The Lost Prince Page 14

  “Yeah,” Seth agreed. “Can we keep that between us? I’ve got a lot on my plate these days as it is.”

  Ramone nodded and said, “It’s okay to come over now.” He rushed out of the room.

  Seth wished Lelani had been there to explain what had happened. Obviously he was sensitive to the magic … he just didn’t know what it was good for. If the energy left every time he concentrated on it, how would he ever use it to cast a spell? Seth went to take that shower quickly, before Ramone changed his mind.

  3

  Seth walked into the York Avenue lobby of Sotheby’s auction house showered, shaved, and freshly changed, feeling like a new man. His friend Mitch, who served on the board of directors for the Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art, gave him a contact for the rare books specialist at Sotheby’s. Mitch also cautioned that appointments were usually done weeks in advance. Seth had an idea this would be the case. Fortunately, he had “borrowed” Lelani’s silver flower pin with the credibility enchantment, which was now pinned to the collar of his peacoat.

  “Seth Raincrest to see Alistair St. Cloud,” he said to a very serious man in a jacket and tie at the front desk.

  “Is Mr. St. Cloud expecting you?”

  “Absolutely,” Seth said confidently. He brandished his cell phone. “In fact, I just spoke to him. Alistair said I should just come up because his secretary would be out to lunch at this time.”

  The security man’s brow clenched like he needed an Advil, but handed Seth a visitor’s pass anyway and pointed him to the right elevator bank. As Seth walked off the elevator, yet another receptionist greeted Seth. This company had more layers than Fort Knox. He gave the girl on this floor the same spiel, and she called St. Cloud’s assistant to come get him. The assistant was an older woman with short white hair, impeccably dressed, with a string of white pearls and sensible shoes. Seth told her he was there to see Mr. St. Cloud.

  “Mr. St. Cloud is very busy at the moment. What is this in reference to?” she asked skeptically.

  Seth noted a degree of resistance coming from the woman. He didn’t know if the silver pin was losing its mojo or if the woman’s age or intelligence had something to do with it. Perhaps she did believe him, but it was the nature of her job to hold people off regardless. Seth pulled the plastic folder out of his backpack. He opened it and gingerly pulled out a copy of Action Comics number one with the iconic image of the Man of Steel holding a car over his head. She took it carefully and examined it. Seth suspected the woman’s reaction had more to do with the last reported sale of this issue being well over a million dollars than her being a comic book fan.

  “You have more?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “May I see?”

  “I’ll show St. Cloud,” he said.

  “Wait here,” she said, handing the magazine back.

  A few minutes later, the assistant escorted Seth into a posh office of mahogany and brass décor. A trace of pipe smoke lingered. The bookcases were filled with moldy old texts, protected behind airtight glass doors. There was a black-and-white photo of St. Cloud in a black suit. He wore a short-cropped dark Brylcreemed haircut and thick black square-framed glasses standing behind a huge old tome on a pedestal. The brass plaque on the frame said Gutenberg Bible 1969.

  “Are these stolen items?” asked a deep velvety British voice behind him. It exuded snobbery.

  Seth turned to find the man from the photo, aged several decades, in a tweed jacket. His hair was still full, but white. His jowls wobbled as he talked.

  “Excuse me?” Seth asked.

  “The items you have brought … Are they stolen? Do you have any way to authenticate your ownership?”

  Seth thought of Ben and Helen Reyes, the original owners of the magazines. The nexus to their home in Puerto Rico was filled with periodicals from the past hundred years. That was until they needed to build pyres in the meadow to fight nocturnal dog-men. When Seth saved these comic books from the flames he wasn’t even sure why he did it. At the time, he was certain he wouldn’t survive to cash them in. Ben and Helen had lived on top of a fortune for years, but couldn’t have cared less about the money. Ben was the caretaker of the world’s last sorcerer, a sentient tree named Rosencrantz. And that charge had cost Ben his life when Seth’s group brought violence to their home. Still, Ben was a proponent of Seth turning his life around; the money these few books would bring were the cornerstone of that plan.

