The Green Lama: Scions (The Green Lama Legacy Book 1) (3 page)

Jean Farrell jumped out of her chair, her pistol aimed squarely between Ken’s eyes. Her face instantly relaxed at the sight of him, but not before he saw the deadly expression that had descended over her normally beautiful visage.

“What the hell, Clayton?” she exclaimed, lowering her gun, her Montana accent still evident after all these years. “I could’ve killed you!”

“You didn’t answer the door!” he shouted back.

“Just because I don’t answer the door doesn’t mean you get to barge in with a gun, goddammit!”

“I was nervous!”

“You barged in. With a gun.”

“And you pointed one at me!”

“Like you’ve never had a gun pointed at you,” she said with a coy smile, her hand on her hip.

“You couldn’t answer the door?”

“I was a little busy,” she replied, tucking her fire red hair back behind her ear as she paced the room. It was only then that Ken noticed the shortwave radio on the table next to her bed.

“I can see that,” he commented with a raised eyebrow. “Red, can we talk?”

“A ship just crashed into Liberty Island,” she said off handedly

“Excuse me?” he said, sitting down on the corner of her bed.

“And a big one at that,” she added excitedly, her green eyes sparkling. “We’re talkin’ ocean liner, Blondie. Any bigger and we’d be in
Titanic
territory.”

“You’ve been listening in on the police?”

“Of course. What do you think I got that for?” she asked, waving at the radio.

“Don’t you need a permit for that?” Ken lifted up the headphones and placed it against his ear. There was a smattering of voices talking back and forth, one he recognized as Lieutenant Caraway. “Hm. The
S.S. Bartlett.
When did you get this?”

Jean shrugged. “Couple of days ago.”

“This isn’t something you get at the corner store, Farrell,” he said, holding up the headphones as if to prove a point. “This is something—Did you lift this off the cops?”

“What? No. A…” she trailed off and frowned, searching for the word. “A friend bought it for me.”

“A friend. A friend in a big green cloak?”

“And electric powers. Yes, that friend,” Jean said quickly.

“This is why you don’t land any major roles, darling,” he sighed. “You’re too busy working for him.”

“Working? I thought this was all on a volunteer basis. I can leave whenever I want.”

“Be honest. You do it because you like him.”

Jean rolled her eyes. “Don’t be insane, Clayton. As far as the world knows you and I are bound at the hip.”

“As far as the world knows,” he said, his heart fluttering in his chest. Now was the time to tell her. “Everyone in this room, however—”

“Hey, for the record, you rejected me,” she retorted as she picked up her phone.

“Who’re you calling?”

“Who do you think?” she replied, lifting the handset to her ear. “Cory, get off the party line!” She placed a hand over the mouthpiece. “That Midgarden kid always yammering on to his mother in Poughkeepsie,” she said to Ken. “Yes, now. I don’t care if your dog had a litter of puppies, you can deal with that bitch later. No, I wasn’t talking about you, Mrs. Midgarden.”

Ken sighed, realizing the moment had come and gone. He got up and walked to door. “Red, you’re going to make some man very happy one day.”

“So will you, Blondie,” she said, dialing in MOrningside 7-2363. “Hey, what was it you wanted to talk about?”

Ken smiled wanly. “Not important. Let me know if he needs us.”

“When doesn’t he?” she grinned.

• • •

Cigarette smoke hung over the Cafe Society nightclub like a cloud, yellowish white, seeping into the walls. The lights were dimmed, the shadows thick and velvety. The band was coming back from their break, fiddling with their instruments in a cacophony that was both lurid and maddening.
Herald-Tribune
reporter Betty Dale grimaced at the sound, fidgeting uncomfortably in her chair as she waited for her subject to return to his seat. Despite his celebrity, she had spent the better part of the last month trying to track him down, finally finding him here in a jazz lounge off Christopher. What kind of respectable millionaire would come here, of all places? It made her uncomfortable, feeling like a bright white beacon that cried, “I don’t belong.” But she was known for doing almost anything for a story. She’d be able to handle a night on the other side of the tracks.

