She shook her head. “Andrew hardly ever. Sid Kightlinger not at all. And we’re not supposed to be talking. That’s Kalos coming.”
I watched him make his way down the beach. Seemingly anesthetized to cold, he wore the briefest of swim briefs. Middling height. A trim body. A mop of snowy-white hair. According to the record he’d be well into his sixties now. From the neck up he looked it. From the neck down he could have passed for twenty years less.
He stopped on the tideline directly ahead and faced the east, water foaming over his ankles. A sliver of sun showed over the horizon, grew larger. Daskalos turned to confront us. He raised his arms high over his head. “Adore this rebirth! Adore the light it brings! Adore the life it brings!” A deep commanding voice, although gusts of wind gave it a quavering effect.
Head back, he lowered his arms, holding them wide, making himself into a living cross. The sun continued to rise, as it will, and he continued to hold that position. It was a brutal position to hold. Bone-cracking.
The waves boomed and hissed. A flock of gulls appeared, dipped over the water, settled on the shore. A gust of wind whipped Maggie’s hair across my face. She grabbed the hair to hold it in place and mouthed “Sorry” at me. Calderon moved into my line of vision. He stood on the top step of the stairway now, watching the scene below with unblinking fascination, his fists slowly knotting and unknowing at his sides.
As the sun cleared the horizon Daskalos came to life again. “I am sent to guide you on The Path. Enter it—hold to it—and find peace.” He extended his arms in benediction. “Peace.”
That was it.
When I looked around, Calderon was gone. The two couples in the semicircle made their way up the stairs homeward bound. Sharon slipped on her sandals and followed. She came over to Maggie and me. If the good teacher had brought her peace, it didn’t show on her face. She said to me, “Will you talk to him, Johnny? I think that’s what he’s waiting for.”
He was obviously waiting for something, standing on the water’s edge looking our way. Maggie muttered to me, “Hang on to your hat, friend, you’re going for a wild ride.” She hooked an arm through Sharon’s, and they headed for Quist in his chair. I went down to the bottom step and decided against sticking my shoes into that sand. Daskalos took notice of this and walked toward me. It was even windier at this level than up above. I turned up my collar against the gusts and thrust my hands into my pockets for warmth. Also to indicate that I was not in a handshaking mood.
Daskalos didn’t offer to shake hands. He said with a gracious dip of the head, “John Milano,” and I said, “Walter Kondracki.”
“I was,” he acknowledged unperturbed. “And in that form a liar, thief, and swindler. And in that form long dead.”
“Sorry I couldn’t make it to the services. Anyhow, word is out that you’re scheduled for another death very soon. You know I’m here to prevent that. If possible.”
He casually dismissed the possibility. “Nothing can prevent it. We must die an infinite number of deaths. But each death only means the release of the spirit into new flesh. And the new flesh, kindled by that spirit, may move all the more quickly along The Path.”
“Beautiful,” I said. “But no matter what sweet music you play on your sitar, teacher, angels are not being sent to snatch you away. Someone on the premises seems to have that job in mind.”
“A servant of the angelic,” Daskalos said.
“Or,” I said, “could it be the ghost of Walter Kondracki playing games for some mysterious reason?”
“No, it could not.” He looked at me, all compassion. “Are you really so afraid of death, John Milano, that you can’t comprehend my not fearing it? Or my welcoming it?”
I said, “Look. I’m willing to address you by any alias you pick. I’m also willing, since I’m being paid for it, to try and keep you out of the county morgue. Beyond that, venerable one, get it into your head that I’m not in the market for your merchandise. If you can do that, it’ll make life much easier for both of us.”
“Will it? But why do you say you’ll address me as Daskalos and yet seem to be addressing me as Kondracki?”
According to prescription I counted to ten before speaking. Then I said, “You son of a bitch, do you really expect me to forget who was on that long-distance line to England every day for two weeks? And what came of it?”