  “I bought them at a yard sale in a small town in Ohio a year ago,” Seth lied. “The people selling them had no idea what they were really worth. There’s no receipt.” Seth didn’t think he’d need the enchanted pin to push this one over on St. Cloud. Things like this happened all the time. It helped that there were no police alerts for stolen rare comic books, and possession was still nine-tenths under the law.

  “Can I see them?” St. Cloud asked, putting on his reading glasses.

  Seth opened the envelope and placed Action Comics number one on the desk. He gingerly pulled out Detective Comics number twenty-seven, the first appearance of Batman, and laid it next to the first one. St. Cloud’s passion for rare and expensive things was etched on his face. A naked, drunk, and horny Scarlett Johansson couldn’t pry St. Cloud’s attention away from the desk at that moment.

  “What else have you got?” St. Cloud asked. He eyed the folder and tried to contain his excitement.

  Seth pulled out the remaining books with equal care and laid them next to each other: Amazing Fantasy number fifteen, WHIZ Comics number two, and All Star Comics number three. They were all in good condition. Rosencrantz’s proximity must have preserved the paper. The only scuffs and creases were from Seth’s handling them.

  St. Cloud puckered his lips and let out an approving whoosh. “If these are real, there is at least two million dollars on this desk right now,” he said. “If I can get monsieurs Tarantino, Spielberg, and Lucas in the same room, maybe five million.”

  St. Cloud checked each one under a large magnifying glass. His assistant snipped a piece out of each magazine that was no bigger than the head of a pin and placed them in individual test tubes. She went through a mahogany door disguised as a wall into a modern brightly lit room with glass cabinets and metal tables.

  “If the chemical analysis of the paper and ink comes back authentic, we’re in business,” St. Cloud said.

  Seth knew they would and said, “I’d like a small cash advance of a few thousand against the sale. I’ll leave the items here with you. My only request is that we fill out the paperwork now. I’ll sign everything in advance.”

  “We don’t know what the final sale will be,” St. Cloud said, surprised.

  “I’ll sign blank applications that you can fill in later and leave deposit slips for where I want the money to go. Take an extra percent on your end if this is unorthodox. Assume that after today, you might never see me again. But I want the money to go to those accounts.”

  St. Cloud agreed to the terms. The man looked honest enough; Seth didn’t have a choice—he could be running for his life, in another universe, or dead, in the coming days. But at least he’ll never be poor again. St. Cloud might take a healthy cut of the action, but it’ll get done right. Seth filled out the paperwork and presigned the necessary papers for Sotheby’s and his financial institutions. St. Cloud handed him six thousand dollars out of petty cash.

  As he walked out of the building, a great burden lifted from Seth’s shoulders. He had accomplished the most important task. What is good? Ben’s voice echoed as though the old man were there beside him—guiding him.

  It was 6:00 P.M. Joe’s memorial service would start soon. He hailed a cab and aimed it for the East Village.

  4

  Seth stood under a tree across the street from the East Village funeral home where Joe’s service commenced, smoking a cigarette, watching everyone arrive. They were all in there, his once and former friends. He tapped the butt into the sidewalk with the tip of his shoe and crossed the street.


  It was bright inside, a welcome contrast to the cold darkness that had fallen on the city. The walls were freshly painted, faded yellow with patterns of gold leafing, bordered by intricate white ceiling moldings and an inoffensively colored carpet that could have been either gray or beige. The mood was tranquil with bland organ music spilling out of camouflaged speakers. A few days earlier, he would have found such a serene place contrived and hokey. A sign pointed to Joe’s service. Some friends of Joe’s whom Seth did not know were chatting at the entrance.

  At the far end of the room was Joe’s casket. True to Catholic tradition it was open. This was Seth’s first view of Joe since their last conversation a few days earlier. He’d blown off his friend to buy some pot. Lelani was hot on his tail with fantastic stories about life in another universe. Seth thought she was crazy, but humored her in hopes of getting her to pose nude in a photo shoot. He genuinely thought she was disturbed—a total nutjob, and still he had intended to exploit her. Seth couldn’t believe the type of man he used to be. By the time they’d returned to his apartment, Joe was dead and Seth was again homeless. That was a lifetime ago.

