Fortunate Son

He jumped up and realized that he was sitting on Alicia’s tomb. The head cinder block fell away, and Alicia sat up. At first Thomas was happy to see his old friend come to life, but then he noticed that the tattoo on her left breast no longer read Ralphie but now said Clea.

“Don’t touch me,” Alicia said in a voice much like his mother’s.

He wanted to obey, but his hands moved forward with a will of their own, and even though she screamed, his fingertips grazed her neck. Instantly she fell back dead. An earthquake shook the alley. Tall buildings that had never been there before began to fall. No Man flew away, and the oak toppled upon Bruno — Thomas came awake unable to breathe, unable to yell, but the shout was in his throat.

“ H e l lo ? ” E ri c sa i d, answering the call. It was 3:27.

“Eric.”

“What, Tommy?”

“If something bad happens I want you to tell Clea that I really love her.”

“Nothing’s gonna happen, Tommy.”

“And I want you to know how grateful I am for you going back East with me and helping me.”

“What’s wrong?” Eric asked.

“I just had a dream. But it was really real. Everything went wrong all at once. The whole world fell apart in a earthquake.”

“You remember what you told me about the moon, don’t you?”

Thomas took a deep breath, another.

3 0 1

Wa l t e r M o s l e y

“Yeah, but . . . things have been goin’ so good, Eric. A whole year now and nothin’s wrong.”

“That’s okay, Tommy. You just had it bad, that’s all. Bad things might happen again but not so bad that you won’t be happy.”

“No?”

“It was just a dream. Just a dream.”

“Just a dream,” Thomas echoed. He could feel the sleep returning behind his eyes.

“Go back to bed, man,” Eric said. “It’ll all be fine in the morning.”

But Th omas was upset all day at work. He knocked over a steel smoker filled with chickens. He cut himself in the afternoon, and if it wasn’t for the fast work of Michael Cotter he might have lost a lot of blood.

At the end of the day, when Michael was driving him back, Thomas said, “You should have turned left.”

“Aren’t we gonna have that toast? There’s this great bar I know on Little Santa Monica.”

“I don’t know, Mike,” Thomas said. “I don’t feel much like celebrating.”

“Aw come on, Lucky. It was just a can’a chickens and a slip. You’re gonna be fine.”

Cotter pulled into an almost invisible driveway and up next to a beautiful fountain. A doorman wearing a uniform came out and opened Thomas’s door. Another uniformed man opened Michael’s door and said, “Welcome back, sir.”

“What is this place?” Thomas asked his friend.

In the foyer there were several well-dressed men and women walking, talking, waiting for an elevator.

3 0 2

F o r t u n a t e S o n

“It’s a hotel bar,” Cotter was saying. “You know, hotels have the finest bars and restaurants.”

The handsome young smoker led Thomas into a large room filled with small tables. At a table in a far corner sat Kronin Stark.

“What’s goin’ on?” Thomas asked. He stopped walking.

“Mr. Stark has something to tell you . . . about your brother.”

For a moment Thomas was half back in his dream. He felt as if the hotel floor were buckling under his feet. He pitched forward, but Cotter caught him and helped him to a chair in front of the giant.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Stark rumbled. “Clea Frank is coming to California to be with you.”

“What do you want with me?” Thomas said. “And what about my brother?”

“Your brother is about to go to jail for quite some time,”

Stark said.

“You’re crazy. Eric hasn’t done anything.”

“As you will,” Kronin replied with a slight bow. “Take a ride with me and I will explain the details.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere with you.”

“Fine. Leave then.”

Thomas looked at Michael, who smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

“What’s going to happen to Eric?”

“Come with me and you shall be enlightened,” Stark said.

A Cape H ote l doorman opened the back door of the silver Rolls-Royce, and Stark crawled in like a badger waddling into his hole.

3 0 3

Wa l t e r M o s l e y

“Get in on the other side,” he said to Thomas. “Terry will drive us.”

“I’m not gettin’ in the back with you,” Thomas said.

“Suit yourself. Sit next to Terry then.”

Thomas got in the front seat next to the man he knew as Michael Cotter.

“Your name is Terry?” Thomas asked.

“Sure,” the sudden stranger replied. “Where to, Mr. S?”

“Let’s go up into the canyons. I like it up there.”

The one-time smoker drove off, turning right on Little Santa Monica.

Stark leaned forward and handed Thomas a large red enve-lope.

“Take it,” Stark said. “Look through the photographs.”

There was a thick sheaf of eight-by-ten glossy photos.

They were pictures of Monique and Madeline, Harold and Clea, Minas Nolan, Ahn, and another half dozen people that Thomas did not recognize. He paused at the photograph of a black woman in a straitjacket who was screaming hideously.