Drop Dead

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “You’ll understand when you get older,” Brian said.

  Paul knew if there were an emergency with Jeff, Brian would have sense enough to call the paramedics and then call him. It had been a number of years since a crisis with Jeff’s spina bifida had arisen.

  At they walked out the door Brian patted each of them on the shoulder and said, “You guys have a good time.”

  After the door closed, Paul said, “Sometimes I can’t tell if he’s seven, seventeen, or seventy.”

  Ben said, “I believe the proper medical term for that is rampant teenage hormones. With luck, we’ll survive.”

  The fashion show that night was in the domed auditorium at the east end of Navy Pier. As they pulled off Lake Shore Drive they could see a bank of klieg lights. Their pale blue beams swirled and eddied against the winter sky. Paul and Ben were forced to park several blocks away from their destination.

  Before they even got to the pier, they could see rotating Mars lights in great sweeping curves on top of the auditorium’s dome. Paul and Ben walked along the south side of the pier, past the moored sightseeing boats. In the last few years, the newly renovated pier had attracted thousands of visitors. The huge Ferris wheel was one of the more prominent new sights along the lakefront skyline. They strolled with their shoulders nearly touching. The wind was down and the night was extremely fine for January. The temperature was supposed to stay above freezing all night.

  They found their tickets waiting for them in a booth outside the door. A valet in a pink polyester jumpsuit took their coats and gave them redemption tickets.

  Absolutely no one noticed their entrance. The crowd probably would not have noticed a herd of man-eating tigers if they loped through the doors. There was an excitement in the air not evident at last night’s event. To Paul it looked like people were mostly trying to promenade in their outfits, catch sight of the famous or create their own sensation to become famous or at least noticed. He imagined there couldn’t be an ounce of shame in the room. For the sake of the denizens he hoped there wasn’t, because if there was, the Embarrassment Police would have to arrest at least half the crowd.

  Mounds of food covered a large buffet at the far east end of the room. People crammed around these tables. Loud, annoying rock music blasted over the throng. People shouted in order to converse over the din. Paul nudged Ben and nodded toward a group of men in the sheer underwear he’d seen earlier at GUINEVERE. “I want to get you a pair of those.”

  “Thank you, I have underwear.”

  “Not like that.”

  “Nobody has underwear like that. It’s only for show.”

  “The ones I saw at Heyling and Veleshki were even sexier.”

  A woman walked by with more fruit on her head than Carmen Miranda wore in all of her movies combined.

  “How does that stay up?” Ben asked.

  “Pulleys? Wires? Magic?”

  The uniquely clad mixed with those in tuxedoes or traditional gowns and exquisite furs. Immediately in front of them, three women and a drag queen strutted by in black wedding dresses. To their left one woman wore a white gown with one padded shoulder, a second a leather strapless dress, a third a fringed skirt and necklace, and another a gold-embroidered red vest and a tiered skirt in black and pink.

  Arthur Oldinport and Battle joined Paul and Ben. Paul introduced Ben. Watching them gaze at the crowd, Oldinport said, “They aren’t nearly as amusing as they wish they were. And not half as fashionable as I know they are not.” He wore a black velvet tux with a white ruffled shirt. Battle wore a yellow-leather tux, lemon-yellow T-shirt, and mirrored sunglasses.

  A woman in an orange bra and panties tapped Oldinport on the shoulder. He leaned toward her. Battle placed a fingertip on the middle button on Paul’s shirt. “You look much more interesting this evening, Detective Turner.”

  Paul looked down at himself in the mirrors of the sunglasses. He remained silent and unmoving as the crowd swirled around them. Oldinport glanced in their direction and quickly averted his eyes. Battle began to move his finger down.

  Paul didn’t move. He stated flatly, “I wouldn’t.”

  The finger stopped.

  Battle smiled good-naturedly. “You could be in my runway show anytime you wanted.”

  Paul laughed. “I’m as much of a star as I ever want to be.”

  Battle moved back into Oldinport’s orbit.

