by Perry Brass
Finally, on Sunday, we piled everything we could into the blue Honda and took off. I felt like a large weight had been removed from my mind. I was still Alan Kostenbaum. His identity was not something I could just throw off. After all, I still had his body. Just as Greeland was still Wright Smith, buckled in the driver's seat next to me. "Ready?" he asked, turning on the ignition.
I told him I was.
"Good. Let's leave all of this behind."
Chapter Twelve
The lady in the realty office near Dupont Circle was dressed in a dark burgundy polyester suit. It had a tight skirt, but featured epaulets and high-peaked lapels. She wore a matching burgundy bow tie—quite military, I thought; very precise. The whole effect was softened by her hair. It was tinted a brassy/champagne color, then blown out, piled up, and swept back. It was definitely a "big" Southern-style hair do. It looked like it was locked into place with a final coating of marine shellac.
"Hi," she said, extending her hand. "You must be the boys who called. My name is Pat. Pat Waterman."
We sat on two folding chairs next to her desk. There was no one in her office—"They're all either out to lunch, out in the field, or they gave up real estate. Slow market, you know. Now, you boys came to us from the Washington Blade?"
Wright told her we had. The Blade was the Washington gay paper, and it was one of the first things we checked out after we arrived. We were staying in a fairly swank old hotel near the Capitol, called the Merriweather. It had probably seen better times, but we managed to get a special "diplomat's rate." Wright told the desk clerk he was a cultural attaché. The clerk, a perky, cute kid with a gold earring and neat mustache, didn't say another word, but just slashed the normal rate in half.
"Wonderful!" Pat went on. She lit a cigarette with a large desk lighter that required two hands. "Hope you don't mind! Like I was saying, we've found that you guys make great clients. Honest. You guys have a real sense of adventure and zest."
Wright looked blank. Zest? That was a new one on me, too. "Now tell me," Pat said, taking a deep inhale, and letting the smoke curl dramatically out of her nose, "what kind of thing are you guys looking for? Condo? Apartment? Or house?"
We wanted a house—we'd talked about it in the Honda on the way down. I didn't want any lumbering Jack Brofskys checking out our premises. No landlords nosing around. The best thing to do was to buy something—with as little checking up on us as possible. What we wanted to find was someone truly desperate to get rid of a house. And equally eager for us to move in.
Wright explained to Pat that we'd be in Washington for an unknown duration of time, but we wanted to buy. "We like our privacy, and we've always owned our own house." He put both hands down on her desk, and added, "I feel like a house is never ours, when a landlord can march in."
Her face beamed. "I agree one hundred percent. It's nice to see young men with that old-fashioned sense of possession. My father had the same feelings, and he always kept a gun under the bed. He was from Kentucky. Where're you from?"
Wright told her Michigan. But he'd grown up on a farm, so he could have been from anyplace. Farm people were alike.
Pat smiled. There was a lot she could do for us, she told us. There was just one problem. How much did we have as a down payment?
I decided we'd have to hold back as much money as possible; Wright agreed. By nature, he hated parting with cash—especially, he made it understood, for such a temporary arrangement. Money left quickly here. There was no telling when we'd find anymore to replace it. "About thirteen thousand," I said, off the top of my head, roughly cutting our assets in two.
Her smile cracked. "Well, guys, that's going to make things tougher, but not impossible. There will be closing costs, though."
I asked what they were. "Lawyers. You know how Washington is—the lawyers own it." She made a slight, girlish giggle, and stamped out her cigarette.
"Couldn't we find someplace that had no closing costs?" Wright asked. "Where, let's say, the previous owner will pay them?"
She looked serious. "Guys, I can't guarantee what sort of place that's going to bring you. I don't want you fellas from the Blade ending up on some kind of crack block. Seriously, things can get kind of hairy here in Washington."
