27. Caverns Measureless

CAVERNS MEASURELESS

ANDREW

I wake slowly, treasuring the feel of Maddy cuddled by my side. I wonder if we might have time for a brief love-making before I face the day. Maddy was right in her distinction between fucking and love-making, as well as her assessment that when making love, fucking could be involved. And oh, my, she is genius at both.

I hold her in my arms, and breathe in the scent of her. She is perfumed with her shampoo, her body wash, and a faint echo of our passion. Underneath it all, she smells like herself, a heady aroma that goes straight to my groin.

But before I can answer the primal call of my loins, my phone rings. "Lane," I answer it, realizing as I do so that might not be the best identifier since my brothers were also somewhere in this building.

"Andrew Lane?" asks the tinny voice on the phone.

"Yes," I affirm. "How may I help you?"

"Your grandfather is asking for you. He says you should bring your wife?" The speaker's confusion is clear in her voice.

"I can do that," I say. "Anyone else?"

"No," says the voice on the phone. "Oh, wait. Yes, bring the boy, your son."

"Very well. I hope you don't mind, I'll be bringing bodyguards."

"To visit your grandfather?" the voice on the phone sounds scandalized.

"Especially to visit my grandfather," I say, letting out the amusement that I do not feel color my voice. The old subterfuges were coming back to me. I hated it. Hated every part of what I would need to be. I only hoped that Maddy would continue to understand, and that she will stay with me.

"All right," I say. "Shall we bring breakfast?"

"No, no," the voice said. "But come right away."

I turn to wake Maddy, but find her looking at me with those unusual forest pool eyes.

"Grandfather?" she asks.

I nod. "He wants you and Paul, as well. The nurse who called says it is urgent."

"All right," she says. "I'll wake Paul. Should I dress for the occasion?"

"Wear whatever is handy," I say, pulling jeans and t-shirt out of my bag. They aren't too rumpled. They will do.

Paul is already up when we exit our room, and he is feeding himself from the contents of the kitchenette. Good kid that he is , he has fixed cold cereal for himself and is drinking a glass of juice. This, despite the variety of alcoholic beverages available in the wet bar across the room.

"The only orange juice is a mixer," he says by way of greeting. "Hope it's ok that I have some."

"Just as long as you didn't add anything to it," Maddy says, giving Paul a hug.

"Just mixer," he says, showing her the bottle. "It tastes really good."

Maddy laughs, and hugs her son. The bottle label read, "Ultimate Premium Margarita Mix".

"It's got kind of a bitter flavor, sort of like grapefruit," Paul said. "But I think I'd like to have it again. It tastes better than regular grapefruit."

"I'm sure it would," I say. "I've never had it for breakfast." I didn't mention the after hours drinks with the additive his mother didn't want him to have. "Do you want something?" I ask, looking at Maddy.

She shakes her head. "I don't think I can. I'd just vomit it all back up."

I know the feeling, but that doesn't really matter. It is time to go visit with the aging lion in his den. I think of the stage play, "Lion in Winter" where Eleanor of Aquitaine meets with the king of England and their sons for a holiday celebration. My grandfather might be dying, but he is still dangerous.

Like Maddy, I have no appetite. In minutes, we call Austin to let him know where we need to go, then collect our bodyguards, including the three dogs and Austin. Rylie wants to come with us, but I veto that. Fortunately, so does Austin.

We load into a vehicle that looks like nothing so much as a ‘soccer mom van', but from the way it sits on the tires, I can tell that it is an armored car, disguised to look like a passenger vehicle. Austin is taking no chances with our safety.

As we climb in, Paul selects a seat and gives an experimental bounce on it. "Nice!" he says.

Austin, who is acting as our driver, glances up in the rear view mirror. "Buckle up," he calls back. "No gymnastics on my seats!"

His words were stern, but I could hear the humor behind the directions. Paul must have heard it, too, for he grins that maddening Lane grin. Even so, he stops his antics and buckles up.

Maddy settles into the seat behind Paul, making room for me. She is quiet, but watchful.

"Paul," I say, "This meeting could become very ugly. If I had a choice, I would not bring you with us, but Grandfather has asked for you. I will probably say some things that are shocking and more than a little mean."

