“I suppose so.” He answered dubiously, as though he hadn’t completely measured the risk involved. “One thing must be clear, though, Stan.” I recognized the use of my first name to galvanize my trust. “This is all off the record. Its totally against regulations. The captain would have my ass.”
Lucky captain, I thought. Then I took a bold step. I said, “Sure, Vito,” just to keep us on an equal first-name footing. “I can understand that. You wouldn’t want to be caught colluding with a gay hairdresser.”
Branco winced.
“Lieutenant, what if Roger hadn’t been a cop? Excuse me—a peace officer. What if he’d just been an ordinary gay person? Would you still want to pursue this case against the captain’s wishes?”
Branco said, “Personally, I don’t care how people live, one way or the other, as long as it’s harmonious with others in society. The captain has his own opinions about what’s right and wrong.”
“How can you work for someone like that?”
“My job is to obey orders.”
I thought a moment about what was happening and realized that a gentleman’s agreement had transpired.
I got up and went to the door. “Well, I guess I’d better go dig up some Mata Hari drag.”
“Just remember, I’ll never admit to this discussion. If you spill any of this to anyone, I’ll deny it. There’d be no question whose word would hold.”
“I’ll remember.”
“You’re on your own.”
“Like any good spy.”
With that, I left his office and headed back to the shop.
7
THE HORSE’S MOUTH
IT WAS JUST AFTER 5 P.M. when I got out of the station. I was about to hail a cab back to the shop when I noticed the rush-hour traffic was already petrified. There’s nothing like being in a cab when the only thing moving is the meter. It would be quicker and cheaper to walk, so I did. The only problem was, with daylight saving time over, the sun had long since gone down, and I wasn’t ready for the cold wind that blew around me, another reminder that Boston is a city where half a year is spent anticipating, enduring, or recovering from a phenomenon called winter.
While walking, I thought about what had happened in Branco’s office. Two things bothered me. One was Calvin’s report. He’d dumped suspicion on me simply by lying to the police. The other was Branco’s cavalier attitude toward gay people, along with his mindless deference to the captain. As my annoyance increased, I walked faster, which helped dissipate the tension and also warmed me up. As an added consolation, the cars I passed on foot never caught up to me.
It was around five-thirty when I walked into Snips and Nicole jumped on me. “You’re in trouble, lover-boy.”
“Now what?”
She pointed to three glamorous young women waiting impatiently in the lounge area. With the photo session canceled earlier that day, I’d assumed my afternoon was free, and since I hadn’t checked the book, I was solely to blame. I shrugged and went to the women. “Well, ladies,” I whimpered like a pathetic puppy, “I apologize. I was in the South End and the traffic is hell.” They smiled politely, if insincerely. I’ll be with you all in a minute.” I went back to the desk, where Nicole gave me a look that implied I’d been up to no good. “Was the lieutenant happy to see you?”
“Cool it, doll.”
“Oh, I’m cool, Stanley. But you’re not.”
“If you’re referring to my highly charged aura, it’s from the brisk walk back here in the cool evening air.”
“I thought it was feminine hysteria.”
“That is a sexist remark, doll. Gay men are prone to it, too.”
I checked the book. One full color, one perm, and one highlighting. Yikes! With three jobs like that, I knew we’d all be at the shop until after seven o’clock. The only civilized solution was to make it into a party. I set the women up at three adjoining stations where I could work them in tandem, kind of like an assembly line. That way, my hands could always be busy on one while the chemicals worked their magic on the other two. Timing got a little tricky, but I managed. I am, after all, a professional. Later, when the critical work was done, Nicole brought out the liquor. The annoyance over my being late had completely vanished, and by the time I finished with them, the five of us were feeling pretty festive. All three women tipped me generously.
When they left, Nicole poured herself and me another drink and asked, “What did happen with the lieutenant?”
“Everything and nothing,” I said. I didn’t want to tell her yet about my special arrangement with Branco. I grabbed for her cigarette case, but she slapped my hand.
