A group of volunteer ladies sitting behind a table just outside the hall were checking arrivals against several alphabetical lists. Suits predominated among the men, with a sprinkling of sports jackets and a few tuxedoes. The poor bastards wearing the tuxes probably had another function to attend later. Staten Island would stop functioning without its functions. Most of the women were wearing short, brightly colored dresses and enough jewelry to make the Pink Panther plan early retirement. I was wearing a mid-weight grey worsted wool single-breasted suit with peak lapels that set me apart from the notch-lapel herd, or so the guy at Barney’s told me. A dark blue silk tie was set off nicely by a light-pink pinstriped Charles Terwhitt shirt. My black hip holster didn’t match my tasseled cordovan loafers, but I didn’t think anyone would notice. I was feeling pretty good about myself and was almost through the door when one of the volunteers stopped me. Actually, apprehended is probably the better word.
“Pardon me sir, but we have to check your name off the list.”
She had to be at least 80 and spoke in that loud voice used by the hard of hearing. I explained that I was a guest of Ms. Robart and probably wasn’t on the list. She didn’t give any sign that she heard me.
“What’s your name?”
People looked our way. I should have kept walking, but it’s not easy to blow off a senior citizen whose gnarled hand is clamped around your jacket sleeve. So I told her. She went over to the appropriate list. She traced a bony finger down the sheet. Her other hand still had hold of me. I half expected her to pick up a ruler and whack me for not doing my homework.
“Randazzo, Randolph, Rendt, Richman, Riccio, Russell. Nope, no Road.”
“Not that it matters, ma’am,” I said. “but I spell my name R-h-o-d-e.”
“The only thing that matters, sonny, is that you’re not on the list, however it’s spelled.” She looked at me as if I was something on the bottom of her shoe. “You didn’t pay.” Loud. “Did you?” Louder. She looked at the other people in line and shook her head in abject disapproval and triumph.
“I said I’m a guest.” I had to raise my voice for her to hear me. “The ticket has been taken care of.” That didn’t go over well with some of the paying customers who had shelled out $100 each. Neither did yelling at someone who looked like the grandmother in a Norman Rockwell painting.
This went on for another minute and there was some grumbling from people in line behind me, who undoubtedly thought I was either a deadbeat or a senior molester. I reached in my pocket for money. It was better than being lynched. I was counting out some twenties when I was spotted by Fran and Bob Huber, who were just inside the door greeting arrivals. Fran is the Executive Director of Snug Harbor and one of the few people Nancy trusts. Bob is a journalist and we’ve always hit it off. Fran nudged him and he galloped to my rescue.
“It’s all right, Eloise,” he said. “Mr. Rhode is with us.”
Eloise looked dubious. Nobody had ever given her a freebie in her life. But she wasn’t done with me. She’d caught sight of the cash in my hand and whipped out a raffle book faster than Wyatt Earp on a good day.
“Well, then, the least you can do is buy a raffle ticket for a chance to win a cruise to the Bahamas?” I’m pretty sure people in Bayonne heard her. “It’s $5 for one, $25 for a whole book.”
I gave her $25.
“Darling,” I said. “Fill in your own name on the stubs.”
She looked startled. But now she had a freebie.
“Sorry about that,” Bob said, as we headed toward one of the four bars set up in the cavernous hall. “Nancy told me you were coming. Hell hath no fury like a volunteer who thinks someone is trying to cheat their not-for-profit. Eloise can be a pain, but her heart is in the right place.”
“As is her wallet, I presume.”
We had reached the bar.
“You’re a cynical bastard, Alton.” He looked at the bartender. “Two Beefeater martinis, straight up. The way I like them.”
That meant that the vermouth was only barely allowed in the same room.
“And, as usual, you are right,” he continued. “She is one of our biggest contributors and the Harbor is in her will.” He handed me my drink and raised his glass. “To Eloise.”
“She should be working security at JFK.”
“It’s the only job we can give her. We tried her as a docent, but her tours were a disaster. She knows her stuff, but people were suffering hearing damage during her spiels. Look, Fran is giving me the high sign. I’ll catch you later.”
I was content to hover near the bar and exterminate any hors d’oeuvres that entered my killing zone. Unlike some executive directors, Nancy fed her guests well at her events. Martha Stewart would have approved her selection of canapés. I was often tempted to replace a tray of Beef Wellington with a smuggled-in platter of pigs in a blanket just to see her reaction.
I looked around the room, which was filling up. I spotted a tall good-looking black man in a tuxedo who I recognized from news photos as Spencer Bradley, president of Wagner College. His selection the previous year to run the school, which had never had a black administrator and even today had few black professors, had been a surprise. He was quickly putting his own stamp on the college, even to the point of hiring non-educators to manage the educators. I’d been told that spurred considerable grumbling from entrenched professors. Which I thought placed Bradley firmly on the side of the angels.