“Sharon made those calls, John Milano. She was entering The Path and saw that her arrangement with you might defile her. That it might be an obstacle in her way. Any such arrangement outside marriage is a defilement.”
“I see. And her marriage to Quist was an act of purification. By the way, what was your rakeoff for playing Cupid, Daskalos?”
“A sense of rightness,” he said unruffled. “Nothing more.”
I said, “You just stick to that story as long as you can. Meanwhile, if you haven’t been sending yourself threatening notes, I’d advise you to pack up your extra loincloth and get away from here fast. You understand I’m advising that in my professional capacity. In any other capacity I’d be delighted to just stand by and watch things happen.”
“My death must happen. I welcome it. Believe that.”
“We’re talking about death by violence, Daskalos.”
“Yes. And death by violence is always the end for the chosen one. A necessary sacrifice.”
I said, “Let me get this straight. You are the chosen one?”
“I am. And when my mortal body is destroyed by an act of violence, as it must be, my immortal spirit enters another, and refreshed, again becomes the divine guide to The Path.” He smiled at me beatifically. “Jesus Christ gave witness to this, John Milano. He was one of my manifestations.”
The wind cut through my jacket and sweater. Sand stung my face. I consoled myself with the thought that this was still not as cold as the corner of Broad and Wall and that the smooth case I confronted was, unlike Hennig the avaricious fence, not packing a gun.
Enough was enough. I said, “It’s always nice to meet one of the Holy Family, Daskalos. But getting down to cases, is there anyone around here who’d have some special reason for wanting to knock you off?”
“Please.” There was a hint of impatience in it. “Even if I could name the one sent to end my present life, do you really believe I would do so? And defeat his necessary mission?”
He left me with that. And considering it must have been the same line he had handed Quist when first urged to be on his way, it left me with a fascinating picture of the confrontation between them. Especially that moment when Quist was informed that his now-unwelcome guest was, in fact, the most recent manifestation on earth of Our Lord.
Inside the entrance to the main building was a table bearing what appeared to be a shopworn silver punch bowl. Inside the bowl was a large assortment of mail which Araujo was thumbing through, piece by piece. He explained to me that further notes to Mr. Daskalos might be forthcoming, right? And much as he disliked getting this close to people’s private affairs he felt it wise to check on the nature of each envelope as soon as the morning delivery was made. Too bad, but it couldn’t be helped.
He took a long, roundabout way of explaining it, but I suffered no boredom, because at the elevator across the lobby a little scene was being played out by Sharon and Calderon. He, her fur coat slung over his arm, was talking intently. She, head down in reflection, was taking it in soberly. Then, in what might be interpreted as camaraderie by a clean-minded spectator, he casually slipped his free arm around her waist. She seemed unaware of it. That ground having been won, he lowered his hand and openly fondled her rump. She pulled sharply away, he contemptuously tossed her coat at her feet, stepped into the elevator and ascended out of sight.
Cut and print.
Araujo, who might otherwise have been entertained by this, was deep in the punch bowl. I gave him a polite goodby and strolled over to Sharon as she gathered up the coat. “You saw that, didn’t you?” she said. She seemed more hurt than angry.
I said that, yes, I had seen it.
“Did Virgilio?” The possibility seemed to worry her.
I said, no, I didn’t think he had. I pushed the elevator button and the dial over the door slowly pivoted from II to I. I said, “I hear you plan to make a picture with Calderon.”
“It’s not settled yet, Johnny.”
“But if it does get settled, won’t you mind having that stud all over you while it’s being shot? You’ve already been through that.”
She said defensively, “But nothing happened between us. And he’s very supportive on the set. I need that.”
He had been supportive. I had been supportive. Quist and Maggie Riley were supportive. Why not? Whenever one of her films had been released, a few million people—including ax-murderers, used-car salesmen, and politicians—sat in the dark, and as soon as she turned that face toward them, opened those lips and huskily spoke her first lines, they became instantly and passionately supportive. Who were we to be immune?