“Not tonight, Stanley. I’ve only a few left.”
“What are friends for?”
“Anything but ruining perfectly good cigarettes. Now go on with your story.” She lit a gold-tipped lavender cigarette.
“It’s simple. Calvin Redding is trying to pin the whole thing on me.”
Nicole blew the smoke out hard. “That’s ridiculous!”
“I know, and I don’t see how the cops are so blind to the kind of person he is.”
“Dear boy, you have the advantage of being his hairdresser. You know things about him even his mother hadn’t guessed.”
“You may be right. But I’m not finding anything that’s helping me clear myself. No matter whom I talk with, it’s just more vagueness. I feel as though everyone is lying to me.”
“Maybe they are.”
“So, what do I do next?”
“Why don’t you confront Calvin directly with his lies? Get it straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“In his case it’s the horse’s ass. But it’s impossible. He’s being held at Charles Street Jail.”
Nicole thought a moment. “I’m sure they have visiting hours there.”
I shook my head. “It’s a jail, Nikki, not a Swiss spa.”
Instead of answering me, she picked up the nearby phone, and, while holding the cigarette, called information. (Another Albright axiom of smoker’s etiquette: Never rest a cigarette on an ashtray; either smoke it or extinguish it.) After a moment she said, “Charles Street Jail, please.” Another moment. “The main number is fine, thank you.” Then she hung up and dialed another number, and with a sultry voice she said, “Do you have visiting hours?” She might as well have been saying “Hey, there …’’ in a pickup bar. The rest of her conversation was interspersed with pauses. “You do? It’s my nephew, Calvin Redding … Yes … He was arrested for drunken driving or something… . Adult Detention Unit? Thank you.” Then she hung up the phone and said, “You’re out of luck, dear. The visiting hours are from eleven to one.”
“And since it’s after seven …”
She inhaled deeply, then smiled mischievously as she let the last of the smoke curl out from her nostrils. “But they did say Calvin’s attorney could go anytime.”
We looked at each other, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. I said, “Forget it, Nikki. I have plans tonight. My friend Wade has tickets to the ballet—”
“I’ll call him with your regrets, Stanley.”
“But, Nikki, I’ve never done lawyer drag before.”
“Darling, it’s easy. Just wear your dark suit and look harried. I even have an attache case you can borrow.”
“Not that pink thing with the loopy closures?”
Nicole looked down her nose at me. “That is my beach bag, Stanley, made expressly for me by a young designer in Nice. No, darling, I have a real attaché case.” She went to the locked closet and came out with a fine cordovan case with soft handles. “It’s from Mark Cross.”
“Why do you have that?”
“For when I see my accountant. You’re not the only person who understands the importance of the proper accessory.”
“It doesn’t matter, Nikki. I can’t go through with this. Even if I do get past the guards, Calvin will tell them I’m a fake.”
“Darling boy, Calvin will be so amazed to see you he won�
��t say a word. Just make him believe you’re there to help him.”
“That’s going to be a good act. He’s only going to lie to me, anyway, so why bother?”
“You have to think positively, like a lawyer. If you help him, you get money. The more help, the more money.”
“Is that what they call an affirmation?”
“Yes, darling. But in your case”—Nicole blew a huge cloud of heliotrope-colored smoke at me—“it’s for free.”
I picked up the attaché case and said, “Well, if I’m going at all, I’d better get going. Wish me luck.”
“Call me if you need bail.”
“For Calvin?”
“No, dearest. For yourself.”
“Thanks, doll. That’s a great send-off. Don’t forget to call Wade about the ballet.”
“Darling, I intend to go with him myself.”
“That’s swell, Nikki. What if I need you?”
“I’ll inform my answering service where to find me.”
“Enjoy yourself, then. Don’t snore too loudly.”
“I’ll tell you all about it, darling.”
