The Retrieval by Lucius Parhelion

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
    Teal: The Retrieval
    COLOR BOX
    An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers
    PO Box 2545
    Round Rock, TX 78680
    Copyright 2011 Lucius Parhelion
    Cover illustration by Alessia Brio
    Published with permission
    ISBN: 978-1-61040-229-3
    www.torquerepress.com
    All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.
    First Torquere Press Printing: May 2011
    The Retrieval
    By Lucius Parhelion
    I
    Few people waited at the station in Pasadena for the Santa Fe Chief this early on a Tuesday in October. Morning arrival aside, the train was a Pullman express, a pricy ticket in times as lean as those with a grip on 1932. The passengers who still took the Chief tended to be ones who’d rather ride through to the grand Moorish station in downtown Los Angeles where cub reporters waited to interview anyone even slightly famous disembarking. Such passengers wanted all the attention they could get from the press.
    For his part, Charles Prescott Hunter preferred to keep quiet about yielding to the financial seductions of Cosmic Pictures. Being noticed could be dangerous for men of his sort, and he’d long thought it silly to boast about serving some movie company as the literary equivalent of a cloisonné vase wired as a table lamp. While his new work would be as honest -- or dishonest -- as any other writing, Hollywood frayed away the artistic self-delusions authors could wrap around themselves for warmth back in Manhattan. But his job at the studio would also pay his bills with plenty of money left over, a strong attraction these days.
    The thin turnout here in Pasadena meant Charlie had a simple time spotting where hisfriend waited. As usual, Jake Mor was loitering around the rear of the sparse crowd with the cagey air of someone who expected to be accosted any second and asked to justify his existence. Charlie would have blamed the manner on too many unwilling hours spent in Hollywood studios if he hadn’t seen a juvenile Jake behaving the same way backstage on Broadway while the twenties were still roaring.
    At least Jake visibly brightened when he spotted Charlie descending the metal steps from the sleeper car.
    “Hi, Charlie!” Jake’s shouted greeting sounded cheerful, too.
    After turning to take his suitcase from the sleeping car attendant, Charlie tipped the fellow before getting out of the way of a local matron and her matched set of annoyances masquerading as dyed calfskin luggage. He got to keep his own bag for about fifteen seconds longer before Jake snaked past the other passengers and their suitcases to grab the worn leather handle of Uncle Prescott’s old Moroccan case.
    “Now, now. You don’t have to play porter for me.” Hopeless, but Charlie felt duty-bound to try even as he released his grip.
    “You bet I don’t. Or say please when I ask for the salt, or cover my mouth when I sneeze. But I’d want to give you a hand even if I wasn’t going to ask you for a favor, which I am.” Jake’s smile was likely warmer than he knew it to be. “Let’s go find my parking space.”
    Perhaps it was the favor he needed that accounted for the return of Jake’s glum and wary manner as they walked to his automobile. Not even the convertible Cadillac coupe they stopped by cheered the gloom for long. But no matter the mood, some wheeled shrines of the modern age demanded universal reverence even from automotive heathens like Charlie. The dark green roadster before them was an inarguable beauty.
    “Exquisite. The ‘32 model?” Charlie