  Moment’s later Battle said, “There’s one of the Kennedys.”

  Many in the crowd were craning their necks toward the dais.

  “Which one is a Kennedy?” Ben asked.

  Battle pointed to the runway, but Paul wasn’t sure whom he was pointing to.

  “Donald is here,” Battle announced. “I think I saw Donna earlier.”

  “Donald who?” Ben asked.

  They couldn’t see Battle’s eyes, but his mouth twisted in a sneer. “Trump.”

  “Oh.” Neither Paul nor Ben asked “Donna who?”

  “Look, Cindy Crawford.” Battle waved.

  No one that Paul could see waved back. Oldinport put an arm around Battle and said, “Why don’t you get us something to drink?” After taking their order Battle scuttled off. “I have front-row seats for you,” Oldinport said.

  “Thanks,” Paul said. “You heard Sean Kindel is in the hospital?”

  “A friend called and told me. He was supposed to be here tonight. What happened?”

  “We don’t know. He’s not awake yet.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “Did you know he and Cullom Furyk were lovers?”

  “I’ve heard that rumor today, but never before.”

  “Could it be true?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you found out anything about his overseas lovers?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Where else could Furyk have been staying besides the penthouse or with Kindel?”

  “I don’t know.” A group of men in tuxedoes approached Oldinport. They discussed outfits and personalities for several minutes. The crowd continued to swell and there was no further chance to question Oldinport.

  A few minutes later Battle returned with drinks for both of them. Since he couldn’t find a place to set it down, Paul held it in his hand. Moments later Battle sidled up to Ben. The young man whispered in Ben’s ear. When Battle started the finger approach, Ben grabbed his hand before it touched his T-shirt.

  Paul heard Battle say, “You’re so rugged.”

  Ben said, “Good-bye.”

  Paul saw Gordon Findley standing near the runway. Findley was talking and laughing with a group of young men and women whom Paul thought good-looking enough to be models. Findley seemed to be hiding his grief remarkably well.

  Paul listened to Oldinport and the others. He heard snatches of conversation. “No more padded shoulders” and “So liberating, so breathless” and “So boring” and “So eighties” and “The nineties look is nothing” and “Look, isn’t that … ?” and “In these provincial towns …” and “Very Brad Pitt” and “Inspired by Klimt” and “It was so fabulous, after the show half the audience needed to be revived” and “I guess they have to let that Eurotrash in” and “Out here in the back forty …” and “Can you imagine, you can’t even see over Lake Michigan” and “I’ve never been in a town that didn’t have a real coastline.” Several times Paul found himself chuckling at the absurdity and excess. He placed his untasted drink on a passing waiter’s tray.

  Fifteen minutes later the lights in the room dimmed while those for the runway brightened. As they moved to their seats, Ben leaned close to Paul and said quietly, “I wonder how much Oldinport pays Battle a year.”

  “Kept boys can’t be cheap,” Paul said.

  “Hell of a life to live, being a slave to some Twinkie.”

  “I think Oldinport’s the master.”

  Ben shook his head. “You don’t make a play for someone within five feet of your sugar daddy if you don’t have a lot of confidence in your ow
n powers.”

  “Or you took a stupid pill just before you left for the show.” Paul saw Oldinport and Battle talking to a woman in a bikini made of daisies. “I’m sure he’s a three-dimensional person,” Paul said. “I’m sure all these people are.”

  “Some people hide their talents,” Ben said; “it’s just that most of these people seem to have hidden them so ostentatiously.”

  Paul put his arm around Ben. “I’m glad you’re here tonight. It’s fun talking about these people in a non-police-detective mode.”

  Ben squeezed Paul’s shoulder. They took their seats. Battle was next to Ben, and Oldinport was next to Paul.

  Across the way Paul saw Eliot Norwyn in the front row talking to Matt Lauer from NBC.