  Seth took a single step into the room and observed from the back. His friends hadn’t yet realized he was there. He studied the crowd. Earl and his old lady Marge were on the left in the third row next to Mitch and his spouse, what’s-her-name. Mindy, her straight brown hair cut in a short-cropped flapper’s do and wearing a black sleeveless above-the-knee dress, was standing against the wall on the right talking to one of Joe’s colleagues from work. She was one of a small number of Seth’s models who made it out of the porn business relatively unscathed by drugs or humiliation … except for her personal relationship with Seth. Aware of his arrival, a growing ensemble of whispers pulled Seth from his observations. He wondered how many wished it was him in that coffin and not Joe. As he walked up the center aisle toward the casket, he heard murmurings of “nerve,” “asshole,” “can’t believe…,” and other musings regarding his presence. If he hadn’t showed up, the talk would be about his no-show. There was no way he could win. Seth hoped no one would challenge his right to be there. He was not looking for trouble, and would not leave until his business was done.

  For a dead man, Joe looked great. Except for some minor changes in bone structure where the mortician reconstructed his face, it was Joe pre-fire blast. His burns were covered with a healthy coating of makeup. His usual wispy three-day growth had been shaved, his wavy black hair trimmed and combed, and he was in a sharp black suit that Seth knew his friend had never owned. Joe looked ready to sit up and chastise him over missing the rent or the innumerable other offenses Seth imposed on their friendship. The room behind him was an odd combination of silence and diminished rumbling. Apparently even friends of Joe he’d never met knew who he was. He put his hand on the side of the casket and bowed his head. It occurred to Seth that he didn’t know any prayers, the last time having set foot in a church being for a two-girl photo shoot involving wayward nuns called “Lickity-Split Confessionals.” No one else in the room knew that, of course, so Seth simply stated his regret in plain language for his part of Joe’s death and hoped that his friend would forgive him, wherever he was. A righteous anger arose in Seth for the first time in his tragic life. Those who murdered his friend, who intended to murder him, had no right to make decisions about who lived and who died. Joe was never part of their war. These monsters callously shucked aside anyone who got in their way—a trail of collateral damage with complete disregard for the web of lives surrounding each individual. The family and friends who are affected each time are left trying to pick up the pieces to make sense of the vacuum created by the loss. These assassins had a thing or two coming to them. Finding the prince and stopping Dorn was beginning to feel like Seth’s own mission instead of someone else’s agenda.

  There was nothing else Seth could do for Joe. He turned and approached Earl in the second row.

  “Hey,” Earl said. Marge sat beside her man indignantly and refused to look at Seth.

  “Hoshi?” Seth asked.

  “Scarfing down a can of Friskies in our kitchen.”

  “Thanks.” One more check on Seth’s karma list.

  Seth reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he handed to Earl. Earl cracked it to find several fifty- and hundred-dollar bills—more than the amount Seth initially owed him for the pot he’d purchased on credit.

  “Here?” Earl whispered angrily. “You’re doing this here.” He looked around the room, paranoid.

  “I may never see you again. I wanted to square things.”

  While Earl tried to absorb this statement, his girlfriend cut in, “I’m keeping that cat!”

  Seth nodded. “Yes, you are.”

  Marge gave him a dubious look, running through several interpretations of what that might imply. “I’m serious,” she emphasized. “Thing’s scrawny as a scarecrow.”

  “Not going to argue.”

  Seth pulled out another envelope filled with more money and this one he handed to Marge. She wouldn’t take it, looking at Seth suspiciously. “This is to cover Joe’s transportation to California and burial,” Seth said. “Can you give it to his mom when she arrives?” Marge, still unsure whether she was making a deal with the devil, took the envelope and tucked it in her purse.

  Seth made his rounds around the room, apologizing for acts of selfishness, and in some cases, even acts of apathy. He returned money he owed to people, with generous interest. Most politely took the cash, but wouldn’t give him more than a minute of their time.

