Dead on Your Feet

by Grant Michaels

  The hair work finished, I removed the protective cape. Marshall Zander stood up and put out his hand. I accepted it but recoiled at its rough dryness. Yet he held onto me and spoke as though reciting a carefully prepared statement.

  “It was a difficult decision for me to come here today, but I can tell you the truth now. I was concerned about the things I said to you the other morning, about you and your lover. I regret it very much. I’m still quite distraught, but thanks to the tranquilizers I’m functioning well. But beyond all that, my point is … well, I like you. And I was worried that I had offended you the other day. But just now you’ve proven to me that everything is all right between us. You’ve put my mind at peace. I hope you’ll come by sometime soon.”

  Oh. God. No. A date with him was not what I wanted, but I had to forge ahead. “Thank you,” I said in the most neutral voice I could muster. Then, solely to find out when he would not be there, I ventured, “Will you be around today?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve got appointments all afternoon.”

  “Another time then,” I said, utterly relieved and straining to conceal it.

  “Soon,” he said with a hungry leer.

  I extricated my hand from his. He turned and went toward the reception desk, making his way there with a noticeable spring in his step, a ridiculous bounce that made him look like an absurd motor-driven toy. I knew that my flirtation had caused it and I was disheartened. I fled to the solace of my little chamber in back. Minutes later Nicole joined me there.

  “Somebody likes you a lot,” she said.

  “He’s not my type, doll.”

  “Not to mention that you are already betrothed.”

  I grunted in reply, the way Branco might have.

  Nicole placed a crisp fifty-dollar bill on top of my desk.

  “From Mr. Zander,” she said with a raised eyebrow.

  “See what I mean? Rich and crass.”

  “Is everything all right with Rafik?”

  “Why?”

  “Your shoulders are drooping.”

  I pulled myself up straight. “Everything is exactly the same, except I think we just broke up.”

  “Stanley, what have you done now!”

  “Hardly my fault alone.”

  “Oh,” she exclaimed with exasperation. “I give up. Why can’t you . just—”

  “Because I can’t!” I shouted in a sudden burst of frustration. “I just can’t, Nikki. I want to be strong and understanding. I want to accept everything calmly. I want to be the rock of stability. But I just can’t do it. I can’t accept him wanting to be involved with … with that woman—with any woman. It feminizes me.”

  Nicole waited for the air to settle down, then she said faintly, “What a pity. He loves you so much.”

  “That’s an illusion.”

  “No, darling. Your denial is the illusion, and one of your own creation.”

  “Nikki, how can a man like Rafik love me? Look at me. The only secondary sex characteristic I have is my mustache. The rest of me is as pink and smooth as a girl.”

  “But you have that nice square jaw. And those strong legs.”

  “So does my aunt Letta.”

  “Darling, the fact is, when Rafik wants a woman he goes to a woman. And when he wants a man, he comes to you.”

  “You haven’t seen us in bed, doll.”

  Nicole grimaced. “I meant your kind of masculinity. You’re confusing sex and love again.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? If anything, I’m too integrated. Believe me, Nikki, if I could disconnect my body from my heart and my mind I would do it.”

  “You analyze your feelings instead of enjoying them. Then you try to control them, just the way you try to control Rafik.”

  “It’s my nature.”

  “Nonsense. It’s a bad habit.”

  “This is foolish,” I muttered. “I’ve got things to do.” I got up and went to the door. “I’ll be back later.”

  “Where are you going now?” she asked with an edge.

  “To create my own reality,” I said flatly.

  “You’d do better to face your destiny,” she replied.

  I departed through the back door, which opened onto the alley that led to Berkeley Street. One block farther on, at Boylston Street, I was about to head up toward Copley Square to the newly erected Copley Palace, where I would find Rico the houseboy. But instead I continued along Berkeley Street, which led directly to Station D, where I intended to verify some dubious data with Lieutenant Branco.

  On the way there I had the odd sensation that I was moving through time and space solely on reflex, undirected by any conscious thought. I recalled one fact only: Rafik had walked out. And one consequence: I felt nothing—no love, no loss, no hatred—just pure cold objectivity. I was a locomotive robot devoid of sensation.