She wasn’t sure what her editor would say once she handed him the finished article—there would probably be a lot of screaming—but there was no doubt in her mind that it would make the front page. She checked her watch as the hands moved past one o’clock and dangerously toward two. She drummed her fingers against her notepad as the trumpeter played his first notes and the rest of the band followed along.

“Thank you for meeting me so late, Miss Dale,” Jethro Dumont said with a smile, handing her a Manhattan as he sat down across from her, a glass of whiskey for himself. He loosened his tie as he sat down across the table, running a hand through his ruffled brown hair, his blue-grey eyes studying Betty. There was no denying that Dumont was handsome—though Betty had known more attractive men—looking significantly younger than his thirty-five years. Perhaps it was due to his time spent in Tibet, but that wasn’t why she hunted him down, at least not directly. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, of course, but Joan’s still enjoying her post-divorce days and insisted we have one more dance. I wasn’t about to refuse.”

“Then I suppose I should be thanking you for taking time out your busy schedule,” she said dryly.

Dumont’s smile broadened. “No rest for the wicked.”

“Yes, well, it took me so long to get in touch with you, I was beginning to think you were nocturnal,” she said, pushing a lock of golden hair out of her eyes.

“That’s because I am, Miss Dale,” Dumont said, raising a devilish eyebrow. “Or very near close to it.”

“Or you’re just still on Tibet time?” she suggested.

Dumont chuckled. “If that were so, I’d be chanting, unless you count this as ceremony,” he said, rattling his glass.

“A glass of whiskey isn’t what I would normally consider sacrament, but I’m sure I can find a few people who’d convert for you.” She sipped her drink, finding it much more bitter than she cared for. “Needless to say, I’m not sure I’ve conducted many interviews in such an… interesting setting.”

“Don’t like jazz, Miss Dale?”

“Not my cup of tea, Mr. Dumont. Guess you can call me old fashioned.”

His eyes roamed over her. “Girl young as yourself, I’d say that’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

Betty gave him a thin smile as she fished a cigarette holder out from her purse. “Don’t you smoke, Mr. Dumont?”

“Not anymore, no,” he said. Betty couldn’t help but notice the tinge of distaste in his tone. What kind of man didn’t smoke?

“Guess I shouldn’t ask you for a light, then,” she said, cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.

“I’m not without class, Miss Dale,” Dumont said, drawing a chrome lighter from his vest, the letters JPD engraved on one side. Betty leaned over the table to let Dumont light her cigarette. “So, what’s this article about? You’ve called my people, called my houses and apartments, chased me across the city, and finally tracked me down. However, at no point have you mentioned what it is you’ll be writing about. I’d like to believe it’s something a little more substantive than a
Broadway Brevities
piece, but then again the public does love a scandal.”

“No offense, Mr. Dumont,” she said, taking a drag from her cigarette, “you’re scandal personified.”

“Miss Dale, you’re going to make me blush.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You know, I remember hearing about another Betty Dale who disappeared after the Cleveland
Post
printed her article about the murder of Lew Giggi.”

Betty grimaced. “I have no idea who that woman was, but she thoroughly screwed my career for six months after that fiasco. I ever find her, I’m going to give her a piece of my mind.”

Dumont flashed a sly smile. “I’ll make sure to let you know if I ever run into her. But we’re going off on a tangent, aren’t we?”

“We are.” Dale picked up a pen and flipped opened her notepad. “There are a lot of questions, Mr. Dumont, as I’m sure you’re aware, about your ten year sojourn into Tibet.”

“I am aware,” he said with a nod. “And all of these questions will be addressed in my friend Richard Foster’s upcoming book,
Jewel in the Lotus Flower.
It’s quite an interesting read, I promise you. Full of illustrations and photos. I’ll have them send you a copy.”

