, he had attended many of its cultural events and rubbed elbows with many of its elite, so he was well known to many. He’d throw out a quick ‘Hi’ and then return to studying the art, knowing the next question they’d throw at him would be, “What the hell happened to you?” He had no answer and just wanted to avoid the question. Focusing on the art seemed to give him perceived purpose and allowed him an excuse for being rude.

“So, what do you think?”

The question took him by surprise; he actually jumped a little.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” said Gail Russell with a laugh.

Leslie, recovered, looked into her eyes – those beautiful eyes – and smiled.

“That’s all right; I was just engrossed in your work.”

“Really? So I’ll ask again, what do you think?” asked Gail.

“That’s a dangerous question, and coming from the artist herself.”

“Yes, they put my photo on the poster and in the brochures. Makes it much harder for me to get an honest answer from anyone here regarding my work,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Gail Russell.”

Leslie shook her hand. “Leslie Marshall. I’m with the Examiner.”

“Reviewer?”

“For today,” he said.

“So, what do you think?”

“I like it. It’s a throwback, isn’t it?” he asked.

“The 1960s. A homage to such artists as Rick Griffin, Bonnie MacLean, Stanley Mouse and others,” she said. “Artwork inspired by the psychedelic experiences induced by such drugs as LSD, mescaline and psilocybin.”

“And the use of modern images?” he asked.

“My comment on society today - our uptight ways,” said Gail. “The art of the Sixties represented a freedom of expression. It was bold and free. You could see the flow of it. Almost a celebration of life. There was an awareness there we lack today. A sense of carefree that has disappeared over the decades. Today’s modern images introduce the viewer to what we’ve lost. A simpler time we will never get back.”

“You’re too young to have grown up in the 1960’s.”

“It was a time my Father liked to talk about; a simpler time he said he loved.”

“And The Merry Pranked?” he asked.

“Yet another homage,” she said with a laugh. “To the Merry Pranksters of the 1960s. Founded by Ken Kesey, the author of
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
. A group he founded that experimented with psychedelic drugs. Tom Wolfe wrote about it in his book
The Electric Kool-Aid Test
.”

“Interesting.”

“If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.”

She noticed the puzzled look on Leslie’s face.

“You’ve got a lot to learn,” she said. “The author William Blake.”

“I’m afraid he has escaped my reading list.”

“It looks like you should do a little more reading and a little less fighting. Is it that tough being an Examiner reporter?”

Leslie smiled; she’d noticed his face.

“What can I say; this is a tough town to be a critic in.”

“Well, write what you like, Mr. Marshall, I promise, I’ll go easier on you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Just remember, art is subjective. It’s whatever you decide it should be. Whatever it makes you feel. Happy, sad, angry, disgusted. It’s all things to all people,” she said with a smile. “Now I have to mingle, but do promise, say good-bye before you leave, won’t you Rocky?”

Leslie laughed. “I will.”

He couldn’t help watching her as she turned and disappeared into the crowd. She was as captivating as the first time he’d seen her.

The gallery opening had been nice; nice, of course, being not great, but not entirely horrible and painful as well. Leslie had enjoyed it all a lot more than he expected. His mind just wasn’t built for interpreting art, but at least Gail’s had been a little less abstract and more straightforward; he didn’t know if that was good for the artist or not, but as a patron for the night it had certainly helped him.

Enjoying the show was only one of the surprises the night offered. Like, for instance, he’d never have anticipated Gail Russell would be sitting on his couch as he poured them both a glass of his best red wine.

Why she was attracted to him
, he had no idea; he just knew that throughout the evening she had made a point of seeking him out and spending moments of time with him. They got along well, and when the night was finally wrapping up, and he anticipated going home to obsess about his Father some more, she had cornered him and asked him if he wanted to get a drink with her. He really didn’t have to think about it. The last surprise was when they left the gallery, and she’d suggested that rather than going to a bar, they retire to his place for a drink. He still felt in his heart that he and Donna were together, even though she’d left him; he’d yet to fully accept it, and accepting Gail’s invitation had seemed like cheating, but he had to remind himself he was in fact a single man. He still cared about Donna, despite the fact he had driven her away, but Gail was something special – just like at the Survivor’s meeting, he couldn’t help staring at her, drinking in her beauty. There was also something else there, but for the moment he couldn’t quite place what that something else was.

“I take it you must get tired of scenes like tonight,” said Leslie as he handed her a glass of red wine and took a seat on a chair beside the couch.

“They were a thrill at first,” she said, “but this is my second collection, and it does seem like I’m going through the same paces over and over again. You’re a writer. A Detective series, I believe. I take it you do readings and book signings? Does that ever get old hat?”

“People lining up to tell me I’m brilliant,” he said with a smile, “I tough it out.”

Gail laughed. “I’ve read your books.”

“And?”

“You go to some very dark places.”

“Crime fiction is not supposed to be a walk in the park,” he said.

“True,” she said. “Where does that darkness come from?”

“What do you mean?”

“You do remember me, don’t you?” she asked. “The Survivor’s meeting?”

So she remembered as well.

“How could I forget?” he said.

“That meeting was all about darkness. In one way or another, some darkness has touched all of us who attended. How much of that bleeds into your writing?”

Leslie smiled at her and studied her face. He couldn’t get a read on her; figure out what it was she wanted. Maybe she didn’t want anything; he did have a tendency to over think a lot of things.

“I’d imagine about as much as bleeds into your art,” he answered.

“A game of cat and mouse,” she said with a smile. “Two victims, I presume, not sure how much they want to reveal to one another. Both wary, but of what?”

“As they say, ladies first,” he countered.

Gail laughed generously at that one. “Nice try, Leslie. How very gentlemanly of you.”

The two of them took a sip of their wine, their eyes never leaving one another.

“You know, Leslie,” she said, “the problem seems to be a lack of trust. We’ve only just met one another.”