  I stopped at a cafe and bought two cappuccinos to go. I couldn’t face Branco’s coffee again, not today. Perhaps there was hope for my emotional recovery if I could still worry about good coffee. And getting one for Branco proved that I was still aware and considerate of others. And I could even recall the year it was and the name of the President. Optimism surged.

  Fortunately Branco was in. When I gave him the cappuccino he accepted it graciously, like a contented mortal, like a guy who’d had a good time the night before.

  “Don’t care for my coffee, eh?” he said good-naturedly.

  “I’m just a desperate and lonely man bartering for friendship.”

  “How is Miss Albright today?”

  Once again my mind raced with images of Branco and Nicole joined together at the pelvis. It was as grotesque as imagining your parents copulating. It just didn’t parse, even though the evidence might have indicated otherwise.

  “Just ducky,” I said.

  I searched for a sign from Branco regarding his night with Nicole, but the cop divulged nothing either. He pried the lid off his coffee cup and gave an approving nod to the contents. But I kept wondering, What had happened between them? And why now? Branco and Nicole had met before. What new catalyst had appeared to conjoin them now? Was it the presence of the luscious Toni di Natale? Maybe that she-beast had not only won my lover’s heart, but had also got this cop’s juices bubbling to the point where he needed a mortal release, poor thing. And Nicole provided a safe and comfortable haven. She was a known entity and she wasn’t a suspect, which eliminated the unpleasant possibility of a conflict of interest. Someone like Branco would choose his sex partners like that, rationally and sensibly, like a lawyer.

  “Lieutenant how about instead of friendship, I settle for some information?”

  “Like what?”

  “Did your crew find a big musical score with a hand-tinted cover at Max Harkey’s apartment?”

  Branco pondered awhile.

  I added, “I remember seeing it on the piano the night before.”

  The cop pulled his lips back tightly and shook his head no.

  “I don’t recall anything like that in our reports. Are you sure about it?”

  “I admit I was loaded that night, but the image is clear in my mind. I know that score was there, and the next morning it wasn’t.”

  As if lost in thought or else bored with me, Branco focused on his coffee. Maybe he was really enjoying it. Love does enhance the senses. If he and Nikki had done the job right last night, today’s cup of coffee would be a whole new experience for him.

  I went on to tell him that I’d spoken to Madame Rubinskaya and that I wanted to verify her farfetched story.

  “Can I see her statement?” I said.

  Branco held the coffee under his nose as if intoxicated by its aroma. Again he shook his head gently no. “But it’s all there,” he said, “pretty much how she told it to you. We thought it was odd too, but she really did spend the night at the ballet studios. We have the security guard’s records to corroborate it. She arrived there well before Max Harkey’s death.”

  “Neat alibi,” I said, �
�as far as it goes. But those records could have been fudged. Madame Rubinskaya lives in the same building as Max Harkey. She could have killed him and then gone to the studios, only a few minutes’ walk away.”

  “You sound like you suspect her,” said Branco.

  “Don’t you?”

  He took a big gulp of coffee and smiled. “The old woman arrived at the studios around twelve-thirty and stayed there. We figure Max Harkey was attacked after five that morning.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Body temperature,” replied Branco. “When we got to him he was still warm. And with the nature of the wounds and his excellent physical condition, Max Harkey wouldn’t have lasted more than five minutes.”

  “What about the phone calls?”

  Branco arched an eyebrow. “Which phone calls?”

  “I, uh, heard that Max Harkey phoned for help that morning.”

  “Including the call to your friend Rafik,” said the cop.

  “Yeah, well, the question is, with everyone else he called, did Harkey ever phone the police? Doesn’t it seem strange that a man is bleeding to death and—”

  Branco cut me off. “As a matter of fact, we got a 911 call from Max Harkey at five-fifteen that morning, and another one shortly after that from Marshall Zander.”

  “How shortly after?”

  “Four minutes,” replied the cop.

  “So Max Harkey was alive at five-fifteen.”

  “If you use arithmetic, yes.”

  “Did you trace the calls?”

  Branco’s full lips made a little smile.