"I get it," Paul says. "It's like the shoot-out at the OK Corral. You've got to talk tough and look mean so the other guys will respect you."

Maddy doesn't say anything. She just strokes her son's hair.

I sigh. "I just hope I won't scare the two of you, and that you will both respect me when this is all done."

Maddy bops me lightly on the shoulder with one small fist. "Do what you gotta do," she says. "Paul, you are to be seen and not heard. If you have questions, your father and I will explain later when we don't have to pretend to act tough."

"I get it," Paul says. "Deaf, dumb, and blind until we get back home. Too bad no one packed a pinball machine."

Maddy snickers, and hugs him. It takes me a minute to get the reference to the Who's rock opera. "Hopefully, it won't be that bad," I say. "Just look stoic, and hold the questions until we are away from here."

"Even with a million foxes gnawing at my guts," Paul says.

Maddy sighs. "I knew I shouldn't have read those old Greek and Roman stories to him. But he didn't like most of the regular children's books."

"No foxes, either," I say, praying that I really can keep my family safe under these circumstances.

The van pulls out, and we ride in silence. The people who have boarded with us are all security, and on high alert. None of us are feeling chatty.

The hospice is only a few blocks from the Bunker. I wonder for a moment why it wasn't part of it, but then I realize there would be all sorts of people in the hospice, not just VIPs who required security.

Austin must be clairvoyant, or else he is very good at reading expressions glimpsed in a rearview mirror, for he says, "The hospice has a high-security wing and better medical facilities than the Bunker. We'll be pulling into the parking garage."

I remember how it used to be when I was in high school, and then in college. The undercover private security people who took all the same classes I did, the armored vehicles that picked me up and dropped me off wherever I wanted to go. I'd hated it, even before I understood why it was necessary.

Now, I am headed back into it. I've already said yes. All that remains is to take up the reins. Grandfather compared it to having a tiger by the tail. My hope is that it will be more like taking charge of a runaway team when the driver has been shot by angry natives.

The parking garage is amazingly clean. No ugly graffiti, no nasty odors, just pale gray concrete, discrete neon signs, and metal doors. Austin seems to know where we are going.

We get out of the car, and he shepherds us to one of the doors. We are met by an attendant dressed in immaculate scrubs and a close-fitting hat that hides her hair. "This way," she says, turning and leading us down a pale green corridor. "He's been asking for you."

Grandfather Aims is ensconced in a luxurious hospital bed positioned by a picture window. The window looks out over a walled courtyard containing a fountain, a bird feeder and colorful flower beds. "A pleasant prospect isn't it?" he asks. "It is almost as if it is designed to presage heaven. For some of us, I fear this may be as close as we will get. Come in, Grandson. We need to talk."

Austin and the dogs take up a position just inside the door. Maddy, Paul, and I walk over to the three chairs set up facing the bed.

"Sit, sit," the old man says.

We sit, and for a few minutes we all just stare at him while he stares back. "I do not envy you the work before you," Grandfather says. "I have done my best, and I've attended to some things. But no one can change the world in a minute."

"Have you?" I say bitterly. "What about the young women who are considered so cheap that when they are beaten and abused, those around them say that they got what they deserved? What about the youth whose future is claimed by addiction, and those sucked into less savory occupations?"

The old man in the bed looks out the window where little birds in jewel colors splash in basins that catch water from the fountain. "When the sun shines on a tree, it casts a shadow," he said. "A gardener might curse the shade, but a family planning a picnic might bless it. All things are relative."

I look at him for a minute or two before I say, "I worked in your big city clinic for a week. The director there gouged prices, treated bullet wounds without reporting them, and was absolutely indifferent to the plight of a young woman who was so beaten that she seemed unlikely to recover. The way he put it was , ‘She got what she asked for.'"

Grandfather nodded. "I remember. I replaced that director only weeks after you left. His successor was a little better, but he was also a number counter. But the one after that, she was much better, and today the clinic is a model facility that helps turn lives around."

"How progressive of you," I say. "I suppose you think that compensates for contributing to the crime in the area."

"Oh, Andrew," Grandfather Aims says, "are you still clinging to the worldview where everyone is a moral, hardworking drone? Have you so completely turned against the oaths you took when you were fifteen? I placed you in that clinic, hoping you would see how things were and what you would need to do to change them. Instead, you took the moral high road and left in a flutter of disdainful superiority."

