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I got up from my chair and used my handcuff key to unlock the bracelet on his left wrist, then locked it on a table leg.
“What are you trying to do to me?” he said.
“You’re afraid of Mark Shondell. The question is why.”
“I tried to tell you once before.”
“You saw lights flashing in his face during an electrical storm. That doesn’t mean he has supernatural powers.”
“Two days ago I was working in the garden and he was on the patio when he got a call from Eddy Firpo. Firpo’s a lawyer and a music promoter or some shit. Maybe he’s mixed up with Nazis, too.”
“I know who Firpo is. What about him?”
“He must have told Shondell his nephew and Isolde Balangie are releasing a music album. Shondell went nuts. The girl ain’t supposed to get near Johnny. Now they got an album out.”
“What does any of this have to do with you?”
“When he got off the phone, he knew I’d heard everyt’ing.”
“Heard what? Say it. Specifically.”
“He said to Firpo, ‘This is on you. I’m sending Gideon.’?”
My mouth went dry.
“I’ve seen this guy. He doesn’t look human,” Marcel said. He began jerking the bracelet against the table leg. “Put me in lockdown or let me go. You hear me, Dave?”
“You saw Gideon Richetti?”
“I don’t know about his last name. But a guy named Gideon was in Shondell’s backyard. His skin was green. His neck looked like it was dripping scales into his shirt. I t’ought it was because of the light in the trees. Then I saw his fingers. I never seen fingers that long.”
“I’m going to get us a couple of cold drinks from the machine,” I said. “I think you need to talk to Father Julian.”
“How’s Father Julian gonna get rid of a guy like that?” he said. “Dave, I was in lockdown wit’ the worst people in the world. What we’re looking at now is different. You got to believe me.” Both his hands were shaking, the bracelet rattling against the table leg. “I heard somet’ing that don’t make sense. About a Jewish woman. Shondell said to the guy on the phone, ‘Drown her. Or gut her and weigh her with stones.’?”
“I take back what I said about your alcohol content,” I said. “I think you left the dock too early today, partner.”
But in truth I was unnerved, and my show of incredulity was hypocritical. “What was the woman’s name, Marcel?”
“I can’t t’ink.”
“How do you know she’s Jewish?”
He stared as though seeing an image inside his head. “The name was Rosenberg. Leticia Rosenberg.”
“Go on,” I said.
He blinked. “I take that back. The first name was Leslie. Yeah, that’s it. Ever hear of somebody named Leslie Rosenberg?”
Chapter Twenty-one
I COULDN’T SLEEP THAT night. I thought about the late afternoon when I’d stood on the dock not far from the amusement pier and watched the waves swell in the sunset and boom on the beach and fill the air with a spray that was like the healing power of water from a baptismal font. Considering the present gravity of my situation, these were probably foolish thoughts to muse upon. But what recourse did I have in my dealings with either wicked men or unseen forces whose origins I didn’t want to think about?
Clete and I had the same problem. Telling others what we had seen or what we knew about the man named Gideon served only one purpose: Our listeners wanted to flee our presence. In effect, we were collaborating with the enemy and destroying ourselves. Somehow we had to turn our situation around.
Stonewall Jackson was an eccentric and improbable military figure, homely and unkempt, simplistic and doctrinaire. He paused to pray before an attack, giving the enemy more time to prepare, and galloped in battle with his right hand in the air because he believed there was an imbalance of blood in his body. He was also one of the greatest tacticians in the history of warfare. His most quoted tactical advice is “Always mystify, mislead, and surprise the enemy.”
This was the opposite of everything Clete and I had done in our confrontations with the Shondell and Balangie families. It was not entirely our fault. The events I have described so far were frightening because they seemed born from a separate dimension
