All these years later …
The night is cool, the sky deep, the stars as sharp as stiletto points.
At twelve, Crispin is strong and tougher than any boy his age should have to be. His senses are sharp, as is his intuition, as if from his association with four-legged Harley, he has acquired some of the dog’s keen perceptions.
This October night, the streets are filled with goblins and witches, vampires and zombies, sexy Gypsy women and superheroes. Some hide behind masks that look like certain despised politicians, and others wear the faces of leering swine, red-eyed goats, and serpents with forked tongues.
These people are on their way to parties in seedy lounges, in modest workingmen’s clubs, and in the ballrooms of older hotels that are desperate to have a profitable night in this economy that has been a mean Halloween for more than three years.
In this lower-middle-class district, Crispin feels safe enough to wander the streets, scoping the scene, enjoying the costumes and the bustle and the decorations. Halloween is swiftly becoming one of the biggest holidays of the year.
The people whom he fears are not of this neighborhood. They are not likely to descend to these streets for any celebration. Their tastes are more expensive and more exotic than anything that can be provided here.
Three months have passed since his most recent encounter with them. They had almost caught him in an old elementary school slated for eventual demolition.
His mistake then was to spend too many nights in the same place. If he remains on the move, they have greater difficulty locating him.
Crispin doesn’t know why being stationary too long puts him at risk. It’s as if his scent becomes concentrated when he lingers in one place.
He knows the legend of the Wandering Jew who struck Christ on the day of the crucifixion and was then condemned to roam the world forever without rest. Some say this condemnation was in fact an act of grace because the devil can’t find and take a man whose remorse drives him to wander ceaselessly in search of absolution.
In addition to his good dog, Crispin’s constant companion is remorse. That he could not save his brother. That he could not save his little sister. That he was so long blind to the truth of their stepfather and to the treachery of their unloving mother.
Now he and Harley pass a two-story buff-brick building that houses the local VFW post. The structure seems to tremble and swell with the muffled backbeat of a band playing an old Beatles tune, as if such rock and roll can’t be constrained without risk of explosion.
A wave of laughter and chatter and louder music washes across the sidewalk when two men, fumbling packs of cigarettes from their pockets, push open the door and step outside for a smoke. One is dressed as a pirate. The other wears a tuxedo, a fake goatee, and a pair of horns.
They glance at Crispin. The devil thumbs flame from a butane lighter.
The boy looks away from them. He takes up the slack in the leash, and brings the dog to his side.
Fifty yards or so from the VFW post, he dares to look back, half expecting the men to be following him. They are where he last saw them, smoke pluming from their mouths as if their souls must be on fire.
At the end of the block is a nightclub called Narcissus. No smokers loiter outside. The windows are two-way mirrors, offering no view of the interior.
A tall man stands beside a taxi. He assists a woman from the vehicle.
His dark hair is slicked back. His cheeks are rouged, his lips bright red. His face is painted like that of a ventriloquist’s dummy, with prominent laugh lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth. The woman’s makeup matches the man’s.
Attached to their white clothes at key points are thick black strings that have been broken. They are not costumed as ventriloquists’ dummies but instead as marionettes freed from their puppet master.
The man says to Crispin, “What a handsome dog,” and the woman says, “Your sister tasted so sweet.”
The encounter is by chance, but you can be killed by chance as easily as by someone’s design.
The dog runs, the boy runs, the man snares the boy by his jacket, the leash jerks from the boy’s hand, and the boy falls …
Before Crispin went on the run …
He lives with his younger brother, Harley, and his little sister, Mirabell. They share a house with their mother, Clarette.
Each child has a different father because many men are drawn to their mother.
Clarette is so beautiful that one of her in-between boyfriends—in between the rich ones—tells Crispin, “Kid, your mom she’s like the magical princess in some fairy-tale cartoon movie, how she can charm kings and princes, even make animals and trees and flowers swoon and sing for her. But I never did see a cartoon princess as smokin’ hot as she is.”
At that time Crispin is seven years old. He understands the princes, animals, trees, and flowers part. Years will pass before he knows what “smokin’ hot” means.
Their mother is drawn to many men, not because their beauty matches hers but because of what they are able to do for her. She says that she has expensive tastes and that her “little bastards” are her ticket to the good life.
Each of their fathers is a man of great prominence for whom the existence of a little bastard would not only be an embarrassment but also a wrecking ball that might smash apart his marriage and lead to an expensive divorce.
In return for specifying on each birth certificate that the father is unknown, Clarette receives a one-time cash payment of considerable size and a smaller monthly stipend. The children live well, though not nearly as well as their mother, because she spends far more freely on herself than on them.
One night, she enjoys too much lemon vodka and cocaine. She insists that eight-year-old Crispin cuddle with her in an armchair.
He would rather be anywhere else but in her too-clingy arms and within range of her exotic breath. When she is in this condition, her embrace seems spidery, and for all her expressions of affection, he expects that something terrible will happen to him.
She tells him then that he ought to be grateful that she is so smart, so cunning, and so tough. Other women who make their living by giving birth to little bastards are likely sooner or later to have a well-planned accident or to become a victim of a supposedly random act of violence. Rich men do not like to be played for fools.
“But I’m too quick and bright and clever for them, Crispie. No one will take your mommy from you. I’ll always be here. Always and always.”
Time passes and change comes.…
The change is named Giles Gregorio. He makes the other rich men in Clarette’s life seem like paupers. His wealth is inherited and so immense as to be almost immeasurable.
Giles has palatial residences all over the world. In this city, he lives atop Shadow Hill, directly across the street from the fabled Pendleton. His mansion—called Theron Hall—is not as large as the Pendleton, but large enough: fifty-two rooms, eighteen baths, and a maze of hallways.
When Giles intends to be in town, twenty servants precede him by a week, readying the great house. Among them are one of his personal chefs, his junior butler, and his junior valet.
Two weeks after Clarette meets the multibillionaire, cuddling again with her oldest son, once more under the spell of lemon vodka, she speaks of a glorious future. “I’ve changed my business model, Crispie. No more little bastards. No more, no more. Mommy’s going to be richer than she ever dreamed of being.”
Just a week later, three weeks