A Body To Dye For (Stan Kraychik Book 1)

by Grant Michaels

  Nicole said sarcastically, “Then maybe you should peel the letters off the paper and see if there are any clues on the back side.” Immediately I grinned. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes, for she’d unwittingly given me an idea.

  I went to the kitchen, and she followed. I cleared a space on the kitchen table and set it up as though I were about to perform microsurgery. “You’d better hold the cat,” I said, “or she’ll be up here trying to help me.” Nicole picked up Sugar Baby and stroked her chin while I went to work. Within minutes, using my finest Swiss tweezers, I carefully peeled each letter from the page. It was almost as exciting as scratching a lottery ticket. I didn’t find much, though. Most of the letters just had other printing on the back. Some were completely blank, one had a colored bit that looked like oiled wood, and another showed a chrome knob on a red-tile background.

  “Not much to go on there,” I said. “But if I’d done this note, I would have sent a photocopy of it. That way the recipient couldn’t do what we just did.”

  “I always said you had a criminal mind.”

  “And if I’d told Branco about this the way you thought I should, we couldn’t have destroyed it the way we just did.”

  Nicole snapped, “Why do you keep saying ‘we’? I didn’t lay a hand on that paper!”

  “But you gave me the idea. Just be gracious, Nikki, and accept credit where its due.”

  She grimaced. “What about fingerprints?”

  “Even if the sender worked without latex gloves, the bond paper wouldn’t take a print. The magazine paper might be slick enough, though.” (I hadn’t yet learned about the iodine-gas technique for finding latent fingerprints on any surface.)

  “Can the cops tell when it was done?”

  “Cripes, Nikki! How the hell should I know? I’ll send it all to Branco before I leave. By the time he gets it, I’ll be in California. Maybe I’ll have found some useful clue by then.”

  Nicole suddenly became serious. “Stanley, I don’t want you to go.”

  “Nikki, we’ve already been through this.”

  “I know, but now that it’s happening, I really don’t want you to do it.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “No it’s not. I have your traveling cash in my purse, and without that, this little escapade of yours will be difficult, if not impossible.”

  “Are you pulling rank on me?”

  “Stanley, it’s time to admit you’re caught in a web of male ego. You’ve become irrational, and what you’re about to do is dangerous.”

  “Nikki, I have to do this. Otherwise I’m one of those people who just sit around talking and thinking about what they should do rather than doing it for real. I’m tired of watching life being lived by other people. I want to go and I am going.”

  “You’ve been doing those affirmations again.”

  “It’s my life!”

  “Is your life about courting danger?”

  “What should I do? Sit at home and read mail-order catalogs behind locked doors? That’s safe!”

  Our eyes stayed connected for a long, silent moment. Only Sugar Baby’s purring moved the air between us. She always responds when emotions around her are high. Nicole placed her gently down onto the kitchen floor.

  “All right, Stanley. You win.” Nicole reached into her bag and pulled out several banded packs of fifty-dollar bills. “Here! Go be a real man and get yourself killed. I’ll keep the cat.” She pushed the money into my hands.

  I took it and did a quick calculation. “Nikki, that’s two thousand dollars!”

  She nodded. “It’s a loan, not a gift. If you’re diving into the jaws of hell, you’d better have enough money to get yourself out again.”

  I held her and hugged her a long while. “Thanks, Nikki. I was afraid you didn’t love me anymore.”

  “I’m just concerned about this new John Wayne attitude of yours.”

  “Don’t worry. You know women will always be my role models.”

  “I want you to call me when you get there, I don’t care what time it is. And you call me every day, too, you hear? When you get back, I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  Then she dug into her purse again and pulled out a small lavender-colored vinyl case with a zipper around it.

  “What’s that?” I asked. “A douche kit?”

  “It’s my camera.” She handed it to me. “You may need to take pictures.”

  I took the case and unzipped it. The small plastic camera inside was streamlined and smooth and lavender, just like the case. “It’s so, uh, feminine,” I remarked.

