W. Griffin - The Hostage

"Mr. Castillo tells me you're cousins," Masterson said.

"Yes, sir."

"Years ago," Masterson offered, "I had some business dealings with a delightful chap in San Antonio, who had your Christian name, Mr. Lopez, and your surname, Mr. Castillo. I don't suppose…"

"You may be talking about my-our-grandfather, sir," Charley said.

"Did your grandfather have a magnificent Santa Gertruda bull named 'Lyndon J.'?"

"Grandpa was not an admirer of President Johnson," Fernando said, "and Lyndon J., even as a calf, produced amazing amounts of droppings, so when it came to naming the calf for registering…"

"So your grandfather told me," Masterson chuckled. "What is it they say about a small world?"

He's making small talk, Charley thought. He's delaying hearing what he knows he won't like to hear.

What do I do? Bring him back to earth, so I can go out to his farm?

No. Fuck it. Vic's out there. The Mastersons are safe.

We just brought his son home in a flag-draped casket.

Let him do whatever he wants to do.

"I was distressed to learn he had passed," Masterson said. "My deepest condolences to you and your family."

Then he turned and walked to the plate-glass windows and looked out at the twinkling lights on the gulf.

A very long moment later, with his back to them, Masterson said, "Gambling has been going on here on this coast for centuries. Did you know that?"

"No, sir," Charley said, "I didn't."

"No, sir," Fernando added.

"The very first gamblers were the freebooters, the pirates,who plied their profession here," Masterson went on. "They had the custom of raffling off the more comely of the females they had removed, together with other valuable property, from vessels they intercepted entering or leaving the Mississippi River."

"I didn't know that," Fernando said.

"It is, I suspect, why my wife is a bit vague when discussing our ancestors. It is one thing to take some pride in them having been free men of color in New Orleans, before the war of cessation, and quite something else to acknowledge how they achieved that status."

"Excuse me?" Fernando asked.

Masterson took a long sip of his drink, and continued: "After the Battle of New Orleans, Jean Laffite was pardoned for his services. As were his officers and men. Most of them stayed in Louisiana, but some of them, including a notorious scoundrel, Captain Alois Hamele, and his son, Captain Francois Hamele, originally from Haiti, and before that of course from Africa, came here, where the land was cheaper and there were a number of bays and coves where ships not wishing to pass their cargoes through customs could unload.

"Captain-they used the French term, maitre, in those days-Hamele and his son-commonly known as the fils de le Maitre-decided, upon hearing that Jean Laffite had returned to his sinful ways, and knowing that the authorities would almost surely come looking for other pardoned freebooters, that a change of name was probably-"

"I know where you're going," Charley said. "Son of the Master, right? Masterson?"

Winslow Masterson slowly turned from the window, smiled, and nodded.

"Over the years," he went on, "the Masterson family acquired rather extensive land holdings in this area. Some of it was splendid farmland; some was in timber, and some, like the land on which this splendiferous gambling hell is built, was essentially useless swamp."

"And now," Fernando said, smiling, "I think I know where you're going."

"Perhaps," Masterson said, smiling.

"About fifteen years ago, some gentlemen from Las Vegas came to see me about acquiring this property. I suspect, perhaps unkindly, that they were disappointed when they found that I was not plowing my land walking barefoot behind a mule."

Castillo and Fernando chuckled.

"And I know they were disappointed when I told them I wasn't interested in selling the property. I didn't tell them that not only do I dislike selling property, but in this case my wife had also weighed in. She truly believes that proprietors of gambling hells grow rich on the poor.

"But it is true, I suppose, that everyone has their price, and in this case, the Las Vegas people finally met mine. An absurd, from my standpoint, amount of money. And this apartment, in perpetuity, together with what they term 'full maintenance,' which means I never am billed for anything. I suspect they still entertain hope I will come here, have too much of this stuff"-he raised his glass-"and go downstairs and lose it all back to them shooting dice."

Castillo and Lopez laughed.

"Primarily, I use it to house people who come to see me who I would rather not have in my home," Masterson said, and took a sip of his scotch. After a moment, he added, "My wife has never been in the building."

Masterson looked between them for a moment, then drained his glass. He put the glass carefully on the bar and turned to face Castillo.

"Very well," he said. "Enough of that. Please tell me, Mr. Castillo, who abducted my daughter-in-law and murdered my son, and why. And what I can do to avenge his death."

"Yes, sir," Castillo said. "I'll tell you what I know, which isn't very much. When the President heard that Mrs. Masterson was missing in what appeared to be a kidnapping, he sent me to Buenos Aires…" "And you have no idea whatsoever who these people are?" Masterson asked, when Castillo had finished.

"No, sir. I do not. Obviously, it has something to do with Mr. Lorimer. So I'm going to start by trying to find him. If there's anything, anything at all, you can tell me that you think might help…"

Masterson nodded thoughtfully.

"There is a subculture here, Mr. Castillo, of affluent Negroes who can trace their ancestry back to the free men of color. It is simply a matter of our being more comfortable with each other than we are with other people."

"We Texicans have something like that in San Antonio," Fernando said.

Masterson considered that, and said, "Yes, I daresay you would. Your grandfather mentioned in passing that he had ancestors on both sides who died at the Alamo fighting the Mexicans. I don't know about Texas, but here ours is a rather small community. We're primarily Roman Catholic. We send our daughters to the nuns in New Orleans for their high school education, and our sons to the brothers at Saint Stanislaus here in Mississippi for theirs.

"My son went to Saint Stanislaus as I did, and my father did, and my grandfather. So did Jean-Paul Lorimer, as did his father, and-I believe-his grandfather. Jack's mother and Jean-Paul's mother had known each other in the Blessed Heart of Jesus School in New Orleans, and then gone to Spring Hill College in Mobile. It was thus inevitable that Jack would meet Betsy and that they became sweethearts when they were in their teens.

"Surprising most of us, the romance continued after Jack went off to Notre Dame on a basketball scholarship. They were married, against the wishes of both families, two weeks after Jack graduated. Our sole objections were that Betsy had not completed her degree-she's a year younger than Jack-and that they were too young. Their argument, to which we finally acquiesced, was they would be separated again by his professional athletic career."

He paused and smiled. "Betsy, I strongly suspect, was fully aware of the tales of the off-court activities of the Celtics, and was determined that she would not lose Jack to some adoring-what's the phrase?-'basketball groupie.' If Jack was going to Boston, so was she."

Fernando and Castillo chuckled.

"And then, of course, Jack's career ended prematurely when he was struck by the beer truck. I hoped he would come home to work the plantation. He said he would the day I announced my retirement, and not before.

"The ambassador suggested he take the entrance examination for the foreign service, and we all thought this was a splendid idea. The world, as they say, is growing smaller every day, and by the time I was ready to retire, Jack would be fluent in more languages than French and English, and the fruits of their union would have been exposed to experiences they would not have if they went to the nuns and brothers here.