Wolfman - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  Good for what ails you, he thought, as he raised the glass to his lips, tasting the familiar bitter metallic taste. Almost instantly he felt his stomach begin to relax, and with it a sense of peace began to return. A peace he knew would be short-lived, but one which he was thankfully able to give himself five or six times a day, sometimes more.

  He picked up the paper and looked at it again. To hear her voice would make things better, and the warmth of the belladonna seemed to ease the way. "Why not?" he said half-aloud, and pushed back his chair.

  The phone was located in the hallway leading to the restrooms. Loring picked up the receiver, deposited a coin and dialed. As he heard the phone begin to ring at the other end, a man entered the hallway and began to drop coins into the cigarette machine beside the phone. Loring wanted to hang up. This was one call he did not want anyone to overhear, but a voice answered before he could.

  It was her voice. In his annoyance he didn't catch what she said, but he did hear her soft, sure tone.

  The man beside him seemed to be having trouble with the cigarette machine. Loring glanced at him out of the corner of his eye . . .

  He heard her voice again and wanted to say, "Hello, Margaret, it’s me. I just called to say hello." Of course he didn't, it would be too stupid. Instead he listened, silent, until she hung up.

  As he walked back to his table he thought of her . . . the rustle of her clothes when she walked, her hair over her shoulders, the blueness of her eyes, yes, and the way she held her cigarette . . .

  At his table he was startled to find his lunch date had arrived.

  He pushed his blond hair back on his forehead, took a deep breath.

  She stood up and held out her hand. "Hello, I’m Erin Fraser. You’re Loring Weatherby."

  "Yes, right." Her grip was strong, solid yet feminine.

  He sat down across from her, forcing himself to smile. She was early, he was sure without looking at his watch. A time slave, he thought with a sudden combination of anger and weariness. Right now he needed to be alone for a few minutes. He could feel his stomach beginning to tighten again. Why couldn't she have been late?

  "Is anything wrong?" he heard her ask.

  Her words jerked him back to the present. He didn't want her to see his displeasure . . . "I was just thinking how times change. That you stood up when I approached the table. Usually it’s the other way around. Or at least used to be."

  As soon as he said it he knew it was all wrong. Unnecessary. There was more than a hint of coldness in her reply. "I open car doors and light cigarettes for men, too. Does that bother you?"

  "No . . . well, yes it does . . . sometimes," he said, unsure of the right answer. For him, this was the hardest part of the investment business. Something he could do but didn't like. Deal with the clients and potential clients face to face. Except for a very few, namely the ones he hoped to go sailing with, he almost never did it, choosing instead to let the profits he generated speak for him.

  "Why’s that?" she asked.

  He answered truthfully. "Because then I don't know how to treat you. It makes something simple like helping you on with your coat or holding your chair seem like . . . well, taking personal liberties with you."

  "Sometimes it is," she said, "but it’s an interesting question," she added, softening some.

  He sat there trying to figure out how he could end this lunch as quickly as possible, potential client or not. He was already feeling the first touches of panic begin to return. The belladonna wasn’t doing its job. What he needed was to go home and shut the door on the world, the noise, the people, the aggravation . . . He needed peace, time to think.

  Erin shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said, feeling the awkwardness of the moment. "I didn't mean to sound strident. Something that happened this morning got to me. . ."

  "I guess I'm sorry, too," he heard himself say. "Let's start over. How about a drink and then you tell me what happened."

  "I'd like that."

  When the waiter came and went, Loring sat quietly looking at her. Erin Fraser was around thirty and very pretty. Her dark hair was pulled back and tied, showing off the leanness of her face; long bangs kept the style from being too severe. Her tortoise-shell schoolboy glasses combined with her large round white rhinestone earrings to give her a look of seriousness and sophistication. She was wearing a white suit that was almost a pale gray. The jacket was loose, padded shoulders and notched lapels. Under the jacket was a navy pullover, and she wore a multi-colored scarf looped around her neck and tied in front.

  "You know I'm the curator for the upcoming Caribbean exhibit at Taft University's Braddon Museum . . ."

  "Yes, Wiladene told me," he said, a mental picture coming to mind of the wife of Cornell Jenkins, star forward for the Sixers and one of his best clients. Wiladene had set up the lunch, telling him in the process about Erin and the large amount of money she had recently inherited from her aunt that she wanted to invest.

  "Wiladene's a volunteer at the museum, along with a thousand other charities," Erin said. "That's how we became friends. This is a big exhibit, set to run for two years with over five thousand items . . ." She stopped herself. "I’m not really telling this very well. What I'm trying to say is that there are a lot of people involved in this exhibit, but there are a couple of Taft students, roommates who are like younger sisters to me. This morning I found that one of them is having an affair with a married man. A professor in his forties, a poet," she added with a grimace.

  "And you disapprove," said Loring, suddenly wary. What was she trying to say, why tell him, a stranger, at lunch?

  "Yes, I disapprove. I mean I’m as liberal as the next person. Nothing wrong with sex. I believe people have to learn about life and love and so forth. But all this man is going to do is use her and toss her away. Not fair. She should learn from someone her own age, that way she'll be less likely to get hurt."