“You left shortly after the death of your parents, correct? From what I understand you were attending Harvard at the time and simply walked off campus.”

“In the middle of a snowstorm, yes.” He laced his fingers together and kept his penetrating gaze on Betty. “Though I assure you it wasn’t as histrionic as it sounds. I took a cab to the train station.”

Betty nodded and jotted down a few superfluous notes. “There’s also your more, shall we say… dramatic return to the States almost five years ago.”

Dumont’s body stiffened and his eyes steeled over. “If you’re referring to the three children who were gunned down while I was disembarking the
S.S. Heki
—”

“There are some who believe those guns were aimed at you, Mr. Dumont.”

“Are you trying to imply I’m somehow connected to the mob, Miss Dale?”

“I’m implying nothing. I’m simply asking the questions many others have already asked themselves.”

“And they would be wrong,” he said sharply. “If you’d like this interview to continue I’d advise you to tread lightly, Miss Dale.”

“I mean no disrespect, Mr. Dumont,” she said, her eyes saying different. “As I said, I’m merely asking questions.”

“Lies spoken are slander, easily ignored and forgotten,” he said, methodically. “Put them in print and that’s libel, and my lawyers absolutely love libel.”

Betty took a thoughtful drag of her cigarette as she measured him. “Then why don’t we snub any falsehoods printed or spoken before your lawyers get wind of them?”

“Ask your questions then,” he said with a dismissive wave.

Betty took once last pull of her cigarette and placed it in the ashtray. “There are some who believe that the death of your parents was no mere accident, that you absconded to the East because of some serious debt either you or your parents had accrued from some very dangerous people.” “Are you asking to look at my bank accounts, Miss Dale? I assure you the quantities are all in the nonuple digits.”

“It just seems a little suspicious, Mr. Dumont, that you should disappear for a decade after the death of your parents only to return to gunfire?”

Dumont rested his elbows on the table and tapped his fingers together while he considered his answer. “Miss Dale, I will try to speak as plainly as possible so as to avoid any misunderstandings,” he said after a moment. “The death of my parents was the most tragic event of my life, completely upending everything I held dear. It rattled me, Miss Dale; rattled me right to my very core. I realized that I had nothing. No purpose, no reason. For all the money I had, I realized I was impoverished. So, I went to find what I was missing. I travelled through China and India until I made my way into Tibet and there I found—” His glassy eyes momentarily dropped to his right hand. Betty followed his gaze and saw for the first time the rainbow ring of hair wrapped around his middle finger. He pressed his hand to his chest. “Or I suppose you could say it found me. Buddhism gave me peace, gave me purpose. I returned to the States to teach others what I had learned: ’Lamaism,’ as our Western scholars insist on calling it. What happened on the pier that day… It haunts me, Miss Dale. Not a day goes by where I don’t replay it all in my head and wish I could have saved those children.”

Betty pursed her lips. “You expect me to believe it’s all just coincidence?”

“There are such things, Miss Dale.”

“I’ve learned otherwise.”

“Have you now? Then, let me ask you a question, Miss Dale. What have you seen that has left you so jaded?”

Dale arched an eyebrow. “Things you wouldn’t believe.”

He leaned forward, a caustic smile tugging at the comer of his mouth. “Try me.”

A waiter approached the table and stood awkwardly, hands laced together. “Excuse me, Mr. Dumont, Sir, but you have a call from a Mr.
Sah-wrong.”

Dumont’s debonair smile instantly returned as if it never left. It was a mask, Betty realized with little surprise. “Ah, my assistant, Tsarong,” he said to the waiter, then to Betty with unexpected warmth: “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Dale.”

Betty gave him a terse nod and watched him disappear into the crush of people.

An hour later, Betty, resigned to the fact that Dumont wasn’t coming back, finished her drink and dropped a few bills on the table. She began to collect her notes when she glanced at Dumont’s drink, realizing he had never taken a sip.