Richie laughed. “It always is. So, is this a social call? Let’s see, we haven’t spoken since we were seven, I think. Didn’t we play doctor on the back porch that summer, or was that some other slut?”
“Rich, I called to ask you something to help me with the work I’m doing now. I’ve been hired by three transvestite hookers after one of their friends got her throat slit.” There was silence on the line. I had a feeling the light banter was over for now. “I’m trying to understand—”
“Why transvestites get themselves killed? That’s easy. No one likes them. Not even their own parents.”
“But Ceil said—” This time he didn’t have to interrupt. This time I stopped myself.
I heard ice cubes dropping into a glass. “The lady doth protest too much. You know what I mean? She’s a little too loud, a little too effusive. But she tries. She can’t help who she is.” There was a silence on the line, then Richie was back. “How about dear old Auntie Beatrice? Did she nurture your sense of self-esteem, Rachel?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, what exactly?”
I took a deep breath. “I failed to live up to her high standards, Rich. Right up to the very end.”
“But Lillian did?”
“Lillian? Are you in touch with Lillian?”
“She’s in touch with me. She sends birthday and Hannukah cards. Never missed one in all these years.”
“Well, yeah, she’s like that.”
“But not you?”
“No. Not me.”
“So it wasn’t personal, you ignoring my birthday all these years? Silly me, I do let my neediness get the best of me sometimes.”
“Rich,” I said, “what about your dad?”
“Ceil didn’t tell you that either?”
“She said the two of you were very close.”
The sound he made was barely human, the final protest of an animal being brought down by a pack of hungry wolves.
“Close to murdering each other, she must have meant. He found out when I was eleven. He came home from work early. I was wearing one of Ceil’s half slips, pulled up like a strapless gown. And her silver ankle straps. Open toe. I wish I could find those now in my size.”
I knew where he could, but I kept it to myself.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Say? Nothing. Nothing at all. At least, not to me. He closed the door, rather quietly, and went downstairs. I opened it, also quietly, and went to the top of the stairs and listened.
“‘Ceil,’ he said, ‘there’s something wrong with your son.’”
I waited, but there was only silence on the line.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rake this up.”
“Where do you think it is, Rachel, locked away in a vault for safekeeping? It’s with me every day. Even after fourteen years of therapy. Your clients, it’s even worse for them. At least I have friends and legitimate work. Well, if you call wearing panty hose and lip-synching legitimate. At least my life’s not in peril every day, not since I got out of my parents’ home. But tranny hookers, they’ve got nothing. Every day of their lives, that could be one of them, found with a slashed throat and no one giving a shit.”
Not no one, I thought. But I couldn’t get the words past the lump in my throat.
“Your mom talked about your dad’s funeral,” I said after a moment.
“Oh. Was there one?”
I opened my mouth, but Richie spoke before I got the chance.
“Ceil called. I do recall that. She asked if I was coming up. I said, ‘The king is dead. Long live the queen.’ Was I fucking coming up! Oops. There’s my other line. Wanna hold?”
“No, it’s late. I better go.”
“But you’ll call again in another twenty years, won’t you?”
“I—”
“That’s my good girl. You take care now.”
The dogs were on the spare bed, back to back, asleep. But there was more work to do, and that’s what I had to concentrate on, at least for now. I needed to start Clint on opening hook-and-eye locks if I was going to get into Keller’s soon and get him back to where he belonged. I hated the idea of keeping him away from Chi Chi, all the more after listening to my cousin’s story.
I went back to the basement and looked in the toolbox for some cord, knotted one end, then woke Clint and began a game of tug-of-war. We worked for another hour, going back and forth between commands, everything fun for him, deadly serious for me. When the birds started their day, I finally finished mine, Dashiell across the foot of the bed, Clint with his head on the pillow, right behind mine.
