Wolfman - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  "What have we here . . . ?" Mercanto wet the tip of his index finger, touched it to the powder in the bag, then to his tongue. The bitter taste was unmistakable. Almost immediately he felt a tingling numbness in the tip of his tongue. "Cocaine, and high-grade, too." He held the bag up to the light. "At least an eighth of an ounce . . . this good, probably worth nine hundred, a thousand dollars . . . well, well, well."

  He remembered the file . . . the Medical Examiner had said there were traces of cocaine found in the body. He turned back to the closet and gave it a more thorough search, checking the walls, the floor, the ceiling, but found nothing. Next he tried the bureau. First he looked through the drawers, then he took them out to see if there was anything taped behind them. Nothing.

  In the bedside table he found a bottle of capsules labeled Seconal, the label from a nearby pharmacy. He tossed them on the bed alongside the cocaine. "Helps to have something to get you back down, put you to sleep . . .” There was a second bottle in the bedside table, this one also half-filled with capsules but the label read Amyl nitrate" He poured a few into his hand and looked at them. "Poppers, eh? Stanley, were you gay or just a swinger. . . ?"

  From there he searched the bathroom. He took the lid off the toilet and looked in the tank, then checked the medicine cabinet, where he found more prescriptions, all from the same pharmacy. Valium, Darvon, Percodan. He took these with him too as he moved to the office.

  He sat in the white chair behind the desk and started to go through the drawers. In one he found an address book filled with names and flipped through it. At first glance none of the names meant anything to him, but there were too many to tell for sure. He put it aside to go over later.

  In the middle drawer he found Hightower's checkbook. As he took it out, the phone rang, startling him. He did not answer it. Whoever was calling hadn't seen the paper. It stopped after the sixth ring, but the thought of it left a nagging doubt. Why would someone be calling Hightower at home in the middle of a workday? You would expect a businessman to be at his business. When he thought of that he wished he’d answered the call. This was the sort of slip-up that Sloan would jump on.

  As he went through the checkbook he saw something that made him sit up straighter . . . starting about four months before, Stanley Hightower had begun making large cash withdrawals. He hurriedly went through the checkbook, then started over again. No mistaking it, four months ago something had changed in Stanley Hightower's life. The first withdrawal was for five thousand dollars, the check made out to cash. After that there was a similar withdrawal every ten days or two weeks. The total came to forty-five thousand dollars.

  "Why did you need so much cash?" In the bottom drawer he found a file marked "bank statements." He took it out and began to go through the canceled checks. In a few minutes he had found seven of the canceled checks. The other two had not come back yet.

  He laid the checks out on the desk in order. All were the same, made out to cash. The endorsement on each was the same — Stanley Hightower, in a barely legible scrawl that matched the signature on the front. He'd cashed them all at the bank himself.

  Mercanto walked back into the living room and stood by the grand piano, from where he could see the Walt Whitman Bridge in the distance. The afternoon light was beginning to fade, but there were no lights in South Philly yet. His own apartment was on Catherine Street a few blocks from here, but it might as well have been worlds away.

  "What does all this money mean?" Two answers came to mind: blackmail or drugs. If it was blackmail, it had to be something pretty heavy to leverage so much money in such a short time. Something that would ruin Hightower if it was known . . .

  With his right hand he idly plinked a chord on the piano, then sat down on the sofa. Sloan’s speculations about it being a sex-related crime came back . . . that he'd picked up someone and taken them there. But it didn’t fit. He thought about the parking lot and the car. Maybe it started there. That could account for the place, but once the blackmail began, whatever the sexual reason would have certainly stopped. It would not have been ongoing, only the blackmail would.

  He thought about the amyl nitrates. If it was sexual it would probably be kinky. Maybe statutory rape, or young boys. Maybe he was being blackmailed by a pimp. A sum that large would indicate adult involvement. Kids wouldn't think that high. Would they?