CHAPTER 8 – HORS AND PEDERASTS
I was on my second martini when I spotted Nancy across the floor, near one of the other bars. She noticed me at the same time and waved. One bar is as good as another, I figured. When I got nearer I saw she was talking with Clive and Lucille Pendergast. Lucille was a nice lady, but lost her battle with Krispy Kremes a long time ago and nobody would have blamed Clive, a financial advisor, for stepping out on her or spending so much time on Botanical Garden business. But Clive, who was on the Executive Committee, liked to step out with underage boys. That was his secret, and ours. He’d never been convicted, or even charged, in New York, but I’d found a few nolo contendere deals he cut in Illinois, Ohio and Pennsylvania as he and the long-suffering Lucille made their way east.
“Well, if it isn’t Clive Pederast and the lovely Lucille,” I said.
Clive blanched and Nancy looked daggers at me at first, then suppressed a smile.
“It’s Pendergast,” Lucille said brightly.
She was blotto, as I knew she would be.
“That’s what I said.”
Clive’s color had returned but he was looking at me with suspicion. I tried to liven the conversation by asking him if had seen the latest Harry Potter movie and all that got was a kick in the shins from Nancy.
“Oh, we never go to the movies,” Lucille said. “Clive spends all his free time in the den on his computer, surfing the web.”
I filed that away. If I ever had to bring Clive down, evidence was probably only a hard drive away.
“C’mon Lucy,” Clive said quickly. “Let’s get something at the buffet table.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice.
“You’re a son of a bitch,” Nancy said when they’d left. “Are you going to spend the whole night insulting my board members?”
“Only the perverts on your exec committee.”
“Clive is the only real pervert in the group, and now he’s my pet pervert. And I keep him on a short leash. Votes my way any time I ask him.”
“How did you use the information I got for you?”
“I had to be subtle. He kept pressuring me about letting him manage our investment portfolio, or else.”
“Or else, what?”
“Or else he’d make sure I got a lousy performance review.”
“What did you do?”
“I told him that if he was so unhappy with me I could arrange for him to get on the board at the Snug Harbor Children’s Museum, which has a much bigger portfolio.” I waited for the punch line. “After all, I said, a ch
icken fucker like him would be perfect for the job.”
I laughed so hard people stared at us.
“If I’m a son of a bitch,” I said. “What are you?”
“Just a bitch. I’ve got to mingle. Why don’t you? But for God’s sake stay out of trouble.” She smiled. “I’ll make it worth your while later.” As she walked away she gave me what I hoped was a surreptitious pat on the ass.
I mingle well with two martinis in me, but with three I could qualify for the Olympic mingling team, so I ordered another. On the rocks this time, lest some of the academic blatherers begin to make sense. I started across the room assuming I’d eventually run into someone I knew or a hors d’oeuvre. I hadn’t gone very far when I approached a cluster of people standing around a waiter holding a tray. One of them was a woman who looked very familiar. She was staring at me. It had every indication of being a productive place to drop anchor. When I reached the group I recognized her. Alice Watts. She was still trying to place me.
“It can be hard to picture someone with clothes on,” I said.
That damn third martini. The others in the group, including the waiter, stared at me. But Alice laughed. It was a great laugh, unaffected and appreciative.
“You were the man in lane eight this morning, the one with the bullet holes.”
“You noticed?”
“Hard not to. My girls did, too. They thought you were dashing.” Dashing? “One of them said you looked like a bank robber.”
“I’m not sure how to take that.”
The laugh again.
“It’s a compliment. They all loved Johnny Depp in that Dillinger film. There is a slight resemblance, you know.”
“Alice. Who is this fellow?”
It was the man at her elbow.
“I’m sorry, Pierce. This is…”
She realized she didn’t know my name.
“Alton Rhode,” I said and held out my hand. “I met Ms. Watts this morning at the Wagner College pool.”
He hesitated but then gave me a perfunctory shake.
“Professor Lancaster,” he said, with the emphasis on ‘Professor.”
Pierce Lancaster? We both had parents who had a lot to answer for in the name game. He was dressed in jeans and a black shirt, over which he wore a grey woolen sports jacket with dark grey elbow patches. His flowing, but carefully coiffed, white locks spread to his collar. He was about 50 but trying to look younger.
The waiter who had been serving our little band ran out of his canapés and departed but was immediately replaced by another bearing a platter of shrimp the size of small lobsters. I took one happily. So did Alice Watts. I held mine up before biting into it.
“This must be genus oxymoron,” I said.
I was hoping to pass as an academic.
“What?” Lancaster said.
“He means that there is no such thing as a jumbo shrimp,” Alice Watts said.
“Well, Rhode,” Lancaster said archly, “what brings you to this soiree?”
“Cactus.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You know, those big green plants with the sharp spines? Apparently they have aphrodisiac effects and their spines may even be used in primitive, if admittedly painful, fertility rituals.”
“Where did you study? Are you an expert in the field?”
Taking into account that the shrimp remark went over his head, the fact that Lancaster didn’t even question the blarney I’d just spouted confirmed all I needed to know about him. I noticed Alice cover an incipient laugh with a cough.
“Actually, it’s more of an amateur avocation of mine that the Garden lets me indulge. I’m here as a guest of Nancy Robart.”
“Well, then, what do you do in real life?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“Indeed.”
