A Banquet in Babylon

By V. J. Black

A secret brotherhood, a family curse, a lost masterpiece....

 

The heir to a vast but neglected real estate empire, John Roydon is new on the scene, brash, and dizzy with the prospects of power. From the moment he receives his inheritance, he pursues his vision with ruthlessness, crushing any who

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hungry Hill Books
• Release date: Sep 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781733085656

Book preview

First Edition published by Hungry Hill Books 2020

Copyright © VJ Black 2020

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-7330856-4-9 (TPB)

ISBN: 978-1-7330856-5-6 (EB)

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

Typeset in Baskerville

Cover by Berge Design

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020911898

Ordering Information Contact:

Hungry Hill Books LLC

www.hungryhillbooks.com

Invocation

Sunshine splashed against the leafy green canopy of the darkened courtyard, shafts of light breaking through like the javelins of an avenging angel, piercing the worn brick floor here and there and vanishing just as quickly as the wind blew through the trees. A hunched figure crept along the base of the ancient coquina wall, avoiding the rays as they knifed through the foliage, feeling its way deeper into the shadows. Voices could be heard in the street beyond, but the words ran together in a stream of incoherence that pained the creature’s ears, not because of the volume, but because of the joyful, carefree tone: a cacophony of scolding mothers and bragging teens, playful lovers, giggling children, old men reading historical markers. On this spot one of them announced in a voice quavering with age and respect for aged things; the scuttling figure heard that much as it shuddered against the rough edge of the wall. On this spot once stood…

It was in the late afternoon when the heat is past, but an amber glow remains, bathing everything it touches in soft, clear hues. The creature squeezed its eyes closed, but no tears came. The voices grew louder and threatened to burst right through the stone that had held firm for two and a half centuries. It clasped its hands over its ears but could not keep the voices out. Then, a sunbeam found the creature in the corner of the courtyard, and its eyelids blazed with light and heat, forcing them open. There is no refuge, it was said, when the Lord comes to his shaded garden, in the cool of the day.

On this spot once stood the house…

At the entrance to the courtyard, under a chipped and peeling arch, a handful of tourists paused to peer inside, lured by the inviting breeze and the faint floral scent of the place. A boy of nine suddenly pushed past them and scampered in, attempting to escape the clutches of his older sister, whom he had been terrorizing all day. He crouched behind the wall, breathing hard through a wide grin, anticipating her shadow on the pebbly ground. He would leap at her then, and she would shriek like…

The cry that went forth behind the boy began as a low moan, then rose in both pitch and intensity into an otherworldly wail. The child turned and fixed his gaze upon a sight that both awed and terrified him, for huddled against the wall, speared by a shaft of light, he beheld the form of a creature whose harsh features were twisted beyond his recognition, its long gray hair streaming along its back like feathers, its bony fingers like talons clawing at the air, crying out in a sad, shrill voice to some unseen assailant, as if praying for mercy. A sudden thump against his chest stopped the boy’s heart; it was only his sister’s arms thrown around him in protection and fear, for she had now entered the garden and had seen the same thing, but with more mature eyes had understood that it was not a monster at all, but a man.

On this spot once stood the house of a man who dreamed of a mighty kingdom all his own…

Sooner or later, everyone sits down to a banquet of consequences.

Proverbial, adapted from Robert Louis Stevenson’s

Memories and Portraits, Chapter 3, Old Mortality

El sueño de la razón produce monstruos…

Francisco Goya

Part 1:

Shell Game

1

High above the calm waters of Matanzas Bay, a wisp of silent wind sailed over the waves, drawing strength from the breathing of the sea, and took flight toward the north corner of the Castillo de San Marcos. It entered the narrow opening of the lookout tower and emerged as a spinning summer gale, sending tourist maps and baseball caps bouncing briskly in all directions along the pebbly walkways. Men stumbled awkwardly, arms outstretched, to retrieve their possessions; women clutched at their hair and blouses. In the interior of the fortress, children stood pointing as a vortex appeared, bending the grass where it danced upon the ground, and then, as if lifted by an unseen hand, was swept away toward the gates of the Ancient City.