  “The first one originated from Max Harkey’s apartment, and the second one from one of Marshall Zander’s private lines.” Then Branco almost snickered. “What’s strange is that Rafik never called us to report the crime, even though he claims that Harkey called him for help too.”

  “I think that’s easy to explain, Lieutenant. Rafik told me that Max Harkey said he’d already called the police.”

  “Right,” said Branco. “That’s what he told us too. So your two stories agree just fine.” His voice oozed with insinuation.

  “Well,” I said, grasping defensively, “I’m sure Rafik just wanted to get to Max as fast as possible.”

  “Or away from him,” said Branco.

  “What do you mean, Lieutenant?”

  Branco sat back in his chair and seemed to be relishing some morsel of classified information.

  “Well?” I said. “Do you have something on Rafik?”

  “Not exactly,” replied the cop, extending the words provocatively. “There is some evidence, but we haven’t determined its exact bearing on the case.”

  “What is it?”

  Branco’s face went rigid, like a portrait cast in bronze.

  “Max Harkey had reached a sexual climax shortly before his death,” he said. “But we found no evidence of semen anywhere outside his body.”

  “Maybe he was a clean freak and flushed everything away.”

  Branco frowned at my attempt at levity.

  “So, Lieutenant, it appears we have the delicate mission of identifying Max Harkey’s sex partner that night.”

  Branco hedged. “Possibly.”

  I continued, “But even then it might not be his killer. It could have been anybody.”

  “Except for the old woman,” said Branco.

  “Why not? Just because a security guard said so?”

  Branco snapped. “Because I can’t imagine it, that’s why not!”

  “So your lack of sexual imagination means she’s innocent?”

  “Look you,” said Branco, “I’m running this case, and until I’m convinced otherwise, what I say goes.”

  “Fine, Lieutenant. I’ll just go ask the suspects if they had sex with Max Harkey that night.”

  “I’d advise you not to,” he said.

  “I’ll be discreet about it. We hairdressers know how to get people to talk about sex. In fact, I plan to grill someone this afternoon on his sexual technique. I’m on my way there now.”

  Branco said, “Then you’d better get going.”

  I stood up. “I thought you said we’d be working together this time.”

  “Did I?” he said.

  I headed toward the door.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” he said.

  I grumbled back, “Anytime.”

  As I opened the door he said, “Please give my regards to Miss Albright.”

  “Sure thing, Lieutenant.”

  I left Station D and headed to the Copley Palace. Maybe Rico the houseboy held the keys to more than the front door of his new master’s abode.

  11

  So Danso Samba

  IN THE MAIN LOBBY OF THE Copley Palace numerous posters announced a special performance by the famous stage and film actress Sharleen McChannel. Sharleen had embarked on a new career as a psychic channeler and seer, and apparently she was wrapping up a nationwide tour to promote her latest book of personal knowledge, Up in a Tree. Her easy publishing success made me wonder about writing a book myself, something about the mystique and romance of salon life, a runaway bestseller called Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.

  But fleeting dreams of fame and fortune could not distract me from the mission at hand. I went to the main desk and asked for Marshall Zander’s suite number. It seemed a simple enough request, yet they referred me to the concierge, exactly as Marshall Zander had suggested in the first place. I sensed that he was being protected from the public for some reason, and since I wanted to get to his suite to see Rico, I was going to have to confront Monsieur le Concierge, which meant sacrificing my anonymity. Concierges are usually clever, observant, prying individuals. I couldn’t just ask him to ring the suite directly, because if Marshall Zander was home I’d have to invent a reason for not going up, which might attract suspicion: “Oh, he’s home? Never mind.” Yet if Marshall Zander wasn’t there, which is what I was hoping, I did want to get in to see Rico. I devised a simple scheme to get the concierge to cooperate, then approached his desk and began my spiel.

  “I have a rather delicate mission concerning a Mr. Zander, who is staying here.” My formal tone caused an insolent twitch from the man’s fastidiously groomed pencil-line mustache.

  “Is Mr. Zander expecting you?”

  “Not today,” I said. “But I must speak with his attendant, Rico.”

  The concierge’s eyebrows went up. Like his mustache, they had been compulsively plucked and trimmed. Dragons at the gate came in many guises.