I left the shop and headed home. I had a feeling that Nicole was purposely trying to undermine my commitment to the case. She knew I loved the ballet, and I knew she didn’t care much for it. She wanted me off the case, yet she’d goaded me to visit Calvin in jail, while she took my place at the theater. She was in control, as usual. Outside my apartment door I found a package from my mother in New Jersey. Packed inside, as carefully as Fabergé Easter eggs, were homemade poppy-seed pastries, rolled and filled and shaped with my mother’s very own hands. Though she had no idea I was involved in a murder case, I wondered if my mother sensed psychically that I was getting into “deep honey” these days. A gift from home meant she was thinking of me more than usual. I figured I’d enjoy the sweets as a reward later on, after I returned from my unpleasant mission at the jailhouse.
I quickly fed Sugar Baby, then changed into my charcoal gray three-piece suit. I looked great, but I did not look like a lawyer. Within fifteen minutes I was back on the street getting a cab to take me to the Charles Street Jail. A clunky old Checker stopped and I got in. When I told the driver where I was going, he said, “You don’t look like you’re dressed for jail.”
“I’m seeing a client.”
“You a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Funny you’re not driving yourself.”
“My wife has the Jaguar tonight.”
He let me off at the jail entrance. The bright lights within contrasted against the chilly darkness outside. I opened the door. It was like stepping out of the wings onto a stage. Too bad I’d hadn’t rehearsed the part I was playing. It reminded me of those bad dreams where you have to perform something you know nothing about, like brain surgery on your mother.
Inside, a damp metallic smell greeted me. I walked deliberately to the front desk as though I belonged there, just like a lawyer. The cop behind the desk ignored me. I said, “I’m here to see my client, Calvin Redding.”
The cop didn’t look up from the sports pages he was reading. He just grumbled, “Sign in.”
I looked around and thought, Sign in on what? There wasn’t a piece of paper anywhere in sight, at least not one I could get to. I could feel panic rising in my shoulder blades, and I wanted to scramble the hell out of that place. Then the cop jabbed a clipboard at me. I filled in the form quickly, in the self-important way I imagined a lawyer would. My writing was completely illegible. The cop took it and examined it. He still hadn’t looked at me. He swiveled in his chair and flipped through a file drawer full of folders and papers. Then he turned back to me with weary eyes and said, “I don’t have your name here.”
“I’m with the law firm that’s representing him.”
“What’s the name?”
What was the name I’d seen on Calvin’s police report? I could only remember J something. Seconds passed, and I knew it wasn’t going to come, so I had to resort to the only thing I could think of. I had just begun to say “Stanley Kraychik” when Ned Rorem’s handsome face suddenly popped into my mind, and the name “Wrorom” appeared on my tongue. It came out all together—“Sta-rorem.”
The cop behind the desk said, “Huh?”
“It’s Wrorom,” I said with perfect elocution.
“Rome?”
“J. T. Roar-rum,” I repeated, even more distinctly.
The cop twisted his head and gazed at me with a suspicious bureaucratic eye. Then he picked up the phone and dialed a number. “I got a guy here says he’s a lawyer. Wants to see Redding in cell twenty-eight-B. Yeah. Hang on.” He looked at the form I’d filled out, then squinted at my illegible writing. “I can’t read the name here.”
“It’s Wrorom!” I screamed, trying to jam his Neanderthal logic circuits with my lawyer’s persona.
“Okay, mister, okay.” He said the name into the phone, then hung up and turned to me, still avoiding my eyes. “Ya seem kinda nervous, Mr. Rome. Have a seat there.”
What would a lawyer do? Sit or stand? I decided to stand, and also realized it was good that I was so nervous. Who ever heard of a relaxed lawyer? After all, my client’s life and my fee were at stake.
Then a big metal door opened and I heard a voice call out, “Rome?”
I walked to the door and met the guard who’d called my name. His badge said Sergeant Vadrone. He was young and dark-haired, with a brutish face and brown eyes. When he spoke to me, I thought he might smile and dissolve all the hardness about his face, but he didn’t.