Shoppers strolled casually within the confines of St. George Street, unaware of the descending danger, which fell suddenly upon them in noisy gusts. They were nudged to the walls by the hot winds, and shielding their faces from the sting of dirt that arose from every crevice of the well-trodden pavement, they spilled into the open doors of the shops for escape, knocking over displays of painted shells and handmade baubles in blind confusion. A moment later the calm was restored, and they cautiously stepped back out into the sunshine, blinking, dipping their toes into the street like unsure toddlers approaching the pool for the first time.

The twisting winds continued to cut a winding path southward toward the Plaza, but they seemed to pause before an archway leading to a shaded courtyard, hesitating long enough for a tendril of air to swirl in and among the trees and to finally break free, seeking some independent mischief; it reached up through the leaves and slammed against the coquina building with all of its newborn strength.

Papers levitated above John Roydon’s immense oak desk and suddenly began to glide away. The breeze invaded the second floor office through the open window, teasing Roydon with the floral scent it had collected in the courtyard. Underestimating the force of the draft, he cursed and rolled his executive’s chair back to the window and casually reached for the sash. A violent surge of air ripped one of the wooden shutters from its rusted anchors, tearing it away from the stone wall and hurling it into the room; it crashed into Roydon and sent him sprawling. Green paint flaked from the old wood into his hands as he flung the shutter across the room in anger, denting the wall. He grasped the sill with both hands to pull himself up, leaving green paint specks where he had gripped the frame. There was a faint hum that sounded almost like laughter to Roydon as the winds skated up and away from the building, dissipating into the cloudless sky. He grunted and slammed the window shut.

By now the tempestuous pillar of cloud leaned to the west and was scorching Avenida del Antiguo de Dias several blocks away, driven resolutely toward the wooden doors of a humble structure positioned at the end of the weedy stone lane, to fulfill the purpose for which it was born.

Twenty minutes later, John Roydon was standing behind a gaggle of sweaty tourists at the corner of St. George and Cathedral Place, impatiently pounding on a red button to affect a change in the pedestrian crossing light. He struck an imposing figure if only because of his flair for the dramatic: lean, but not muscular, dark skinned, but with an uneven complexion, he was slightly less than perfect in almost every respect, and not particularly athletic for a man of thirty years. This mediocrity was intensified by a singularly arresting physical trait, that being his left eye was slightly lower than his right, as was his left shoulder and hip, leaving his general presentation a tad off-kilter. Upon meeting him for the first time, strangers often subconsciously cocked their heads to one side to overcompensate, and Roydon, acutely aware of his deficiencies, distracted them with confidence and pomposity. On this morning, standing under the hot sun in his dark suit amidst the cluster of folksy visitors from places like Panama City and Valdosta dressed in straw hats, brightly-colored t-shirts, and running shoes, he looked a bit like the bad guy in a short-run, made-for-kids TV movie, right down to the mirrored shades. Irritated with the delay, he rudely brushed past a disoriented elderly woman and stepped into the street, anticipating the turning of the traffic signal. The woman’s face revealed a speechless outrage at the offense but Roydon didn’t notice. He was already skirting around the back of a slow-rolling Volvo and arriving on the opposite curb as she and her companions finally organized to trek across en masse.

He felt for the papers with one hand, and removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe the back of his neck with the other. Taking the papers from inside his buttoned coat, he stuffed the damp handkerchief in the same interior pocket, realizing he could no longer fold it to show the proper quarter inch of white cloth. He liked to look crisp and professional for confrontations such as this. Every detail mattered.

He smiled at his own miniature reflection in the lenses of his sunglasses as he approached the tinted glass door of the office building. He swung the door open with a dramatic gesture—like a pirate drawing his cutlass—stepped back, and entered the cool corridor. A sliding window on his immediate left framed the chubby face of a young receptionist with short, blonde hair, freshly cut. On the shelf below the window was a sign that read Biggs Distribution Company, est. 1962.