  "Sex is like that . . . hurtful, even tragic . . ." he heard himself say. God, he hadn't intended to say that.

  Erin stared at him. "What an odd thing for a man to say. Do you really think that?"

  How could he answer her when he couldn't even begin to answer himself. . . "Sorry," he said, "just thinking aloud about a friend . . . tell me about being an anthropologist"

  The waiter came back with her drink and menus, but Erin paid little attention. She was impressed by the way her story had seemed to affect this man. He wasn't at all what she’d expected. With a name like Loring Weatherby she had come braced for Mr. Cool, probably pompous. He was neither. With his good looks he could have fitted the stereotype . . .everything was there for it. But his eyes gave him away. A softness there. A vulnerability? Whatever, she felt like reaching across and touching his hand, to reassure him. Strange role reversal going on . . .

  "There's really not much to tell," she said. "Shamanism is my specialty. I’ve studied it in Jamaica and Haiti."

  "Voodoo?" he said, glad for a change. Something abstract to talk about.

  "Sort of, but most Caribbean religions are a mixture of African religions with an overlay of Christianity, especially Catholicism," she said, pleased with his interest.

  Loring reached for his drink and noticed that he felt no chill in his fingertips as he picked it up. This was something that had been happening lately. The sensation of touch seemed diminished, but of course he'd had problems with his hands ever since that bicycle accident when he was twelve and had broken both collarbones . . .

  He set his glass down untasted and put his hand under the table to flex his fingers a few times. It seemed to help. He rubbed his fingertips along his trousers, trying to feel the texture and scratch of the wool.

  He picked up his drink, sipped but tasted none of the familiar juniperberry taste of the gin, only a vague taste of alcohol and lemon. He shook his head. The waiter must have brought him a vodka martini by mistake.

  He looked across at Erin, sitting quietly, looking at him with a slight smile on her face. Between her th
umb and forefinger she was rolling the swizzle stick from her drink. Why was she doing that? Her smile made him feel like he was under a microscope. He looked at his watch. "I have to get back to the office soon, do you mind if we order?"

  "No, of course not," Erin said, puzzled at his abrupt change. Was she boring him? He seemed a nice man, she didn’t want that.

  As they studied their menus his eyes automatically went to the filet mignon with tarragon sauce. By nature he was a beef eater and it was his favorite item on the menu. But today he passed over it.

  Since the episode in the fitting room he had found himself unable to eat meat. In fact, every time he tried he became violently sick. One of the many strange unexplained things happening to him lately, and that he tried to write off to tension. After all, with his stomach . . .

  He scanned the menu for alternatives. For some reason the descriptions of the food made no sense. He tried to visualize the food, ingredient by ingredient, found it all too complex, the shapes, the colors . . . Finally his eye stopped on something that did make sense — potato and leek soup. That he felt he could eat.

  After the waiter had gone Erin said, "Do you really think this is a good time to invest in the stock market?"

  "If you have courage," he replied, watching her closely. She was still twirling the sizzle stick between her thumb and forefinger. He wondered why she had put the question that way. Time wasn’t a factor. Time wasn’t going to run out. Not until you were dead.

  "What would you recommend that I invest in?"

  "There are many things . . ." he said, feeling strangely unsure of his judgment. "Blue chips, growth stocks, bonds, funds, commodities . . ."

  "Tell me your favorites."

  She was smiling. Why?

  "Right now I'm fond of a Japanese company. An electronics firm," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully.

  "What do they do?"

  "The usual — televisions, stereos, tape recorders, office machines. They also have a computer department . . ."

  "Maybe I'm being naive, correct me if I'm wrong, but they sound like a lot of other companies. I mean, doesn’t everyone make those things?"

  The waiter returned with their orders. Loring turned his attention to his soup to give himself a moment to decide how much to tell her. As he brought the first spoonful to his lips he was assaulted by a smell so putrid he almost gagged. He tried not to show his surprise. This just didn’t happen, not in one of his favorite restaurants. A bad dish never came out of their kitchen. He stared down. The soup looked innocent enough, creamy white with flecks of green that should have been parsley.

  He lowered his spoon and began to talk to cover his feelings.

  "What you say is true, very perceptive. But I think there's going to be a takeover attempt."

  "Could you explain that a little more?"

  . . . Maybe I'm imagining again, there's nothing wrong with the soup. He lifted a fresh spoonful to his lips. Again the awful smell, and this time he could identify it. It was the smell of rotten, decaying meat. They must have used a stock as a base in the soup and the stock was obviously spoiled. That had to be it . . .

  "Is there something wrong with your soup?" he heard her say.

  Don't make a fuss, not now. He pushed the soup away and reached in his pocket for the belladonna bottle.

  "No, no, sorry, it’s not the soup, it’s me, I'm afraid. The old gut, goes with the territory, brokerage business . . . sorry . . ." He counted the droplets as he squeezed the medicine dropper into a glass of water. "Like I said, it’s an occupational hazard. Nervous stomach, most brokers have it. The strain of dealing with the market . . ."