13
The Sound Was Getting Closer
There was a lot of construction going on in the neighborhood, people trying to cash in on the strong real estate market while it lasted. Earthmovers were parked along the curb or behind makeshift plywood barricades, quiet until dawn when, like it or not, the onslaught of noise would be your alarm clock. But there wasn’t any work in progress on West Tenth Street, and I’d been able to sleep most of the day, the shutters closed, the room almost as dark as if it were night. After breakfast, which would hold me until I got back home for a combination lunch and dinner, I’d walked the dogs, then worked on the rest of Clint’s commands. Now we were going to seam them together. With luck, he’d learn the routine he had to perform as quickly as he’d learned the individual pieces.
I left the cottage just after dark, heading for Little West Twelfth Street with Clint, who for a change was walking instead of being carried and who was not wearing his red leather coat. We moved quickly, going straight to Washington Street, avoiding the people walking their dogs or out to meet friends at the White Horse Tavern for a beer, soak up atmosphere, breathe in smoke, tell the story of their lives.
Passing Keller’s, I stopped to scoop Clint up and stuff him into my leather jacket, closing the zipper just enough to keep him from slipping out. I had his ball in one pocket, a flashlight in the other, the knotted string tied around my wrist, my knife in the waistband of my leggings. All in black, like a cat burglar, I climbed the tree I’d climbed before, walked gingerly across the roof, ape-style, talking to Clint as I went, approaching the skylight, then opening the knife and slipping the blade once again under the rusty metal rim until I could lift it and drop down inside. Once I was in, I took Clint out of my jacket, unhooked his leash, turned on the flashlight, and got to work.
We started at the farthest place he’d have to go, and with one of the toughest jobs, the lock. I attached the string to the hook, closed the toilet lid, and tapped it. Clint hopped up. There was already a hole in my great plan. I could wiggle the string and Clint would pull it. But from where he stood, he would be pulling the string down, forcing the hook tighter into the eye instead of loosening it. This project needed work and needed it fast. I took a good look at his body, measured the ledge with my eyes, and decided that if this was going to work, I’d have to take the chance of having him on the sill.
I called him off the toilet seat and watched him bounce down to the floor. Then I tore out of the bathroom, calling him to chase me around the upstairs offices of the empty building. That done, I started all over again.
This time, I lifted him up and put him on the sill. For a moment, he leaned against the dirty, frosted window and didn’t move. But when I told him to tug, he immediately picked up the string and yanked. However, instead of pulling up, he shook his head back and forth, as if he were trying to snap the neck of a small rodent. I praised him and called him off. This time he jumped from the sill to the closed toilet seat, then down to the floor, ready for another chase game. Instead, I tapped the seat, and once he’d backed up and made that jump, I tapped the sill. Clint put his paws on the sill and whined, but he was a game little dog. I tapped again; he barked once and made the jump.
This time I held the string so that the piece sticking out of my hand was over the hook. Clint cocked his head. The only way he could reach the end of the string was to stand on hi
s hind legs. “Take it,” I told him, an urgent whisper. “Take it.”
He stood. He pulled. On the third yank, the hook popped free and we ran around the old building until I could no longer breathe.
So far, so good. But once he got to Keller’s, there’d be no string, only the hook.
Clint was practically manic now. I tapped the seat, tapped the sill, and twice more he opened the hook that kept the window locked by tugging the knotted string up. Twice more I raved about his mental capacity, dazzling good looks, and remarkable courage, and twice more we raced through the dark, empty offices, me stopping and turning at the last minute so that he could catch me.
This time I untied the string, clicked the hook back into the eye, and with Clint on the floor, pointed at the hook and told him, “Take it.”
He hopped up on the seat, then onto the sill, and stood on his hind legs. He looked for the string and, not seeing it, turned back toward me, his head cocked. I lifted my right pointer, moved it toward the window, and tapped the center of the hook with my fingernail.
“Take it.”