Hairy, that sounded promising. I started to smile. Could they get hairier than they were at home? I was attracted to hairy men, certainly, and I was more than willing . . . suddenly, Greeland interrupted my train of thought. "Pat, we're willing to see what sort of things you have. See, we've lived in some strange places ourselves."
She got up, grabbed her purse, and took out her car keys. "Guys, if you're up to it, so am I."
We followed her out towards the door. Then she stopped and asked, "What do you guys do?"
This was something neither of us had really discussed. I definitely didn't want to work in an office again, with people having serious breakfast meetings about ice cream. I told her I was a composer. Music had started to interest me, especially fiddling with the radio dial in the car coming down to Washington.
"And you, Wright?"
"Uh . . . Assyriology," he answered, then cleared his throat. "Research at the Smithsonian."
She beamed, and jingled her car keys. "You both sound just fascinating." She turned off the lights in the office, locked it, and then turned to Wright. "I think I've heard of what you do. It has something to do with breakfast cereals, doesn't it?"
I began to see Pat's cause for hesitation. Our down payment didn't seem to get us far. Pat took us to a succession of run-down dumps, in places where the sidewalks were broken and gutted, most of the buildings were boarded up, and the kids looked at us like we were war criminals with shaved heads.
The first house we saw had two dead rats in the living room. There were splintered floor boards, and the ceiling was exposed to the beams and plaster. Wright closed his eyes. He tried not to look shocked. At the next stop most of the plumbing pipes had been ripped out of the walls by vandals, and sold for scrap. The house, a small bungalow, hadn't been lived in for years. At what followed, a larger, two-story tenement, there were bullet holes in the front porch. "These look fresh," Pat said, as she herded us back into her car.
"Sorry, boys, but I don't even like to show you places like this. I don't know why we still list them."
She started the engine. "I think I'm going to have to take you back." She pushed in her car cigarette lighter. "Can't you scare up any more cash? Credit cards? Borrow it? I'm not saying steal it, but—" Suddenly she stopped talking, then turned her car around. "Wait one second. We do have one more house. I almost forgot about it. We haven't shown it in quite a while, but, Wright, if you were serious about living in strange places . . ."
She took us to an attractive street in the Capitol Hill area. There were well-tended houses and flower beds outside. She parked the car in front of a very presentable, old three-story house. "This place is a dream. The owners—actually the heirs—will pay closing costs. Mostly, they want to get it off their hands. They'll snap for a low down-payment, because they don't want the taxes. And most important, I'm sure you boys'll be able to do great things with it."
We got out the car, and followed her up the short, concrete porch stairs. I looked at the exterior. It was painted a dull green, but was—to my untrained eye—in perfect order. Not one nail, shingle, or screen out of place. Funny little canvas awnings had been installed to shield the four front windows. They were rolled up and a bit tattered; their metal frames rusted. The awnings were a mustardy green that matched the exterior; they gave the place a clunky kind of charm. Pat unlocked the door, and we went into a large, clean outer room. The floor—in perfect condition, looked like it had just been waxed. I walked around, poked into corners, and then went down the hallway.
I found a small, discrete john and sink sequestered behind a plain door. I walked in, and took advantage of the situation to pee. I looked up into a plain circular mirror. Behind me was an faded religious calendar. Gospel pictures of Jesus,
as a young blond with a perfect straight nose, surrounded by adoring little black children. The calendar was several years old, with New Testament quotes all over it. I rinsed my hands in the sink, flushed, and left.
Wright went through the two other rooms in the back. He was relieved after the other slums we'd seen. The rooms were clean and the second one, as Pat pointed out, was even carpeted. The carpeting, a cheery, industrial green, looked new. She showed us the wiring and outlets for air conditioning, as well as the locations for jacks for phones.
"You've got to admit," Pat said, "that the place was left in good condition. This area was once the office. So you can plug in an AC and your computers, and go right to work!"
She turned away from us, and led us up the stairs to the second floor. I wondered if a doctor or dentist had lived there, and used the downstairs as a waiting room. I expected to find another room with sinks, white tile flooring, and a residue of alcohol—antiseptic and clinical. But there was no other room on the first floor.