  “You’re in for a treat,” Oldinport said. “I’ve heard GUINEVERE’s new line is going to be fantastic.” He pointed to the people across the aisle. “Munsen’s got a lineup of international celebrities over there that Heyling and Veleshki will be hard put to beat.” Turner thought he recognized Mel Gibson.

  A trumpet fanfare was a cue for all the lights to go out. The crowd murmured. When the lights came on again moments later, Sibilla Manetti stood at the entrance to the runway.

  “She’s naked,” Ben whispered.

  Indeed, to Paul she did not look as if she had a stitch on. He couldn’t wait to tell Fenwick what he’d missed. Cameras flashed brightly as Sibilla strutted forward in what Paul would call a bump and grind. She held her head rigidly above the audience as she passed them all. She stopped at the end of the runway, gazed left and right then strutted back the way she came. As she moved, it became apparent that she was covered from neck to ankle in a see-through silk body stocking, which was too sheer to conceal anything.

  Paul heard Ben chuckling. Paul leaned close to him. “What?”

  “The empress has no clothes. I hope this is supposed to be funny. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to contain myself.”

  Oldinport raised an eyebrow at them. Several people glared.

  As Sibilla disappeared the next woman entered. To Turner it looked as if someone had cut a hole in the middle of a bedsheet and then draped it over the woman. The woman’s hair was cut short and plastered down.

  “It’s a bedsheet.” Ben guffawed.

  Paul nodded. “Got to be.”

  Ben pulled out his hanky and put it in front of his mouth. Fortunately, Ben’s laugh was never loud, but there was no doubt to anyone nearby that he was convulsed with mirth.

  When the next woman appeared, in what looked for all the world to be an old army blanket with a slit cut in the middle, Paul saw tears rolling down Ben’s face. His lover bent over, attempting to control and conceal his mirth.

  Oldinport leaned over. “Perhaps your friend had best take himself outside and come back when he can better appreciate what he’s seeing.” Oldinport’s lips formed a severe, thin line and his voice cut sharper than a pair of shears.

  Ben had heard. “I can’t help it,” he said.

  Oldinport said, “Would you be so kind? For most of us this is serious business.”

  Ben nodded and slipped away. Paul glanced around. Few seemed to be taking real notice of them. The next woman wore what Paul thought might have been an old chenille bedspread. She was followed by a woman wearing what Paul swore was a transparent vinyl shower curtain. He saw people around him taking notes furiously or marking their programs with the numbers they planned to buy. All gave the show rapt attention. Toward the back he thought he saw a section of people who seemed ready to applaud and cheer, and ooh and aah as if on cue. He wondered if hiring cheering sections at your own fashion show was good form. The music varied between wild polkas and snatches of famous symphonies—all set to a rock-and-roll beat. Watching the women and their outfits very quickly became boring to Paul. He lasted as long as he could, observing the famous, the near famous, and those wishing to be famous take the entire affair very seriously. After half an hour he went in search of Ben but couldn’t find him. He retrieved his coat and stepped outside.

  At the northeast corner at the farthest end of the pier, he found Daniel Egremont smoking a cigarette. The accountant was wearing a black leather jacket, dark gray dress pants, and a white dress shirt open at the collar. The wind was calm and the night was clear with a full moon lighting the star-speckled water.

  “Being here tonight part of your investigation?” Egremont asked.

  “I’m not sure tonight has been very helpful.”

  “All this nonsense should give you some insight into how superficial and shallow these people’s lives are.”

  “I hate to sound like I’m defending them, but I can imagine the planning and work that must go into what I’ve just seen. If you don’t like it, why do you still work for them?”

  “I want out.”

  “You’re not happy in your work?”

  “I love accounting. I used to enjoy the beautiful people merry-go-round. I don’t so much anymore. Just for a while I’d like to take a break.”

  “I don’t understand enough about the financial health of the two companies. Can you help me with that?”

  Egremont was instantly wary. “Maybe.”

  “We may have to subpoena the books from both companies.”

  “In a murder investigation?”