  Nicole smiled. “It ought to be. I sent for it off the back of a Kotex box.”

  We said good night and she departed with Sugar Baby. Within seconds I felt really alone. I wondered why I was leaving town. By ordinary standards I should have been comfortable enough where I was. I had my job, my friends, my cat, my apartment, and my big empty bed. What could I gain by flying out West on a whim? If anything, my leaving town would only antagonize the police, and there wasn’t even any guarantee of finding useful information out there. But that was all my rational, linear side talking, trying to convince me to be good, honest, upright, moral, and safe. My other side, the emotional, spatial, wildebeest part of me said simply, “Do it!”

  I reassembled the threat note the best I could, then wrote a brief explanation of what I’d done to it. I added hugs and kisses at the end just to keep the whole thing breezy and light, then addressed it all to Lieutenant Branco. By the time he read it, I’d be in California. He’d have to come out West himself and physically abduct me to get me back to Boston. And with that happy thought, I called a cab and headed to the airport.

  Luckily I got on the flight, but the takeoff was delayed over an hour. When the plane was finally airborne, I thought again about what I was doing and glumly realized that it was too late to change my mind. I did my mantra, using the word surrender. It was good preparation for a transcontinental flight, where you’re forced to enter a collective frame of mind: You eat only after the food is cold, you move about the cabin at the captain’s whim, and you watch a film when the first-class passengers are ready for it. So, I surrendered: I drank and dozed.

  The plane landed in San Francisco well after midnight. I felt both eager and scared, but as I stepped from the plane onto the loading bridge, the cool, sweet night air thrilled me. I knew I was in a strange new city. Everything around me was new—the signs, the sounds, the smells. People seemed friendlier, too, more relaxed, even though it was so late.

  I got a cab and headed into town. The driver had a sun-weathered face and a magnificent mustache. A cowboy hat lay on the seat beside him. He got us onto the highway quickly, but as we zoomed toward town, we drove directly into a thunderstorm. Within seconds the rain was hard and heavy, and visibility became nil. Other cars were pulling off the road until the deluge stopped, and my driver decided to do the same. He stopped the meter but left the motor running to keep us warm. Both gestures were considerate, which I took to be a good omen of West Coast hospitality.

  We made small talk about the weather and how lucky I was that the plane had landed before the rain. Then, as he checked his logbook and the rain pelted and drummed against the roof of the cab, he said quietly, as if to himself, “Its a good night to be lickin’ someone’s balls.”

  The words shocked me. Was it a bold invitation? A Halloween ritual? Or just a callous offhand comment? I didn’t know what to do or say. Here I was imagining San Francisco as the mecca of romantic love, and instead of courtship, a total stranger was discussing sex in the same breath as the weather. (I’d have to confess that another side of me was titillated by a handsome man stating his sexual thoughts so bluntly.) The cab windows were steaming up and our mutual silence became awkward. Finally the rain abated and we were back on the expressway into town.

  My hotel had been recommended by a client who said it reminded him of a place where he’d once stayed in
Berlin. I remembered the address easily because the intersecting streets were almost exactly the name of a great jazz pianist, Ellis Larkins. I pushed against the heavy brass door and entered the lobby. Even in my travel-weary daze I noticed the huge gilt-framed mirror hanging over a sculpted marble fireplace at the far end of the lobby. Potted palms were arranged on the two mammoth Persian carpets, and an electrified crystal chandelier spread soft light over the whole area.

  I registered at the front desk. The clerk handed me my room key and flashed a broad smile, his big teeth too white and too straight to be natural. He led me to a small cagelike elevator and slid the gate open for me. With his body so close to mine, I sensed the aroma of musky leather and wondered where it came from. (Though leather always intrigues me, my heart prefers something more domestic, like the smell of laundry fresh off the line.) The clerk let the gate slide shut and waved to me as the elevator took me up to my floor.