“You here to see Calvin Redding?”
I nodded.
“Follow me.” He led me to a tiny room with glaring bright fluorescent lights. It had no windows and only the single door I’d come through. “Wait here,” he ordered. A few minutes later he returned with Calvin. The guard asked him, “This your lawyer?” By the look in Calvin’s eyes, I thought he would tell the guard who I really was. I returned his gaze and gave my head an imperceptible shake no.
Calvin said sullenly, “Yeah, that’s my lawyer.” The guard left us alone in the room.
Calvin muttered, “What do you want, Vannos?”
“That’s a pretty lousy welcome, Calvin, considering I’m trying to get you out of here.”
“Like hell. Where did you get my lawyer’s name?”
“A little bird told me.”
“Who?”
“I have my sources.”
“Well, you ought to verify your information. My lawyer is a woman.”
With sexist stupidity I’d presumed otherwise.
“Now, what do you want here?” he asked.
“Calvin, I told you, I’m trying to help.”
He just glowered at me.
I said, “I think the police may have made a mistake.”
“That’s not what you thought last night.”
“I was upset. I said things I didn’t mean. And besides, I talked with your downstairs neighbor, and he says he remembers when you came home.”
“So?”
“By his reckoning and the coroner’s report, Roger was already dead when you got home. He’s given you a perfect alibi.”
“I don’t need an alibi. I’m in here for a bogus drug charge, not murder.” He looked at me suspiciously. I could almost sense him wondering whether I d seen his report, the one that implicated me. “Of all the people who might help me, you’re the last one I’d expect.”
I recalled Jennie Doughton’s similar sentiments earlier that day. “Calvin, I’m helping you because you’re a client.”
“There’s got to be more to it than that.”
I gave him my heart-to-heart look. “I want to find out what happened to Roger. I want to know who did it.”
“Why?”
“I just do.” I felt smarmy discussing Roger, especially since Calvin was my own favorite for suspect number one. “When I found him dead, Calvin, I got irrational and thought you did it. But now I realize I was wron
g, and I’m sorry. But I also realize you can help me find the truth. You were with Roger. You knew him.”
Calvin shook his head. “You’re so sentimental it’s sickening.”
“If it helps get you out, what do you care?” But I was thinking, I may be sentimental, pal, but I’m passing the noose back to you to get you convicted for what you did.
Calvin sat back and said, “Do you have a cigarette?”
“Uh, no.” Damn! There he was, just about to cooperate, and me without cigarettes. “Maybe the guard—”
“Never mind!” He leaned forward again and spoke slowly through his teeth, as though talking to an obstinate child. “I already told the police the whole story.” Then he paused, bothered about something. “Have you talked to them?”
“Yeah … ?”
“What did they tell you?”
“The police aren’t exactly chatty, Calvin. That’s why I’m here. I’m free and you’re not, and face it, the police aren’t going to help you the way I can.” (What a line!)
“My lawyer is helping me just fine.”
“But my services come free.”
“Nothing is free for me.”
My nice-guy act wasn’t working, and I sensed I was losing my chance to get some facts out of him. Direct questions, that’s what I needed.
“Calvin, who has keys to your place besides yourself?”
“No one.”
“What about Aaron? I heard he comes and goes whenever he wants.”
“Who have you been talking to?”
“I told you … Hal Steiner, your downstairs neighbor. Has he got keys, too?”
“What if he has?”
“Then he’s a possible suspect along with Aaron.”
Calvin put his chiseled face close to mine, too close. His breath smelled of artificial coffee creamer. He seemed to think the room was bugged, and looked around to make sure we were still alone. He whispered, “Aaron’s not involved in this.”
“How can you be sure? He could have gone up to your place, found Roger, and killed him in a jealous rage.”
“Aaron’s not the jealous type.”
“Then maybe there was some other motivation. Where can I find him, Calvin?”
A Body To Dye For (Stan Kraychik Book 1) Page 10