  “What kind of twelve-step bullshit is this?” Martin Lipsinki had asked. Seth had wrecked his car a year ago on the way to a photo shoot and left Martin hanging when the insurance wouldn’t cover the loss. Martin opened a thick envelope with enough cash for a decent down payment on a sedan. He was dumbstruck. “You selling dope now?” he finally said. Seth smiled, patted him on the shoulder, and continued through the room.

  “I hope you don’t think there’s any amount that can make up for what you put me through,” a raspy voice said behind him.

  Mindy Dietz was as beautiful as the first time Seth met her. She had been a fresh arrival from Iowa who quickly made her rounds in Alphabet City’s party scene. During their four-month-long relationship, one of Seth’s longest, she trusted him enough to get her the centerfold in a reputable publication like Playboy, Maxim, or at least Penthouse. Instead, all she got was a tasteless back-issue spread at a second-rate rag called Likely Legal. And she got pregnant. Seth never showed up for their appointment at the clinic and virtually ignored the girl after her D&C procedure. Left scrambling for someone to take her home after the operation, Marge had to leave work early and pay for the abortion on her credit card. Mindy eventually paid Marge back with no help from Seth, who even cheated Mindy out of her fee for the photo shoots. This one was high on his list of haunts, but still not the worst. It was difficult to look her in the eye.

  “There isn’t,” Seth admitted, answering her greeting. “I should have at least paid for the abortion.” He pulled out another envelope and waited for her to take it. “I’m sorry I was such an asshole,” he added. Mindy was always strapped for cash. The joke was that if you paid Mindy at 11:55 P.M., she’d find a way to spend it before the clock struck midnight. She looked at his offering for several seconds, considering whether to take it from him.

  “Go to hell,” she eventually said, and walked away. Seth was sure his reservation was in already.

  Whatever his friends thought of him, Seth knew this was the right first step. What is good? It’s doing the right thing even when it’s hard and causes you pain. His task at the funeral home was done. A few former friends forced smiles as he parted, likely wondering among themselves how long this Robin Hood act would last before the real Seth returned. Seth let them think his behavior was due to Joe’s death; he wasn’t in a position to share the other life-altering events that had been thrust upon him the past three days.
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  As he walked out onto the brisk dark street, a large hand grabbed his shoulder from behind and thrust him against the wall.

  “You have got to be the stupidest man I’ve ever met!” Callum MacDonnell growled inches from his face. Seth thought it was a pretty decent impression of Batman—Christian Bale, not Adam West. Cal wore a light-brown suede jacket over a blue, yellow, and green plaid flannel shirt; a pair of dark blue jeans; and brown Timberland boots with thick soles—a big, blond bully of a lumberjack, whose remarks made many heads turn.

  “We’re supposed to be heading to Maryland,” Cal said.

  “Uh—maybe there’s a better place to discuss this than here, dude?” Seth immediately regretted saying “dude.” Typical of his vernacular, which was forged from avoidance of accountability, it came off cavalier—too informal for the self-important Captain Rage’s current mood.

  Cal gripped him by his jacket collar and dragged Seth along the funeral home wall.

  “You think this is a game?” the cop asked.

  “I had a life before all this, too,” Seth said. He sounded more defensive than he intended. “Don’t I have a right to put my affairs in order before you send me up against a sorcerer that’s probably going to clean my clock?”

  “Your affairs are not your concern anymore,” Callum said. “We’re in this predicament because of your actions, you incompetent asshole. Do you have any idea how complicated you’ve made my life? How many people have been hurt and will still be hurt because of you? I want you where I can see you—where you can’t do any more harm.” Cal shook him some more and the envelope with Mindy’s rejected money fell out. Cal picked it up.

  “What the hell is this?” he asked. He counted through the bills quickly. “Where’d you get two thousand dollars?”

  “Somebody gave it to me,” Seth said.

  “Okay,” Cal responded, and put the money back in Seth’s jacket pocket. “Wait…”

  Cal noticed the silver flower on Seth’s lapel and yanked it off. He punched Seth in the gut and the photographer crumpled to the ground holding his middle.