  When I got in the room, I dumped my bags on the floor and fell onto the bed. I checked the time. It was 1 a.m., which meant 4 a.m. in Boston. I picked up the phone and arranged a long-distance call to Nicole. The phone rang once, and Nicole answered without a hello.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Nikki.” What a relief to hear her voice!

  “Hows the hotel?”

  “Clean and simpatico.”

  “Room service?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to find out.”

  “Call me tomorrow.” And she hung up.

  I lay on the bed considering whether to go out and see San Francisco at night. Then I remembered the day of driving that faced me in the morning. So instead of painting the town, I surrendered to my travel exhaustion. I stripped and crawled under the cool, clean cotton sheets. There I was, a visitor on my first night in San Francisco, the gay capital of North America, where Halloween is a national holiday, and I was alone.

  10

  A SWEET LITTLE NEST SOMEWHERE IN THE WEST

  SATURDAY MORNING I WAS UP EARLY to check out of the hotel. The same manager from last night was still at the desk, and he was also still full of nervous energy and eagerness. I wondered what drugs he’d taken to maintain the Mary Sunshine act for so long. When I told him I might be staying there again on my way back through town, he smiled with enthusiasm and said, “I hope so” with a twinkle in his eye. I had a quick breakfast at a small cafe nearby, then set off to rent a car.

  At 8 a.m. the San Francisco sky was overcast, and the air cold and damp, not quite the balmy breezes I’d expected. I walked a few blocks to the car-rental agency. On the way I encountered what appeared to be three very sexy men returning home from the previous nights debauchery. As I neared them, I saw that two were a couple, and they had to physically support each other as they stumbled along. They passed, and a heavy smell of liquor and smoke followed in their wake. The third man tripped along behind them. He was engaged in animated conversation with himself. All three men were handsome specimens, but somehow they didn’t seem so attractive up close. My romantic notions about San Francisco were about as accurate as my sense of the weather there.

  At the rental agent there were two used cars available in my price range: a minuscule white coupe and a red ark of a sedan. I took the sedan. Nicole would have gone to a first-class agency and rented a snazzy convertible, but my New Jersey working-class mentality wouldn’t allow such wanton luxury.

  I was on the road before nine o’clock, but I unhappily discovered that the way to Yosemite didn’t cross the Golden Gate Bridge. I had yearned to experience the mystique of that great symbol of the city. I promised myself that on my return through San Francisco I’d see the side of the city that really interested me: the old-fashioned Victorian charm and the relaxed approach to life that allowed like-minded men to live with each other as contented couples. I was still convinced that if such a place existed anywhere, it was in San Francisco.

  After three hours of driving, I was on the final upward approach to the Yosemite Valley. (The “valley” is actually two thousand feet above sea level.) The narrow road snaked its way up the mountain sides, and I allowed myself brief glances into the gulleys and down the sheer cliffs that dropped just a few feet from the edge of the shoulder. Then it occurred to me that there were no guardrails, and I realized that disaster loomed just inches away. In my nervousness I must have unconsciously sped up. A large camper suddenly appeared on the narrow pavement coming the other way. The massive vehicle was barreling downhill, approaching me at a good clip. I could see the driver chatting with the passenger instead of watching the road. I hit the horn, but that only alarmed him, and he jerked the steering wheel. He aimed the goddamn camper directly at me! There was only another second. I saw the panic on his face. I felt my stomach go light. I swerved off the pavement and onto the crumbly shoulder at the edge of the sheer drop. I jammed the car to a stop.

  Moments passed before I realized that I hadn’t gone over the edge. I did some slow breathing to calm myself and bring my heartbeat back to normal. I turned around and looked out the back windshield to make sure the camper hadn’t crashed, either, but it was continuing merrily down the mountain road, unconcerned over the brush with death it had caused me. I got back on the pavement and drove more cautiously. It was not comforting, that vision of my last breathing moment, hurtling over the edge into the yawning chasm in a rented used car, unshaven, and wearing old jeans.