It was said with just the right amount of condescension.
“Would that explain the bullet wounds?” Alice said.
“No.”
“Were you a police officer?”
“What happened to dashing bank robber?”
“I don’t think they can get a private eye license.”
“True. I was a cop, but emerged relatively unscathed. My wounds are more prosaic.” Prosaic? Who was I trying to impress? Alice or Professor Pain-in-the Ass? “I used to be in the reserves and I got called up. Forgot to duck.”
“Indeed,” Lancaster said. “Such are the wages of imperialism.”
I’d almost forgotten about Pierce. He didn’t like to be cut out of any conversation, even when he found it beneath him. I also got the impression that he did not like me talking to Alice Watts. Perhaps it was the two “indeeds” back to back. I was about to offer a witty riposte when Dr. Bradley walked over to join us. He knew everyone but me, so Alice made an introduction.
“He’s a private eye,” Lancaster said with a “heh, heh.”
To his credit, Bradley did not say, “indeed.” Instead he shook my hand firmly and mentioned that he was thinking about introducing a criminal justice curriculum at Wagner. What did I think of the idea? Lancaster looked deflated as Bradley and I chatted a few minutes.
“We have a mutual acquaintance, Dr. Bradley,” I said. “Dave Clapper.”
Might as well piss Lancaster off some more.
“Dave is doing a terrific job as my chief of staff,” Bradley said. “Don’t you agree, Pierce?”
It was obvious that Lancaster didn’t agree. He tried to change the subject.
“Do you carry a gun, shamus?”
The “shamus” was meant to be derogatory. I kind of liked the word.
“Always.”
“Even now?”
He raised his eyebrows and looked at Bradley for collegial condemnation. I looked around and spotted some executive board members.
“Especially now.”
Bradley had noticed my room survey and laughed. Lancaster looked confused. It was a good look for him. He had been asking all the questions. I decided to do some detecting of my own.
“How long have you been at Wagner College, Pierce?”
He didn’t like me using his first name. Which is why I did.
“I celebrate my 20th anniversary at the institution this year,” he said.
From the look Bradley gave him I’d bet he didn’t think that was a reason to celebrate.
“Excuse me,” Bradley said. “I see Nancy at the podium shushing the crowd. I believe it’s time to pay the piper. Alice, you are lovelier every time I see you.”
He walked to the podium where Nancy introduced him and explained that henceforth Wagner science students who interned at the botanical garden would now earn real college credits as part of the new alliance between the two entities. After appropriate applause, Bradley made a few remarks. More applause and then the both of them began working the room and everyone went back to drinking and eating.
“Sounds like a wonderful idea,” Alice said.
“Another Bradley brainstorm,” Lancaster sniffed. “Gardening 101.”
I’d just about had my fill of Professor Pierce.
“I don’t suppose you remember a student named William Capriati by any chance?”
He hesitated a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
“No.”
“Would have been at Wagner about 14 years ago.”
“I’ve had hundreds of students over the years. You can’t expect me to remember all of them.”
“He was on the wrestling team.”
“My classes don’t attract many jocks. What I teach is rather esoteric to the muscle-bound mentality.”
Alice Watts finished her wine and looked at him steadily.
“Pierce, will you get me another Sauvignon Blanc, please?”
It was obvious that he didn’t want to leave us together, but there wasn’t anything he could do. He went off without asking if I needed a refill. I watched him look for a bar with a short line, but they were all crowded. He’d be gone a while.
&n
bsp; “Nicely done,” I said to Alice Watts.
“How did you know my name,” she said.
“Coach DeRenzi told me.”
“You asked him?”
“Yes. Gave him quite a scare.”
“Why?”
I told her about the gender mixup.
“That’s priceless,” she said. “I must tease him about it. But why were you asking about me?”
“I wanted to call you and ask you to dinner. Meeting you here saves me the trouble.”
“You mean this counts as dinner?”
“I mean I don’t have to call you. Will you have dinner with me sometime? I’ve never dated a philosopher who could swim. We can discuss how many dolphins can fit through the eye of a needle.”
Over her shoulder I could see Pierce leaving the bar with two glasses. From the looks some of the other people in line gave him I’d bet he’d cut it in his haste to get back to us.
“You seem like a nice man, if a bit insane. What would Nancy say? You are with her tonight, aren’t you?”
“We’re just good friends. Known each other forever.”
“Ah. That explains the pat on the butt.”
So much for surreptitious. Alice Watts didn’t miss much.
“And I am also here with someone. We’re in a relationship, sort of.”
“Pierce the precious?”
“You don’t have to be snide. Pierce can be a little over the top on occasion. But he is an interesting man.”
“Do you think it would ruin the cocktail party if I took out my gun and shot myself?”
“With this crowd? I doubt it. But I think that would be an overreaction, don’t you? We’ve only just met. Besides, I said ‘sort of.’ I would have thought a detective would pick up on that.”
“I did,” I said, as Pierce hurried toward us, spilling some of their wine.
She smiled.
“Why were you asking Pierce about that student? Cap something?”
CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) Page 7