  The image of the mutilated dead man came to mind and he shook his head. This was not like a blackmailer. They didn’t kill the golden goose. Even if he threatened to stop paying, all the blackmailer would have to do was expose him. A lot safer than killing him.

  He got up from the sofa and walked down the hall to the bedroom. Maybe it wasn't blackmail, maybe Hightower was paying for services rendered. He shook his head again. No kind of sex worth that much money . . . Was there?

  As he passed the office he saw the assortment of drugs on the desk where he'd left them. He stopped and stared at them. Drugs . . . made more sense than blackmail. The papers were full of professional people arrested for drug dealing. People who took it up to support their own habit. He knew coke freaks were like evangelists in their zeal to get others hooked. And there was never enough money for the drugs they needed. Maybe he'd had a beef with his supplier. Like they said at the meeting, the Jamaicans were raising hell all over town. A crime like this would not be past them.

  He gathered up the checks, the checkbook, the drugs and the address book — at least a beginning, a solid beginning, he thought as he pulled on his coat. At the door he took a last look around.

  "I was wrong," he said aloud. "Stanley, you didn't know how to live . . ."

  Downstairs he showed a new man on the desk his badge.

  "You know about the Hightower killing?" When the man said yes, Mercanto asked if he was working the desk that night. The man said he was.

  "Did you see him come or go that night?"

  "It’s a big building, but I think I saw him go out, around eight-thirty or nine. I don’t think I remember him coming back or going out again, but I can't be sure."

  "Was he alone when you saw him?"

  "I think so, but like I said, it's a big building. A lot of people come and go around that time. You know, dinner, the movies, things like that . . . Sorry, but I hope you catch whoever did it. He was a nice fellow."

  * * *

  Outside, twilight was settling in, and Mercanto decided to pick up something to eat and stop by to see Frank. They could both use the company.

  He drove to Chinatown, parked on Arch and drove up Tenth Street to the Imperial. There was a line, but the owner recognized him and waved him inside. Mercanto went to the bar and ordered a Tsing Tao while he looked at the menu. A waiter old enough to have known Confucius as a boy took his order of won ton soup, steamed dumplings, lemon shrimp, kung pao chicken and a six pack of beer.

  While he waited for his order he sipped his beer and wondered what Stanley Hightower had done that night between 8:30 and 3:00 a.m. Mercanto figured when he found the answer he would have the killer . . .

  The waiter brought his order, Mercanto paid and left. Outside the Trocadero on Arch a long line of kids was waiting to get in. The poster advertised Warren Zevon — one night only.

  As Mercanto drove to American Street near Third he turned the radio to WMMR, which was playing Warren Zevon songs in honor of the concert.

  * * *

  "Frank, it’s me," he called out as he went in. He was not prepared for what he found.

  Frank’s condition had worsened since the chemotherapy, and he found him half-sitting, half-lying on his couch covered by a blanket, a sketch pad on his lap. The room was cold. Under the blanket Mercanto could see Frank was wearing a wool bathrobe over a sweater, and he was shaking.

  "Frank, are you crazy? It's like an icebox in here," he said and went to tum up the thermostat, suddenly angry with him for his self-neglect.

  Frank's only reply was, "What're you so dressed up for? You going to a wedding?"

  Mercanto shoo
k his head, not sure he could trust his voice. The room as much as the way his brother looked told the story. Dishes were in the sink, newspapers on the coffee table, which was not like him at all. Frank was a bug on neatness.

  "I brought us dinner," he said as he opened the bags, but Frank shook his head.

  "I'm not too hungry right now, I’ll have it later . . . You didn't answer my question, why are you all dressed up?"

  All he said was that he was temporarily back in plain-clothes. He didn't go into any details. Frank knew about Sloan from the Rudy Gunther investigation, and he didn't want to upset him with the news that they’d been thrown together again.

  This seemed to cheer Frank some but Mercanto had only one thought, that he was losing him. When he couldn’t take any more he pulled on his coat and said goodbye, angry at himself for not being able to help more, do more.