Clint froze. I tapped once more, then withdrew my hand. For what seemed like ages, we stayed still in the dark bathroom, the flashlight sitting on the back of the john now, its beam shining on the hook and eye. Then Clint bent his head, grasped the hook with his teeth, and gave a pull, nearly falling off the sill when it popped up.
That’s when I heard it, a low scratching sound.
It stopped, then started again.
Mice in the walls?
Clint heard it, too. He let go of the hook and put his front paws down on the sill. I scratched his head; “Good boy,” I told him, tapping the open hook. But my concentration was elsewhere. So was his. The sound was getting closer.
Clint made a rumbling sound in his throat, and he was off. He hit the toilet seat with a loud thump and pushed off again immediately. I caught him in midair, pulling him close to my chest, zipping my jacket around him. I didn’t want him barking until I was absolutely sure what species was making the noise.
There it was again. Louder. Clint’s motor started, prelude to a bark. It felt like a vibrator against my chest. I put one finger over his muzzle to calm him, shut off the flashlight, and backed into the corner, holding my breath and listening.
For a moment there was nothing. Then it was back. Only, it wasn’t coming from inside the walls. It was coming from above. Someone was walking across the roof.
14
We Needed Time, and There Wasn’t Any
Holding on to Clint, I waited, listening to the creaking of the roof, realizing with a flash of heat in my gut that the skylight was propped up because I’d seen no reason to close it. No one could see it from inside the building, since I was the only one here. And it wasn’t visible from the street. Nonetheless, someone was up on the roof, and from that vantage point, you couldn’t miss it.
The creaking sound was heading across the roof, from front to back, the exact route I’d taken with Clint. And now, added to that, there was the sound of air coming out of a person more rapidly than normal, the way it does when you get socked in the stomach, or you fall, which is what had happened above me, since the oof was accompanied by a thump. And then a creaking sound moving toward where the thump came from. Two people on the roof. I zipped my jacket higher, hoping it would keep Clint from barking.
The creaking continued, a subtle sound. The people on the roof had taken off their shoes so that they wouldn’t be heard. Did that mean they knew someone was already in the building? As if they could miss that fact with the skylight gaping open.
Clint began to whine, his feet pushing against me as he tried to get free. The sound kept moving toward the back of the roof. I wondered if there was a closet I could hide in, or if I should go downstairs, if whoever was coming wouldn’t think to look in what used to be a refrigerator.
Didn’t that depend on who they were? And on why they’d come?
And then I heard something else, something familiar.
“Yoo-hoo, Rachel. You down there?” Loud.
And then not as loud, but certainly audible: “Shit, I ripped my panty hose. This no place for a lady to be crawling around. Where is that bitch? Chi Chi said she wasn’t home, she’d be here.”
Then loud: “Rachel, honey, it’s LaDonna and Jazzy. You down there? I ain’t jumping down there in the dark, you don’t say somethin’.” And more quietly: “What she doing in this hole, anyway? She lost her mind?”
“I’m here,” I shouted. I let Clint out of my jacket, turned on the flashlight, and walked to the back of the building, standing under the open skylight. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s Chi Chi,” Jasmine said, her dark hair falling over her face as she leaned down into the hole.
“What about Chi Chi?”
“Devon beat the shit out of her is what,” LaDonna said. “She home, and she need her dog.”
“How bad is it?”
“Bad. She need that dog now. He cut her off, she not getting much else.”
“Shit. He’s almost ready to get me into Keller’s. Can’t she manage without him for one more day?”
Jasmine rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t even ask if you saw her, honey.”
“Yes,” I said. “I would.”
She exhaled now, looking back at LaDonna.
“Back up, bitch. I’m coming down.” LaDonna swung her long legs over the side, her big feet shoeless, her stockings black and torn. I did as I was told, and there she was, looming over me, Clint at my side, barking.
“She way bad. Don’t you go giving me no lip, woman. She need her dog.” She bent to scoop up Clint, but he slipped away, barking at her from behind me now.