Roydon folded his sunglasses carefully and slid them into his breast pocket. Then, with an almost liquid motion, dipped his hand into his trouser pocket and retrieved an engraved silver case; flipping it open with his thumb, he flicked his business card forth into the receptionist’s open hand. I’m here to see Biggs, he said, and continued down the cheaply paneled hall before she could answer.

Archibald Biggs was applying duct tape to a crack in his window when Roydon sauntered in. Oh, Johnny, I didn’t expect to see you, he said, dropping the silver roll on his desk and extending a pink, puffy hand. Some wind, eh? I was sitting here working and it came up just like that, whipping around the building, you know, and something hard—a shell, I think—struck the windowpane. I was lucky, I suppose—if the window had been open I’d be getting a few stitches! He laughed at his own banter, but Roydon acknowledged it with only a brief, almost imperceptible smile. Instead of accepting the handshake, he stuck the rolled up papers into Biggs’ meaty palm.

That’s your lease, Mr. Biggs. I’m afraid it’s run out.

The plump, seventy-ish man looked circumspectly at the papers, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. I don’t…I don’t understand, he stammered.

It’s very simple. You’re evicted, Roydon said. It’s not personal, just business.

But…I had an agreement with your grandfather, Biggs protested, holding the papers out in front of him like they carried some infectious disease. He said I could stay as long as I wanted. He promised me, Johnny, before you were even…

Born? Roydon laughed. Grandfather promised a lot of people a lot of things, Mr. Biggs. But he’s gone now, and I have a business to run. I own the properties, and this rat-infested place is fifty years old. There is exactly one tenant left, in case you hadn’t noticed, and the rent is six months in arrears. Now, I suggest you get out within thirty days, because one month from today the wrecking ball is coming through this building, and if you’re still here, well, I suspect you’ll be getting a few stitches after all.

The pudgy man’s face reddened. Your grandfather hasn’t been dead a month and you do this to one of his closest friends? Ned Roydon must be spinning in his grave.

’Closest friends?’ I think not, Roydon smirked. More like a leech, I would say—just like the others, taking advantage of the kindness of an eccentric old man. Well, those days are over.

Biggs could only shake his head in disgust. You’ll never be the man your grandfather was. You’re just like your father—selfish to the core.

Roydon blinked. Just pack up and get out of here, Mr. Biggs. Take your dime-store trinkets with you and be gone. Nobody’s buying that junk anymore, anyway. He turned on his heels and walked out, closing the office door softly behind him. As he sauntered down the hall, he heard a loud thud followed by a smattering of curses. Roydon reached for his shades and burst forth into the sunshine, picturing in his mind’s eye the fuming Archibald Biggs chunking the roll of duct tape at the wall in anger, and he smiled.

The main business of the morning thus completed, Roydon removed his jacket and slung it over one shoulder, then loosed the knot of his necktie. It was a glorious day. The sun was high in the clear sky and was bathing the old city in its heat. At Plaza de la Constitution, he found an empty bench and stretched his legs. The town was teeming with tourists on this mid-summer morning, and he watched them for a moment, amusing himself with imagined snapshots of their inconsequential lives back home. At length he reached for the slim phone in his pocket.

Roydon Properties, said the pleasant voice.

Hi Connie, it’s me. Anything going on?

The secretary’s tone changed from professional to familiar. Well… she began, drawing out the single syllable for dramatic effect, you’ve had two calls, and one unusual visit.

He smiled at her inflected tone. Their relationship was exclusively one of mutual flirtation. So, do I have to guess?

You probably could, she said coyly. Why don’t you try?

Roydon sat back lazily on the bench. OK. I’ll try Mother.

Bingo! she said. Roydon envisioned her shaping her hand into a pistol as she spoke. Ten minutes ago. She wants to meet you for lunch. I’m supposed to set it up.

He sighed. His mother was still a bit shaky since the funeral. Fine. Usual place, call in two orders of jambalaya. Who else called?

Not so fast. She’s asking about Benny again.

Oh, for… Roydon slapped his thigh in frustration. What did you tell her?

Nothing, of course. But you might as well settle it. I have the feeling she won’t let it drop.

Yeah, yeah, fine. So who else called?

Connie didn’t seem to like his change in tone. You’re batting a thousand so far, she quipped.