  “On what business?” he asked suspiciously.

  “I’m a caterer. I’m here to confirm the plans for a small reception, a surprise for Mr. Zander. So I’d like to see Rico, but only if Mr. Zander isn’t in. I don’t want to spoil the surprise for him.”

  The concierge gave a little snort of disbelief, as though my story was a common excerpt from The Hustlers Handbook.

  “I see. So if Mr. Zander is home, you do not want to go up. Is that correct?”

  “That’s right,” I said, but my bravado was crumbling fast.

  “And if Rico is there alone, you do want to go up.”

  “Yes,” I said guiltily.

  “Your name?” he said.

  “Just say it’s the caterer.”

  “Will Rico know who you are?” he said suggestively.

  “If he’s alone, you can tell him it’s Stan.”

  “Just Stan?”

  I nodded. “You can describe me to him. I’m sure he’ll remember me.”

  “Yes,” said the concierge. “I’m certain he will.”

  I nodded.

  With the efficiency of a Prussian officer the concierge punched the magic sequence of buttons that connected to Marshall Zander’s secret domain. I wondered what all the mystery was about. Maybe Marshall Zander was a drama queen who required intrigue and tragic overtones in every aspect of his life.

  After a brief and extremely hushed telephone conversation, of which I could not discern one word, the concierge reg
ained his obsequious propriety. He pronounced the message like a verdict.

  “You may go up. Rico is expecting you.”

  I felt like the oldest call boy in the world.

  Then I got to witness the further securities protecting Marshall Zander’s living quarters. The special elevator to his suite required a key to operate it. Once the concierge inserted the key, the control panel inside the elevator lit up and provided a simple choice of destination: up or down. I began to suspect that the domicile at the other end of the elevator shaft was no mere suite of rooms.

  After an express ride into the ionosphere, the elevator door opened onto a large rectangular foyer about the size of a good hotel room. At one end a large window looked out over Boston. I could actually see part of the harbor, and from this high up the water’s natural beauty was affecting, especially since the pollution and debris were imperceptible. At the other end of the foyer was a set of massive double doors, which, when I turned away from my momentary enjoyment of the view, framed the small but classically proportioned form of Rico, Brazilian houseboy to the late Max Harkey.

  “Hi,” he said with a wide grin. His mouth was big, almost too big for his face, but his lips had been so lovingly formed by their creator that their slight coarseness was forgivable, even attractive. “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he added coyly.

  “Bloodhound Kraychik always finds his man.”

  To my surprise my silly comment destroyed the flirtatious web he’d already begun to spin.

  “What do you want, then?” he asked firmly, as though addressing the butcher’s delivery boy, one minion to another.

  “To talk about Max Harkey.”

  Rico stared at me as though trying to decipher my real intentions. And he seemed distracted too, perhaps by a lingering sadness over his master’s death. Yet I wanted information from him. But how could I state it so baldly? After all, he might talk more openly if he thought he could earn a pleasant reward. Was this moi, trading sex for facts?

  “You’d better come in,” he said.

  I stepped through the double doorway and immediately recalled Marshall Zander’s words: “I keep a suite.” He’d said it offhandedly, as if we both came from the same class of decent fellows who keep a suite of rooms in all their favorite cities. But Marshall Zander’s modest appraisal of his downtown residence had been duplicitous. “I keep a suite,” he’d said, when in truth he lived in a modern-day palace. And though the late Max Harkey’s penthouse was splendid, when compared to the floor plan of this place it was a mere prototype, a quarter-size model for the vast expanse of space and light that housed a single man atop a forty-five-story hotel. The excess of it all was vaguely sickening. The place reeked of a designer’s heavy hand, yet it reflected nothing about its inhabitant except for the lordly sums of money available. There was no sign of emotion, no accident of hue or line, no betrayal of passion. Marshall Zander’s castle in the sky was a testimony to sterile correctness. Even the stately concert grand piano had been positioned for visual effect against a wall of glass windows that provided a background panorama of the Boston skyline. The instrument would have preferred the acoustic advantage of a location far away from any walls, especially glass ones.