"Is that how you think I see things?" I ask.

He smiles, a tired bitter smile, "I wanted you to see how that clinic operated. I never dreamed it would send you halfway around the world to get away from that life. You do not understand the shades of gray that are involved in the world of business."

"I'm not buying it," I say. "But go on. What spin are you going to put on your life that will justify what you have done?"

The old man closes his eyes, then opens them again. "Oh, Grandson. I have done many things that I regret. Sometimes, I've even been sorry that I connected the Aims family with the Lanes. But I had only one daughter, and I knew I needed a strong descendant who could move in the political morass that was and is North American government. Perhaps if I'd had a better crystal ball, I might have seen the changes in the ethnic balance in our ruling houses."

"I suppose this explains why you engineered my mother's marriage to Albert Lane, and his divorce of Amari," I say.

"Pff," the old man languidly waves a hand. "That marriage was already doomed. I just facilitated the divorce. Have you never wondered at how quickly Amari was able to find a protector?"

In point of fact, I'd not wondered about it. Even in her early forties, Amari was beautiful. She could have had her pick of a dozen men, despite being dishonored by divorce. She picked Iskander. Whatever his other faults, her second husband doted on her and on her children.

As to his other faults, well, he had paid for those. We all had.

"Leland was two years old," I say. "He's lived with the stigma of being the child of a divorcee. In the community where he grew up, that was almost like being illegitimate."

"And you gave him the princess," Grandfather Aims says. "I'm not sure I see the logic in that, any more than I understood your reasons for getting a girl knocked up just before leaving for Africa."

"I was feeling a little crowded," I say. "Or I might have been a little more aware of the girl. As for the princess, Richard found a loophole, and we threaded the needle, so to speak. Catriona is a lovely young woman, but she and Leland are a far better match than she and I would have been. But none of this is what you want to discuss, is it?"

"No," my grandfather said. "I've directed the Aims Corp ledgers to be delivered to Moor Security. I've worked with Austin Moor in the past. He's an honorable man who understands how the world works. He'll accept those ledgers and get them to you."

"Why not send them to Charles Emory or Richard Lane?" I ask.

"I understand your wife is acquainted with Kate Emory. Charles is a little too much of an upstanding citizen to deal with the likes of me, but he has a good reputation. He's a good person to do business with, but you should always be aware that he will follow the letter of the law as well as the spirit."

I squeeze Maddy's hand. Whether she realizes it or not, this is high praise of her friend's husband. She squeezes back, but doesn't say anything.

"As for Richard . . . well, I'm just as happy that he is Albert's heir, not mine. My daughter, Deborah, was a good girl and followed my instructions. But Albert never tried to make her happy. He gave her lots of pretty and expensive things, and three children, but he didn't give her his love." Grandfather paused, and took a sip of water from a glass on a stand beside the table.

"I should have taken the children from them," he says, looking out the window again. "I want to make Paul my heir. Your wife ran away from me, and wouldn't let me adopt him like I wanted to do."

"You wanted to take him away from me," Maddy burst out. "Since I would not give up my son, you tried to kidnap him. You wanted to make him your heir, and paint a target on him."

"You should have told me," I say, looking at the old man. "I would have come home. Instead, Paul has had nine years of not having a father. It is fortunate that Madeline had good friends to help her."

"You were dead to me," Grandfather says. "So, now you are resurrected because there isn't anyone else. You are reunited with your family. Does it make you happy?"

"Yes," I say. "Yes, it does."

"Very well," the old man says. "I suppose I'll have to make the best of it. Just remember, organized crime is better than disorganized crime. I did my best to keep drugs out of the schools. That one doctor had prejudices, but I made sure my working girls all had medical care. Yes, and childcare, too."

"And the men who are permanent cripples because your enforcers got a little too rough?" I growl.

"Omelets and eggs, Grandson," he says. "Omelets and eggs. Try not to arrest all my people, or get them killed. You can't take away a man's livelihood and not give him something in its place — or a woman's either."

"All right, Grandfather," I say. "I'll do the best I can for them."

He nods, and turns his face to look out the window. We are dismissed.