He breathed deeply and tried to calm down. For some reason every little thing seemed to irritate him these days. Perhaps it was the stress of his new responsibilities, though he had been preparing for them years before his grandfather’s final illness.

He looked out over the Plaza. A stark blur of white caught his eye as it weaved in and out of the sea of people. A young woman in a white sun dress flecked with green emerged on the corner, with long brown hair falling across her bare shoulders and arms, carrying a very large rectangular object like an artist’s portfolio. She stopped at the lamp post and repeatedly pressed the same button just as Roydon himself had done less than a half hour before. He watched her intently, pulling his shades down to the tip of his nose, squinting over the frames for a better look.

I don’t hear anything, pestered Connie.

Would it be...Annie? Roydon said absently, smiling as the dark-haired girl bolted ahead of the pack as she crossed the street.

Man, you’re good! Connie chortled, almost mocking. How could you possibly guess that the future Mrs. John Roydon would be placing her morning call to her beloved fiancé precisely at eleven, just like she does every day?

Just lucky, he said, craning his neck to follow the path of the young woman as she walked hurriedly on platform sandals in front of the Government House and turned up the street, disappearing in the blur of buildings and traffic. What did she want?

To know where you were, naturally.

And what did you tell her?

To call you on the cell, naturally.

He smirked, now once more fully attentive to his secretary’s coquetry. "But you knew the cell would be off, naturally, because I don’t take incoming calls when I’m on business."

"Oh, I suppose I might have known that."

You’re so mean to Annie, he scolded in jest. She’s such a nice girl.

Connie suddenly became all business, as if the words clicked off a switch in her brain. And you had one visit, right after you left. Strange man. He didn’t say anything.

Roydon frowned. Nothing at all?

"Nope. He left a card, though. It says Elogios de la Fraternidad de los Shelles del Mar. That’s it. And he left a little box."

Compliments of the Brotherhood of Sea Shells? Roydon said out loud. Open it up.

There was a loud rustling as Connie fiddled with the box. Shells, she said.

What a surprise, muttered Roydon.

…one, two…let’s see, there are five all together. They’re all different, they’ve got these neat hand-painted designs on them. Pretty cool, actually, Connie said.

Great, Roydon answered with a huff. I get rid of one trinket-peddler and inherit another.

You mean Biggs? she asked. He could hear her fiddling with the box again.

Yeah. Another freeloader kicked off the gravy train.

Nobody buys that junk anymore, anyway, she said. He smiled, remembering that he first heard the line from her.

Right. Look, I’ll see you this afternoon. Why don’t you get to work on the jambalaya, and I’ll head to the restaurant. Mother’s probably there already.

Waiting to hear what you think happened to Benny, she reminded him.

One mother is enough, if you don’t mind! Roydon punched off the phone without a goodbye, stood, and stretched. He picked his jacket off the back of the bench and draped it over his shoulders. As he tightened the knot of his tie, he gazed curiously off into the distance beyond the Government House where the beautiful young woman had disappeared. He sighed, and turned to jaunt across the Plaza, past the ever-youthful stone likeness of Ponce de Leon, and into the warm sea breeze.

The waiter nodded in the direction where Estelle Roydon sat looking out the window across Avenida Menendez, crunching on the small bone of a blackened chicken wing. Her son smiled as he thanked the waiter and approached the table, marveling at how the woman’s slight frame remained intact despite her legendary voracious appetite. She was petite but rigidly built, with bony hands that were far from frail. Her teeth were large and a brilliant white against her bronzed facial features, which had not weathered well over decades exposed to the Florida sun and unfortunately added years to her age. A curly shock of brown hair with streaks of gray bobbed up and down as she picked at the last shreds of meat still on the bone.

Mom, John Roydon announced in casual greeting as he pulled out his chair. She rolled her eyes upward at him as she chewed. He sat down and leaned on the table, watching her examine the clean bone and toss it atop the skeletal remains of her appetizer.

Johnny, she said, acknowledging his presence with a nod. You ordered us jambalaya.

He raised one eyebrow. You have a problem with that?