  On the way out he ran into DeBray, the black man who worked for Frank, whom Frank trusted to take care of him. He took hold of DeBray by the lapels, pushing him into the side of the building. "You clean that place up. Don't let him get like that."

  DeBray didn’t push back, but hurt came in his eyes. "You know him, you know how he is."

  "I know," he said, releasing him. "But do what you can. He needs us. You know that."

  DeBray nodded.

  Mercanto drove around for a while. The idea of going home to an empty apartment was depressing. He needed someone to talk to. Maybe he'd drive out to the Valley Green and have a cup of coffee with Catherine Poydras. Someone friendly to pass the time with.

  * * *

  Queenie, a duke’s mixture of terriers and pet of the McClains on Livesey Street, was making her way toward the Valley Green bridge. She’d been doing this for over a year. No matter how the family tried to keep her in, she would find a way to get out and head for the Maison Catherine, where the kitchen staff would pet her and give her the best leftovers in town. In her mind it was like having her own refrigerator.

  Near the bridge, from the woods, she heard a soft whistle.

  She stopped, perked up her ears, looking around for the source. Finally she spied it, a fair-haired man in darkling clothing at the edge of the woods. The whistle came again, and playfully she headed over to investigate . . .

  The man turned and went deeper into the woods, Queenie following. Out of sight of the road, the sound of a loud crack rang out, like a stick breaking, then agonized whimpering, then silence as Queenie's blood seeped into the leaves from the gaping, ragged hole in her throat.

  Satisfied, the shadowy figure rose to his feet, dusted off his knees, and moved deeper into the darkness of the woods.

  CHAPTER 7

  MARGARET PRIEST was aware of Loring’s eyes on her as he followed her into the office. She didn’t have to turn, she could feel it. An unspoken communication, intimate, and forbidden. The feeling bothered her.

  Even though they had not talked openly about his sex life, from the way he said things she knew he had had little experience with women, and the way he looked at her had an innocence about it. Unlikely as it was in this day and time, she felt it a distinct possibility he was a virgin. Not a homosexual. Asexual was more like it. A sublimation of his sexuality. Why, she didn't know but she hoped to find out. Needed to.

  They took their respective seats and he said, "You look . . . lovely today." The sincerity of it touched her, and for a moment she almost admitted to herself that he had been somewhere in her thoughts when she had chosen the Calvin Klein blouse and pleated, gabardine trousers to wear today. Certainly Adam hadn’t been, not now that she was certain of his affair with his student. The nightly anonymous phone calls had cleared up any doubt about that.

  For the first time in her life she really hated someone. You couldn't always be a professional. A nameless, faceless, nineteen-year-old who she was sure had better breasts and a tighter body than hers. When she looked in the mirror she could see herself beginning to lose it . . . her skin, her hair, her juices, it made her want to scream. Only then did she allow herself to think of Loring and the way he looked at her. No harm in it, she told herself. They weren’t together. He would never know. It was just a moment of innocent solace for her. Call it harmless compensation. .

  She looked across her desk now at Loring. "Today I want to begin a little differently. With an exercise. I'd like you to describe yourself physically."

  The word "physically" obviously embarrassed him. He laughed nervously. "You make it sound like an obscene phone call."

  She didn't reply, and Loring felt his stomach begin to tighten. Although he looked forward to these moments with her, each session was more difficult for him than the last. Several times she had assured him they were making progress. He took that to mean he was getting better. Except from what?

  She refused to name it, other than to refer to it as his "conflict." Well, he didn't feel better. lust the opposite.

  Right now the last thing he wanted was to describe himself. He could refuse, of course, or try to steer the conversation onto things like art, music, man's fall from grace, but he knew it wouldn't do any good. He’d tried it in their second session. All she did was sit there, silent, staring, smoking until he gave in.

  "I’m lean, small-boned, blond . . . I look like my mother," he said, thinking there was more she wouldn't hear. He was also an inkwell, an aging brandy, the eye of a gnat, a pinprick of darkness in the light . . .