  The initial view of Yosemite is an expansive panorama of green hills and gray granite forming the V-shaped sides of the valley. A slender flume of water fell from a rock cliff over six hundred feet high. Even in its waning autumn force the waterfall was awesome. So this was where Roger had lived! As I passed among the granite monoliths that lined the valley walls, I felt that I had entered a place unbothered by time and history, almost like a holy place. That feeling wouldn’t last long, though.

  It was already 1 p.m., not too soon to find a place to stay. I tried the main lodge first, but with no luck. Just as well, I thought, since the place was busy with noisy tourists, even off-season. I headed toward the campsite on the east side of the valley. There I got a tiny cabin to myself. It was real quiet, which I took as another good omen. Once inside, I changed from my driving jeans to pleated black chinos. Since I’d be nosing around and asking questions, I wanted to look respectable.

  Then came the question, Where do I start? For someone like me, that was obvious. The first stop was the local hairdresser. In a small town, that would be a good source for gossip and information about the town residents, and probably about the tourists, too. I’d also be more comfortable starting out my search among my own kind, my personal network. There was a place just outside the village, a humble little shop that reminded me of the businesses wrought by certain enterprising women out of their suburban garages. On the door to the shop, small black vinyl letters adhered crookedly to the painted glass panel and announced:

  BEA’S BEAUTY PARLOR

  OPEN M-W-F

  NOON TO 5:00

  It was one-thirty on Saturday. So much for that idea. Then I remembered the big hotel and figured that might also be a fertile source of small-town gossip. I got directions and found myself driving along a private road that led out from the back of the village center. The entrance to the hotel grounds was marked by a gigantic wrought-iron arch set on two great stone pillars rising from either side of the road. Split logs were arranged in a crescent on the black iron to spell out the name:

  OHLONE

  I’m sure the sign was intended to evoke the spirit of the Native American, but once inside, I found the soul of the Ohlone Hotel was all-American WASP. I was glad I’d changed my clothes, too, since guests staying at the Ohlone did not tour in denim. I was going to have to be “straight Stan” for a while. I avoided the desk clerk and went directly to the cocktail lounge. At two in the afternoon it was already full of wealthy white people sitting around drinking, laughing, and smoking. A clean-cut piano player amused himself with witty show tunes. I sat at the bar
. One of the two bartenders saw me, and she hustled over.

  “What can I getcha?” she snapped. She had long naturally wavy blond hair. Not much like a Native American, I thought, but she seemed feisty and interesting, maybe even cooperative.

  “Beefy up with a twist,” I said curtly.

  She winked and turned to gather the makings for my cocktail. Then, like the best bartenders, she prepared the drink directly in front of me. She didn’t shake or stir the gin. She just swirled it in a lot of ice, then strained it gently into a chilled martini glass. Finally she twisted the lemon peel over the glass so the icy gin caught the mist of tangy citrus oil.

  I took a sip, nodded my approval, then asked, “Is there a hair salon in the hotel?”

  “There’s a guy named Leonard, but I doubt he’s for you.”

  “Why not?”

  She removed the setup for my drink. Then she cocked her head. “He talks a lot.”

  “That’s okay.” Just the kind I’m looking for, I thought.

  She rinsed the utensils she’d used for my cocktail. “Most guys don’t like him.”

  I shrugged. “I’m different from most guys.”

  “Are you?” she asked, and I wondered if she alluded to something else.

  “Where can I find him?”

  “His shop is on the mezzanine, and he lives here in the hotel, in one of the penthouse suites.”

  “Must be nice.”

  “Hey, y’know,” she said as she toweled some wet glasses, “you don’t look like you need your hair cut.”

  I ran my hand through my coppery hair, which had been barbered recently. “I guess I don’t.”

  “You here on honeymoon or somethin’?”

  Did she mean it? “Actually,” I said seriously, “I’m here to find out about my friend, Roger Fayerbrock. Maybe you knew him. He was a park ranger up here.”

  The perkiness suddenly left her face. “Sure, I know Roger. Why? Is something wrong?”