"The kitchen and sleeping areas are up here," she said. We followed her up a very wide flight of stairs that turned sharply, into a narrow hallway. This led to a small kitchen, and three other rooms that could have been bedrooms. The rooms were small, and cut into funny shapes. No room resembled another. Although I looked for it—even expected it—I still didn't see the white examining room with its cabinets for medical supplies. Perhaps the place had been a law office.
We went back to the wide stairway, and up to the third floor. The third floor was simply one large room—an expanse of bare, unvarnished floor boards with some exposed beams and posts for support. It was like being on a boat. It was surprisingly cool, and smelled of dry lumber. There were two small windows on each side of the length, chest-high like portholes; then one each, front and back. They ventilated the open space. Although it was literally under the roof—Pat told us the house had almost no attic—the small windows allowed some breeze in and kept the worst of the sun out.
"There's so much you could do with this space up here," Pat said, slightly out of breath from the stairs, "if you just used your imaginations. I can't guarantee it's good for parties—but really, guys, just let those imaginations run wild!"
Wright looked at her. "Tell me, Pat, why hasn't anyone else snapped this place up?"
Pat's face dropped. With her hair piled up, it was impossible for her to look very serious. But she could look concerned. "Okay, maybe you shouldn't let those imaginations run too wild."
Wright asked her what she was getting at. "Did some sort of murder happen here?" he asked. "The place seems almost occupied in some way. Is it?"
She told him it wasn't exactly a murder. At least no one had died on the premises. We followed her down the stairs, and then stopped at another door at the very rear of the first floor. The door was so discreet-looking that at first I thought it was only to a closet.
Pat halted right there.” I think I should say something before we go down to the basement. I hope neither of you is squeamish."
I knew I—Alan Kostenbaum—was. I knew it. I could tell it. Alan fainted. Alan had a hard time with the bloody parts of movies. I knew Alan would not have been ready for that scene on Ki when Greeland dispatched the Off-Sexer with a trick not normally covered in the Boy Scout manual. Alan had been a Boy Scout. Explorer, even. Wright, engineer and WASP that he was, could barely tie a square knot; he could build a barn, but could not tie knots.
"I'm fine," I told her, lying all the way. "So what's there to be squeamish about?"
Pat licked what was left of her lipstick, in a peppermint-pink shade, off her lips. "This house," she said slowly, "used to be a funeral home. It was a small, family run affair. They stored caskets on the third floor. Big, open space, see? And the basement," she paused for a second, "that's where they prepared bodies. Do you want to go down and see?"
"No," I said.
Wright grabbed my arm. "It's fine. We'll be happy to go down there and see it."
"No, I don't think so," I told him.
"Alan, if we're going to take the place, we'd better see what's there."
"I'll stay up here," I said.
I waited while Pat took Wright down into the basement. I wasn't exactly sure why, but I didn't want to go down there. Did I expect to see something in a state of rigor mortis? No, but I still didn't want to go. Alan Kostenbaum was not going to go down there. Something had happened to Alan that had not been erased. Even after that afternoon at Jones Beach. Something had happened that made me fear death—even getting close to it—in the worst sort of way.
I felt like they were down there for hours. I knew that at some point I'd have to go down there myself, and see what was there. But that afternoon wasn't it.
They came back up a few minutes later. "Seems perfectly acceptable to me," Wright said. "Kind of like a laboratory. Cabinets. A few big tables. Wonderful sinks. It would make a great dark room."
"You'll get used to it," Pat said. "Let's get back to the car. Frankly, I think this place is made for you two guys. It's got a lot of space, a lot of convenience—location; even a little charm. Everything, for very little money."
"Then why didn't anyone else want it?" Wright asked. "Come on, Pat. What's the rest of the story?"