  Margaret nodded. There it was again, the family reference. It kept coming up over and over in different ways. Today she was not going to let him dodge it.

  "You hesitated before you said you looked like your mother. Would you rather look like your father?"

  Pain crossed his face. Look like . . . what difference does that make, he thought, allowing himself for once to consider his mother, father, stepfather together. The question is, which one do I act like . . . the good, the bad, or the ugly . . . or even which is which. His sister didn't enter his mind. He knew she was immune. It was a plague visited on the eldest.

  "I guess most men would rather look like their father, but it’s okay. My mother is a fine woman . . . Besides, looks aren't something you have a choice about anyway . . ."

  "Tell me about your mother."

  He crossed his legs and picked at the crease of his trousers, ignoring the tingling of his fingers. He tried not to think about how his hands had been getting worse. Now most of the time they were almost numb. They still worked. He’d lost none of his grip, only the sensation. That’s why he hadn't been to the doctor. There was nothing a doctor could do. He was sure it was just the cold weather irritating the damaged nerves from the bicycle wreck when he was young. Usually the belladonna helped, if he took enough. Several times he had thought of mentioning it in one of the sessions but hadn’t because he didn’t want to . . . to worry Margaret pointlessly.

  "Tell me about your mother/’ she repeated. At the sound of her words he looked up but did not meet her gaze. Why did she always try to do this to him? The question made him resentful but he pushed back the feeling. He couldn't be that way with her.

  "I'd rather not. I want to concentrate on my own problems."

  Margaret pursed her lips slightly, deciding what to say next. Should she go to "my own problems"? The word own showed he felt his problems weren't the only ones in his family. She decided not to. To zero in on a word or two like that at this early stage would only make him more guarded. Instead she chose to go abstract, give him some breathing room.

  Over their sessions she'd tended to speak clinically to him, he seemed to take comfort from that, find it reassuring. In any event, the depersonalizing of it tended to make him more responsive. As for herself, it was important she admitted to herself that their use of given names and their exchanges did draw her to him more as a patient, as a human being. Nothing wrong with that. He was highly intelligent. Sensitive. Decent and very troubled.

  "Most everything begins in childhood, as I'm sure you've heard. Experiences then tend to shape us .
. ."

  "I do know all that," he snapped. "Do you think I've been living in a vacuum? I took psychology courses. I've gone to the library and read since I've been coming here. I can quote you chapter and verse on all the disgusting stuff like the Oedipus complex. You're not fooling me, I know where all this is leading. You're trying to say the episode in the fitting room when I thought I was shrinking was caused by a desire on my part to return to my childhood — "

  "Or a fear of it . . . ?"

  His anger made her feel she'd done something. She knew he'd been researching. His responses in earlier sessions had told her that. She also knew it was because he wanted her to think well of him, to hide what he thought were the bad parts from her. A lot of patients did that. Early sessions were often a game of hide and seek, but this was an honest emotional response. She was at least beginning to be able to draw him out. It was a good feeling to be able to help him do that.

  Loring stared at her. His anger seemed to make everything crystal clear . . . "Fear is a conch shell. You hold it to your ear and think you hear the sea."

  She prompted him. "But it's only an illusion . . ."

  Her response pleased him. At last she was beginning to understand. "Yes, but it's a universal one. You put a gun to the head of a Frenchman and he’ll feel the same thing as an American."

  Margaret paused to light a cigarette. He was trying to slip away again, but she wasn't going to let him. They needed to make progress together. So far their sessions had led her to believe that his episode in the fitting room was an hysterical one, not psychotic. His high anxiety level, his stomach trouble, his inability to sleep all went with it. A retreat from the unpleasant through illness or illusion. A statement of vulnerability, as lung might say.

  Even though the fitting room episode was more severe, she was sure he had had similar episodes in the past, and that this one had been triggered by the invitation to his sister's wedding.