“She’s alive, isn’t she?” Me barking back, too.
“Shit.” From above. We both looked up.
“Our fault. Hire some wiseass, bigmouth private eye, thinks she knows everything, what’d we expect?”
“No. I don’t know nearly enough. That’s why I need Clint. Didn’t Chi Chi tell you what I’m doing with him?”
LaDonna shook her head. “She just said you took him and ran into Devon or something, then he comes and beats the crap out of her because you had the dog.”
“Why? Didn’t she tell him I was going to groom him?”
“You a groomer now?” LaDonna said. “What all don’t you do, girl?”
“No—that’s what Chi Chi told the other hookers. That was the cover story.”
“You don’t do no cover story with Devon. Devon don’t want no stories. He wants money.”
“Money? What does this have to do with money? You mean he thinks she gave me what should have been his to groom Clint?”
Jasmine sighed. “You slow as some of these old guys, come to the stroll because they can’t get it up at home, expect us to wave a wand, make them as hard as a sixteen-year-old again. They think my name is Vi-agra. Shit. Didn’t you look in his coat pocket? I thought you were a de-tec-tive.” She was pointing down at Clint with nails so long they curled back toward her palm.
Now it was my turn. “Shit.” I’d pulled the coat off him and tossed it onto a chair or the couch. I’d never even thought about checking the pocket.
“You can say that again, and not only that, Devon don’t want us talking to no outsiders.” Jasmine pointed down at me for emphasis, in case I hadn’t figured out exactly which outsider Devon was referring to. “He don’t want us getting any ideas. This girl Opal, she got her teeth knocked out for talking to a counselor.”
“It’s for our own good,” LaDonna said. “He take care of us. We listen to you, you going to see to our needs?”
I shook my head. “Look, can we call Chi Chi? I need two more days.”
“Impossible.”
“Okay,” I told Jasmine, “one more day. I’ll go in tomorrow night.”
“I mean impossible to call her. Her cell phone’s dead.”
“You mean another stolen cell phone got shut off?”
&nbs
p; Jasmine swung her legs over the side. LaDonna reached up and helped her down. “You have no call to talk like that.” She stood on her toes so that her face was close enough to mine that I could smell what she ate two weeks ago. Then she turned to LaDonna. “I told you we shouldn’t be hiring a white bitch. But you wouldn’t listen.” Hands on hips. “Not her fault. She just grew up that way, feeling entitled to talk down to people of color, because she is a superior being and we are nothing, zero, nada.”
“Oh, cut the—”
“Devon gives us phones so he can call us, make sure we’re okay.” In my face.
“Impressive,” I said. “A regular Mother Teresa. Now, will you two get the hell out of here so that I can finish training this dog? If I have to go in tomorrow, I have lots to do.”
“She say she want—”
“No. Tell her I said no. I’m trying to keep you three alive, do you understand? I’m trying to find out what you asked me to, who killed your friend Rosalinda, and in order to do my job, I have to get into Keller’s when they’re closed and see if I can find a connection between the two murders, Rosalinda and the butcher who was killed the same night.”
“Mulrooney,” LaDonna said.
“Yes.”
“You think that’ll help, finding out who killed him?”
“It might.”
“You think it’s the same person, killed Rosalinda and this Mulrooney?”
“It’s a good possibility.”
Jasmine reached down for Clint. LaDonna put her big hand in the way.
“Thank you. And be sure to tell Chi Chi I understand completely and I’ll work as fast as I can.”
LaDonna had turned the other way, but Jasmine was staring at me. Neither of them said a word.
“Unless you’ve changed your minds. Unless you want your money back. Unless you want to take your chances, bank on the fact that the two deaths were unconnected and that Rosalinda’s murder was something random, something that won’t happen again, not for maybe weeks, or even months.”
LaDonna opened her mouth, but it was Jasmine’s voice I heard.
“We didn’t say that. A deal’s a deal.”
The Long Good Boy Page 8