We stood in front of her car and looked at the outside, with the little awnings rolled up. There wasn't anything creepy about it, even I had to admit that. "Okay," Pat said, lighting another cigarette with her purse lighter. "If you have to know, and you will find out, it was a Negro funeral home."
I smiled. So that was what the funny calendar in the john was all about. "What was it called?" I asked.
"Oh, that's the best part!" A thin curlicue of smoke eased out of Pat's nose. "Are you ready? 'The Holy Resurrection Burial Society and Social Club.' Now, that took me a while to get used to."
Wright hooted. "I admit, the parts add up. Still, I don't see why no one else wanted to move in."
"People are strange in Washington. Whites wouldn't think of moving in, because dead black people had been there. They think every sort of disease must be clinging to the place, which is a lot of B.S., pardon my French. And some black people—well, they get funny about these things. You ever heard of 'haints'? That's the black word for ghosts. They get scared of these haints. I suppose they think the haints are still boogyin' around cemeteries and funeral homes."
"Are they?" I asked.
Wright arched his eyebrows and nudged me in my ribs with his elbow. "The place seems very promising," he said. We got back in the car. I took the backseat. It was a mistake. The humidity thickened, and a quick, summer rain shower snapped through the sky above us. I felt it first in my balls. The Egg—I had forgotten about it for a moment—started making little twitches. I was nervous; uncertain. Something about that place gave me the willies. I felt locked in Pat's car, with the sudden rain pounding outside. Traffic back to Dupont Circle was crazy. Cars were either stalled in knots, or darted through side streets like mosquitoes.
I slid down into the seat, and put both hands deep into my pockets. I started stroking my crotch to relieve the nervous twitching of the Egg. Suddenly, I thought I might throw up. Wright talked blithely about the house we'd just seen, oblivious to me in the backseat. Then I heard him say, "I think we'll take it. I deal with things five thousand years old. A black funeral home doesn't bother me one bit."
"That was a crazy thing to do," I said to Wright back in our room at the Merriweather. "Just because you're not upset by it, doesn't mean I'm not."
"It was the storm, Enk. I don't think you work well in storms."
"The storm was just showing me how I really felt," I tried to explain.
"Don't be upset, Enk. We're only going to be here a few months at the most."
"Enk was not upset. Alan was ready to throw up." I tried to smile. "Since when am I Enk, anyway? I'm Alan for right now. I don't call you Greeland anymore."
Wright held me, and began to unbutton my shirt. "I know. It's too bad."
"Because you're in love with me as Wright, but not as Greeland."
"How do you know?" I asked. How did he know?
"Because my sweet thing," he unzipped my pants and put his hand on my balls—his thumb and forefinger started to stroke my third Egg. "This little attachment tells me that I'm right, about being Wright. True, isn't it?"
My third Egg was definitely coming back, after being drained in New York. The twitching in the car proved it. I didn't say a word, but looked into his clear blue eyes, and hoped that only Wright could see me, and not Greeland.
"I see." Wright stuck his tongue into my ear; then whispered, "It must be true, because you know we can't lie. Alan can, but you can't."
Chapter Thirteen
The card that Pat Waterman gave us said in fancy, engraved lettering, "Regis Pendleton Austin III, Esquire. Attorney at Law." His office was in an upper floor of an elegant, smaller building on a quaint side street in Georgetown. One of those streets where the town houses had their own garages to hide the diplomatic license plates.
His secretary, Yvonne, an attractive light-skinned black woman with very processed hair, asked us to have a seat in his waiting room. "Coffee or tea?" she asked. She had perfect English, what they call a North Atlantic accent, as if she'd spent a lot of time in Europe. "Have you gentlemen seen the Post today? How about a magazine?" She pointed to the Washington Post, Town & Country magazine, and The New Yorker lying on the bleached, French provincial coffee table. We accepted a cup of excellent coffee, in little white porcelain café cups. I began looking at Town & Country, where all the ladies looked like they'd been to the same plastic surgeon, when Yvonne told us we could go in.