Angel of Death. Christian Russell
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The chauffer pulled up by the steps. He got out to open the door for the guest and was unpleasantly surprised to find him on the lowest step already. There was a reason behind Mark’s hurry, though: Dorothy Wheller was waiting for him on top of the steps with a big smile on her face.
“I’m so glad you could come, Mark!” she told him while he kissed her hand. She looked at him again and burst into laughter when she saw his haircut. Then she took him by the arm and they entered a huge reception room. At a single glance the agent could recognize a lot of celebrities from showbiz, sports or politics. He stood still, overwhelmed.
“What is it, Mark?” the woman asked.
“I wonder what’s a guy like me doing in a place like this. This is like a walking Who’s Who edition.”
“It’s not like that. You should see the Academy Governor’s Ball after the Oscars have been awarded.”
“I don’t know what that is like, but I think I’m the only one here whose biography hasn’t been published.”
“You’re exaggerating it. Don’t tell me you feel awkward.”
“Oh, no, I don’t feel awkward. I’m often invited to reception halls where planes can take off.”
Dorothy smiled and managed to make him move. “Let’s go, Uncle Henry’s waiting for us.”
The senator was standing by the door talking passionately to an impressive elderly man. He saw them and waved to them to draw near. “Patrick, let me introduce my rescuer to you: Mark Du Nancy. He’s a real hero.” He then pointed to his interlocutor. “This is Judge Patrick Hurst from the Supreme Court.”
“The real hero checked out of hospital last Friday,” Mark tried to remind them of Paulardis’s existence.
“By the way, how’s your young colleague doing?” the politician made up for his mistake.
“He’s all right. The bullet just grazed his shoulder. Anyway, senator, we’ve informed our bosses and Beck’s called Washington.”
“Jesus, the ‘Monster’ will have the Secret Service guys all over me again,” Henry Wheller said. “They’re so boring with all that stuff in their ears!”
The judge was staring at Mark, holding his hand to his forehead as if he wanted to recall something. “Yes, of course!” he exclaimed. “Du Nancy—the N.Y. Rangers left forward. You scored second from Ray Bourque’s pass in the All Star-Game in ’88. Am I right?” he asked reaching out his hand.
“You are,” Mark said. “Only Ray’s going to play in the All Star-Game again next January whereas I haven’t held that stick in my hands for years.” He felt, however, flattered for being recognized for the most glorious day of his life. So he shook the judge’s hand vigorously. Hurst gave him the up and down and seemed satisfied by what he saw.
“You know, Henry.... Years back I saw this guy break Messier down like a twig.”
“And I saw him break down a guy who didn’t like my hat,” the senator replied.
“Stop whining,” the old man teased him. “Your luck seems to be working better and better. The first time they put a hole through your hat, now they didn’t even touch you.”
“Thanks, Patrick,” the senator laughed, “but I’d rather not put it to the test again. Well, what can you do? Friends come and go but enemies add up. Look at us, boring these young people. Dorothy, be a good host and introduce our guest to Sarah and Ralf. Then enjoy yourselves too. Show him around the house, dance a little....”
Mark had barely mumbled something when he felt a hand dragging him to the end of the room.
“Mr. Celebrity always surrounds himself with mystery or only when dealing with silly girls?” Dorothy pricked him.
“I wasn’t that famous. Besides, that happened a very long time ago.”
They walked past the people who were having a friendly chat by the entrance. From where they were standing now they could have a view of the entire room. In the opposite corner, on a very imposing rostrum, the man noticed a large orchestra in golden outfits. They were skillfully playing a tango using almost all the musical instruments he could think of. A lot of couples were dancing passionately in the middle of the room. To the left, several dozens of elderly people were sitting at a long table. At its head Mark recognized the actress’s father: Ralf Wheller. Dorothy had stopped and was now looking confusedly about the room.
“What’s the matter?” Mark asked.
“I’m trying to locate my sister. I want to introduce you to her.”
She finally found her—she was about twenty feet away from them. She was accompanied by two men who looked like gigolos. As they were drawing near, Du Nancy took a good look at her. Sarah was trying to hide about ten years behind her sad eyes and thick makeup. She was that kind of woman whose worst nightmare was a rainy day. She’s probably fifteen years older than her sister, Mark thought. As far as he knew, Sarah Wheller had been one of Hugh Heffner’s last ‘bunny girls’ in the early ’80s and was still longing for those times. Quickly labelled as a sex-symbol, she had been in several movies and then she started losing her charm and the movie people lost their interest in her. She was currently with Little Carnegie Theater only.
“My dear sister, this is Special Agent Mark Du Nancy.”
Sarah took a little bow. These Whellers seem to be very fond of their manners, Mark thought. The Du Nancys also cared for theirs but they also had other things to attend to. That was why he only kissed her hand.
“Oh, the man whose name is on everyone’s lips these days,” the woman exclaimed. “Nice to meet you. It seems you’re leading a pretty interesting life.”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just nodded at them and resumed her conversation with her companions. Before they left, Mark noticed her dress. It was incredibly short and so sheer you could almost read her mind.
“Is she married?” he asked a little later out of pure curiosity.
“From time to time,” Dorothy smiled.
Now a group of four waiters were carrying a huge cake to the long table. There were many burning candles in it, sixty-five to be exact. They placed it before Ralf Wheller. The actor started to blow out the candles as the crowd were cheering and singing ‘Happy Birthday.’ With the help of his table companions he managed to do it in less than thirty seconds.
Old Wheller was a living legend of the New York stage. He had been Broadway’s golden boy and a special guest star to the Shakespeare festivals in Central Park. In the ’60s he had been Christopher Plummer’s co-star in Othello. He had been on the same stage with Laurence Olivier and Barbara Stanwyck. He hadn’t had too much to do with the movie business although the Los Angeles studios had always courted him whenever they did a Shakespeare movie. He had only given in once: at the request of his friend Richard Burton he had played a minor part in one of the latter’s historical movies.
One of Wheller’s close friends, an actor himself, stood up and started to praise his life and career. Ralf protested but to no result. The other guests urged him to listen to the speech. At some point a gorgeous young woman went up to the actor and whispered a few words into his ear, at the same time pointing to something in the room. The speaker had just come to the part about the immortality of Wheller’s roles. Ralf interrupted him.
“Stop, Frank! Our life, the life of the immortals, is still short and I want us to enjoy every minute of it. Especially now that I’ve reached an age when the candles have come to cost more than the cake. Let’s do something useful and pleasant for a change. There,” he pointed to a place close by, “you’ll see a group of young actresses who’d be more than happy to get advice from some seasoned guys like yourselves. What do you say, shall we join them?”
“I think it’s your advice they’re after, not some poor actor’s,” Frank