  A good way to handle it, he decided. But on the way out he would have a quiet word with the manager, be sure they threw out the soup before some less understanding customer tried it and suffered the consequences . . .

  "As I was saying, I think there's going to be a takeover attempt by another company — a credit-card company. One of the real giants. I don't know if you’re aware of it, but a couple of the international credit-card companies are so strong that they've virtually created a private, world-wide currency."

  "Really? That seems incredible — "

  "Are you familiar with the Japanese word honko? It’s a small seal issued to each citizen, and it's used instead of a signature on many official documents."

  "Like a Chinese chop?"

  "I guess . . . Anyway, what this company is doing is researching something that will replace the signature, the honko or chop, and ultimately maybe even currency. It’s a magnetic implant with a code similar to the bar code, the ISBN number you see on packages. When it's perfected it will be implanted under the skin on a person’s hand at birth and all he’ll have to do is pass his hand by a scanner to record whatever his activity. This isn't public knowledge, which is why I’m pretty excited about it."

  "It all sounds very futuristic to me," she said. "Almost ominous, something like the mark of the beast. Isn't that what they used to say?"

  Her choice of words startled him, to put it mildly.

  CHAPTER 6

  MERCANTO PICKED up the keys to Stanley Hightower's apartment from police headquarters on Race and drove to nearby Washington Square. From the file he could see that homicide had not had a chance to go over it yet.

  As he drove he thought about how good it felt to be back in plainclothes again. He parked in front of the Athenaeum and walked across the square to the highrise on the South Side near the Hopkinson House. The desk clerk directed him to the thirtieth floor.

  He stopped in front of the door and took a deep breath. Even though he had plenty of experience working undercover this was the first time he had ever investigated a murder, and a great deal was riding on it, especially for him. He had no illusions about Sloan. One false step, one missed clue and Detective Sloan would be on his back.

  He put the key in the lock and turned it. The door came open with a soft click. For a moment he wanted to call out, announce himself, but he felt foolish. No one, of course, was there. He pushed the door and it swung back, coming to rest against the stop. Down the hall a woman with a load of dry cleaning got off the elevator. Somehow her presence made him feel like an invader. He moved inside and closed the door behind him.

  A few steps brought him from the foyer to the living room, which had floor to ceiling windows on two sides. One side faced south, the other Cast toward the Delaware River. The floors were a blue black tile in four-foot squares whose mirrorlike shine reflected the furniture on it and the sky and buildings outside, giving everything a ballroom's shadow depth. In the center was a black-and-beige Oriental rug with a busy design that resembled a maze of flowers and plants. Sofa and chairs were like he imagined people in California would have, snow white in color. At each end of the sofa was a large pillow covered in the same fabric. Facing them were two uncomfortable looking chairs with dark wood frames and seat cushions. The coffee table was a polished dark square with books and magazines underneath. In the east windows was a ficus tree . . . he recognized it from the time he had dated a woman who owned a plant store. A black grand piano filled most of the southem windows. The room, in a word, looked like something out of a glossy magazine.

  He took off his trenchcoat and began to walk through the apartment. The blue black tile floors were throughout. The kitchen was small, functional, with white cabinets and counters. He opened the refrigerator. On the top shelf was Beck’s beer and Perrier. On the bottom several bottles of white wine. Between were appetizers like cheese, pate, even caviar. He picked up the caviar and took off the top. The fish eggs were a golden translucence, not black or red like the ones he occasionally bought himself for a treat. He put the tip of his finger to them and touched it to his tongue.

  "Stanley Hightower, you sure knew how to live," he said, as he put the caviar back in the refrigerator.

  The dining room was as spectacular as the living room, with a chandelier and a round table for six made of the same blue black tile as
the floor. The bedroom was in white too, a sofa against one window and a king-size bed. The second bedroom looked like an office. The tour did not give him much of a feeling for the man who had lived there. The apartment was too impersonal, too professionally decorated for that. It was like a mask.

  "Stanley, who are you? Were you?"

  He went back to the kitchen and opened the cabinets. They were mostly bare except for nuts, chips and the like to go with the appetizers in the refrigerator. He looked in the coffee, sugar and flour cans. Nothing hidden there. He checked the freezer and gave everything in the refrigerator a going-over. Under the stove he found a copper-bottom set of pots and pans, but from the shine of the copper he could tell they had never been used.

  "Stanley, why do you have all this stuff, that dining room, if you’re not going to use it?"

  In the living room he looked at the magazines under the coffee table. Architectural Digest, Vanity Fair, Philadelphia Magazine, and stuck among them he also found a two-month-old copy of the National Enquirer.

  He smiled. "See, there is a human side to you after all . . ." he said, trying to picture Hightower reaching out for a magazine at the checkout line, but when he did he thought of the mutilated hand.

  He walked down the hall to the bedroom. The closet was filled with suits and sports coats. He took his time going through the pockets. Most were in bags from the cleaners, others yielding nothing. The same was true of the shoes lined up on the closet floor. . . until he got to the black pair of cowboy boots. Inside one he found a plastic bag, and in the bag was a small silver spoon and a quantity of white powder.