She narrowed her eyes. It wreaks havoc with my delicate constitution. You did it deliberately.

He laughed and looked out the window. You know, you’ve become awfully suspicious of late. He removed his coat and hung it over the back of the chair, then leaned in again. I’m thirty, Mother. I should think you know me quite well by now.

Get your elbows off the table, she barked, pointing at them with the tip of a chicken wing.

Roydon sat back and folded his hands in his lap. He took in a deep breath. Is this going to be one of those lunches where you lecture me mercilessly for an hour? If so, perhaps you should send me a memo. His voice carried a light tone but his stomach was tight with tension.

I have a bone to pick, you might say, yes, she said. For starters, where has Benny gone to?

Now, Mother! Why would you just assume that I am behind some sinister plot to do away with the saintly Bendecido?

Because you always resented him, even when you were a child, that’s why.

The jambalaya arrived before he could answer, allowing him the opportunity to choose his words more carefully than he would have done otherwise, given the anxiety he was feeling. His mother knew him better than anyone; his grand façade was wasted on her.

I could never understand why you would take someone literally off the street, someone who is completely lacking in any practical skill whatsoever, and elevate him to family status, that’s all.

Estelle Roydon stiffened, her fork hovering over the steaming plate. "He’s deaf, Johnny. What exactly do you expect of him? An eighty-plus year-old man without an education, a Hispanic man no less, without citizenship. Get serious."

Roydon leaned in, the spicy heat of the meal flaring his nostrils. "He never had any skills, Mom. He’s been freeloading on this family for decades, from before I was even born."

She hurried to finish the first mouthful. You’re jealous.

He eyed her warily. Was she provoking him? She liked to do that, driven from some deep insecurity of her own, he guessed. But the scales were tipped in his favor now that he controlled the greater share of the estate. He would not let her get away with it this time.

Fine. You’re entitled to your opinion. But name one tangible contribution Benny ever made to our business. Just one.

She paused, knowing he had trapped her. He was loyal to your grandfather. He was his most trusted friend, she said anyway.

Roydon practically gagged on a hunk of sausage. Large deposits tend to encourage loyalty of that kind, I think. Gramps had many so-called friends, like that fat swindler, Biggs.

She put down her fork, agitated, and began speaking in an anxious whisper. Don’t change the subject!

I haven’t! he answered in full voice, causing a woman seated at a nearby table to frown disapprovingly. Benny and Biggs are cut from the same cloth. They took advantage of a crazy old man.

He wasn’t crazy, Johnny.

At this, Roydon dropped his own fork and it resounded against the side of his dish. He raised his hands now, along with his voice. "The man thought he was a bird, for God’s sake! A bird, Mother!" He made clawing motions with his hands.

He was emotionally ill, that’s true, but it wasn’t his fault, it was a rare condition…

"Twelve years! For twelve years he hopped around the beach house, flapping his arms like a pelican or something, I don’t know. Pecking at tourists from the office courtyard, terrifying innocent children. That’s the grandfather I remember." He shook his head and drove the fork deep into his dish.

He recovered, you know that, she insisted. And it was different when he was younger. You remind me of how he was back then. He built that business from nothing. With help from people like Archie and Benny.

He rolled his eyes. You’re telling me that Gramps wasn’t always just a bit nuts?

"He left the business to you, didn’t he?"

Roydon winced. That’s not fair. You know as well as I do that he had no other option. I’m the last surviving male. That’s the way it’s done.

After all Ned Roydon did for you, I can’t believe how you’re dragging his good name through the dirt, she said.

He swallowed and glared at her. "OK. Let’s discuss the family name. I went to the hallowed Roydon Building this morning. It’s nothing but a dump, Mom. Five stories of cracked concrete, bad wiring, and furnishings that haven’t been redone in forty years—I’m talking fake wood paneling and shag carpet, and vinyl chairs with slits down the center. I don’t think the Health Department even suspects it’s occupied—or I should say was occupied—or it would have been condemned by now. And to think that this decaying wreck of a building is sitting there on prime real estate with our name on it, it’s just disgraceful! And Gramps just let it rot."

Her eyes widened. "Archie moved