I said, “What were you doing here with Calderon anyhow? Don’t you live over on the next block?”
“I was going up to your apartment and wait for you. I have to talk to you.”
“We are talking.”
“Not here,” said Sharon. “Please.” It was the kind of please that drove the ax-murderers, used car salesmen, and politicians right out of their minds.
My sitting room was thick with smoke. A quickly aborted fire had been started in the fireplace—wads of newspaper, a few sticks of kindling, a log laid over them—but the chimney damper was closed. I opened the damper, opened windows to let in salty gusts, while Sharon, handkerchief to nose, explained that she had told the boy to get fires going in the occupied apartments, but that he, like the rest of the present staff, was a temporary. She supposed he didn’t know much about fireplaces.
“Pablo?” I said as we moved to the bedroom where the air was breathable. “Pretty as a picture?”
“I don’t know their names. The new ones, I mean. But he was pretty, all right.”
She sat on the edge of the freshly made-up bed, coat draped over her shoulders, while I switched from sandy clothing to fresh. She said, “I have to talk to you about Kalos first. You’ve met him now. What do you think of him?”
“I told you long ago what I thought of him. Nothing’s changed.”
“Something has, Johnny. I guess I have.”
She hit me with that while I was unbuttoning my shirt. The button came off in my fingers. “Changed how?”
“About The Path.” She clenched her fists and pressed them together hard, the knuckles whitening. “I don’t think I can believe in it anymore. Anyhow, not for me.”
“You sure looked like a true believer out on the beach.”
“I don’t feel like one. If I hold to The Path I’m supposed to be happy. But I’m not.”
“Do you and Andrew have a sex life going?”
“Yes, of course. It isn’t that. The trouble isn’t Andrew. And it isn’t Kalos. It’s me.” She leaned forward toward me and said with slow emphasis: “I am trying to hold to The Path but I am not happy.”
“Who is?” I asked rhetorically, but she had an answer all ready. “When we were together in England—after you got rid of Frankie Kurtz—I was. And you were.”
“Sharon, that was three long years ago.”
“I wrote you about it last summer, and that wasn’t three long years ago. And you sent that letter back without even opening it. I wrote you Christmastime, and you sent that one back the same way. Why didn’t you read those letters, Johnny?”
“I didn’t have to, to know what was in them.” I realized I was holding the shirt button. I tossed it on the dresser, pulled off the shirt. Sure enough, there was sand inside the collar. I busied myself putting on a fresh shirt.
Sharon watched me go through this. Then she said, “You couldn’t have known everything in them. Not the important parts.”
“Such as?”
“Well, that I wanted to go to New York and see you. And if it worked out, I wouldn’t even come back here anymore.”
“It wouldn’t have worked out.”
“Why not?”
“Because what’s involved this time is not any pimping ten-percenter like Frankie Kurtz. It happens to be a highly respectable, obviously devoted husband. You’ve already played him dirty by getting me down here on his money. But at least I’m here on business. So we’ll stick to business.”
“Johnny—”
“No. Strictly business. Like, for instance, how you felt about that dog Rufus. Loved him dearly? Couldn’t stand him? Indifferent?”
She looked puzzled. “What’s he got to do with it?”
“Think it over. You were the one who discovered the bleeding remains. Now, what was it brought you to Quist’s office at that time? When nobody was there.”
It took her a few moments to catch on. Then she said incredulously, “Do you think I killed that dog? That I wrote those notes?”
“No. But there’s certainly a case to be made for it.”
“A case? What case?”
I said, “Consider the evidence. You were the only one at the scene of the crime about the time it happened. The typewriter and paper, and for that matter, the carving knife were readily available to you. As for motive, Daskalos has his hooks into you, and you just admitted that you’re trying to pull loose.”
“No, I didn’t. Not that way. And what do you mean, he has his hooks into me?”