  “If Cullom Furyk was such a draw and he was switching companies, maybe it would have hurt GUINEVERE, Incorporated a great deal. Maybe people were really angry that Veleshki and Heyling would reap the benefits.”

  “Cullom was leaving GUINEVERE?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No. Of course, Heyling and Veleshki would not have confided in me.” He tossed his cigarette into the lake water ten feet below. “As for my boss, Franklin Munsen confides in no one. If he was in danger of losing Furyk, he might or might not tell anyone. He thinks he is the smartest person in the company and among the smartest in the fashion industry.”

  “And you don’t agree?”

  “Smartest? He is pretty bright.”

  “We were told he is the most hated man in the fashion industry.”

  “The most hated is a little strong, but not by much. He can be vicious all out of proportion to need.”

  “Would it have been devastating to GUINEVERE if Furyk left the company?”

  Egremont considered. “Some, but spokespeople are a dime a dozen. Well, considerably more than that, but you drop Furyk, so you find a sports superstar or a hot actor. There’s always another pretty face.”

  “How much did Furyk earn a year?”

  “With all his endorsements, at least several million.”

  “Where is all his money?” Turner asked.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “If he was rich, where is all his stuff? We got a small mound of clothes and that’s it. Did he own homes here or overseas?”

  “Not that I know of, but I wouldn’t know details about his financial status. I know we paid him slightly more than nine hundred thousand dollars last year.”

  “And who inherits all of it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did you know he had lovers in cities in different parts of the world?”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was young, rich and gorgeous. He could have anything he wanted.”

  “Yes, but there must be young, rich and gorgeous people who are monogamous.”

  “I would presume you are right. I don’t make moral judgments.”

  “I’m not sure I want to make a moral judgment,” Turner said. “I’m just baffled. That kind of money is worth playing deadly games for. There are emotional attachments of others to him, but he didn’t seem attached to anybody. And then, the fashion world is foreign to me. I don’t understand most of it.” Turner pointed inside. “Do people seriously think someone is going to buy those clothes?”

  “The idea is to make a splash. To be so hot that people want to be associated with your name. Couture i
s about people wanting you to be their designer. It’s the name and the fame as much as the actual fabric, cut and color.”

  Paul heard a shout. He looked left then right. The pier at this far eastern end was several hundred feet across. He and Egremont were about ten feet from the northeast corner. He saw two figures grappling on the southeast corner. He began to move toward them. He heard another shout. He thought it was Ben’s voice. He began to run. His trench coat flapped behind him. As he neared them, one of the fighters teetered for a moment and then plunged into the water.

  The person still on the pier turned toward him for a second, then fled toward the west. Paul could tell he was white, short, skinny and wearing dark clothes.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Hey, help!” the person in the water called. Paul recognized Ben’s voice for sure this time. He didn’t waste time on the fleeing figure. He ran to the edge of the pier and looked over the ten-foot drop.

  “Hey!” Ben yelled.

  “Ben, it’s Paul.” He could barely see his lover’s face in the water.

  “I can’t get a purchase on the damn pier,” Ben shouted.

  Paul knew the greatest danger at the moment came from hypothermia. He knew Ben could swim, but he didn’t know where the closest place was to yank someone ashore. With the water this cold, he knew his lover could last less than four minutes.

  Paul took off his coat. Quickly he twisted one sleeve around his hand and wrist. He dangled it down. He saw Ben reach for the coat and miss. Paul felt the presence of other people. Ben treaded water then lunged upward, grasping for Paul’s coat. Paul felt the tug of Ben’s weight on his arm. He heaved upward. Several hands reached on either side of him and grabbed at the coat.

  Moments later Ben was on the pier. His teeth chattered, and he shivered violently. “Christ, I’m cold,” he said.

  Paul said, “We’ve got to get you inside and warm and out of these cold clothes.”

  As they ushered Ben into the ballroom, Paul glanced down the length of the pier. Whoever had pushed him had long since vanished. When a security guard appeared, Paul showed him his identification.

  “What happened?” the guard asked.