“You tell him everything, don’t you? You always did. Every intimate detail of your life. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. Sooner or later you had to realize you put him in the same happy spot Frankie Kurtz was in. That he could blackmail you silly.”
She said hotly, “He’s a priest just like the one in your kind of church. Does your priest go around blackmailing people because they tell him everything?”
“That’s an interesting comparison,” I said. “All the same, if any hard-boiled cop added up what’s going on here, he’d do a lot of heavy eyebrow-raising about you.”
“That doesn’t matter as long as you know I’m not mixed up in it. And you do know it.”
“Yes. Which is why I suspect somebody may have set you up for these crude deductions.”
She dragged the coat around her as if she suddenly felt a chill. “Who’d want to do that?”
I said, “How about Maggie Riley?” and when she seemed tongue-tied with disbelief I said, “Face it. She’s had the same opportunities as you to pull off these Halloween tricks. And she’d have a solid motive for getting you into serious trouble with your husband.”
“Maggie? What motive?”
“She was the lady of the house until you showed up. And for all she comes on so strong about never having screwed around with Quist, about having no interest in the prospects, that’s highly arguable. Fact is, if she could make you a public embarrassment to him, she’d have plenty to gain, nothing at all to lose.”
“Oh, man,” Sharon said. “Johnny, haven’t you been talking to her? Don’t you know anything at all about her?”
“I thought I did. What don’t I know?”
“For starters, that she was already married when I came here.”
“I didn’t see any wedding ring.”
“All right,” Sharon said impatiently, “she wasn’t married married. But she was housekeeping with this guy. Donnie Maxwell. Taught art over at Miami University. Nicest guy you could meet. And they really made it together. Then last year, just about this time, he died. Just like that. Liver cancer.”
“She never mentioned it.”
“What did she talk about? Her book?”
“Only that she’s writing one. I have a hunch the details will come as soon as she can pin me down.”
“And she will,” Sharon said. “She is really strung out on that book. That’s how she started making it with Donnie. She got him high on that book too, and next thing the
y were both working on it together. But that’s only part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
“She’s leaving here next month. She told me she put in for a foundation grant—the Lucas Foundation up in Boston—and it looks pretty sure she’ll get it. To finish the book. She’ll be in Europe two or three’ years at it. So screwing around with Andrew is sure as hell not on her mind. Or getting rid of me.”
“I guess not.”
Sharon got up and came over to me. She placed a hand on my chest and said pleadingly, “Kalos isn’t behind this either, Johnny. Killing that dog was cruel. Those on The Path can’t be cruel.”
I said, “Your guru is a hustler. And hustlers have to be cruel or they’re out of business. What I will admit is that I can’t lay any motive on him for making trouble here. Nothing to gain in cash, credit, or coupons—which, no matter how you see it, is what he plays for. So we can sideline him as an entry, along with Maggie.”
“And me,” Sharon said drily.
“And you. But that setup theory might still apply. You were led for some reason to walk into that office right after the dog was killed, which is how these things are worked. First one on the scene. Now, if you were brought there by a phone call, whoever made that call—”
“But I wasn’t. I mean, no phone call.” She seemed flurried. “I went in to see Andrew. I didn’t know he was gone already.”
“You’re sure of that? God’ll get you if you’re covering up for somebody.”
“I’m not.” She tried a smile. “No phone call. I’m sorry.”
“It’s too late to be sorry about it now,” I said.
She dutifully went off to share breakfast with her husband in their apartment; I found my way to the dining room, which turned out to be just the right size and temperature for a hockey game. It offered a sideboard with the usual breakfast stuff laid on, and a long refectory table with highbacked, overstuffed armchairs like thrones drawn up to it. Lost in this vastness, two couples sat facing each other across the table. On one side, the short plump Scott and Belle Rountree, screenwriter and spouse; on the other, the tall skeletal Lou Hoffman and Holly Lee Otis, screen director and bunkmate.
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