by Lisa King
Zeppo sat beside her. “We have to go to the police,” he said. “This is getting too scary.”
“We can’t. You know what’ll happen. They won’t believe us, and Hallock will run your fingerprints because you’re annoying him.”
He put his arms around her. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. It’s not worth it.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you either, including having your life ruined again.”
“But it would ruin my life if you got killed. I never had so much to lose before.” He kissed her gently. “Let’s not go out anymore. We’ll just stay here in bed and have food delivered. We’ll have to wash the sheets now and then, but we won’t need any clothes.”
“A nice idea, but not practical. I know—we’ll go to my Uncle Beau’s. He won’t be back for nearly a month. He’s a security nut. He has bars on the downstairs windows, an alarm, all that stuff. But the main reason to go there is Roman. As you saw, he’s pretty good protection.”
“That sounds OK.”
“We’ll go tomorrow.” She pulled him toward her. “Now where were we?”
Jean felt emotionally and physically battered from her fights with Peter and Diane and the car attack, and their lovemaking that night was as slow and tender as this afternoon’s had been hurried and rough. She was pleased at how well Zeppo could read her, and after only a day.
THE NEXT morning Jean put on jeans and a black T-shirt, packed some clothes, and poured the water out of the red vase so she could take her flowers along. When she opened the door a cardboard box fell into the room.
“What’s that?” Zeppo asked.
“Looks like a bottle of wine. We get a lot of them at work, of course, but every now and then someone sends one here. I’m in the phone book.” She put her flowers down, picked up the box, and read the return address. “Whoa. It’s from Treadway’s.” She took it into the kitchen and cut through the tape with a paring knife. Inside the Styrofoam casing was a bottle of 2003 Marcassin Vineyard Sonoma Coast Chardonnay. The label looked authentic—a black on white illustration of the sorceress Circe turning one of Odysseus’s men into a pig.
Jean pulled a piece of paper out of the box: “It says, ‘You’re the expert: Am I real?’ ”
“Or am I poisoned?” Zeppo said.
“Would he send me a bottle of poisoned wine with his name on it? He may be a wimp, but I don’t think he’s an idiot.”
“Would he send you evidence of his scam? Or a bottle worth $400?”
“It might be a bribe.”
“Even so, I don’t think we should drink it.”
Jean looked at it wistfully. “If it’s real, it’s incredibly delicious.”
“Hey, I know a bike messenger whose brother works at a lab. Let’s have him test it to see if it’s safe to drink. And maybe he could tell whether it’s real.”
“How much would it cost?”
“Beats me. Your magazine could pay.”
“What a great idea. Let’s bring it along.” She grabbed her flowers and locked up.
They only needed one car, so they dropped the Toyota at Wingo-Johansen’s office, then headed across town to Zeppo’s apartment, where Jean set the bottle of Chardonnay on the dinette table in the main room. He could deal with it later.
Zeppo pulled out a suitcase and tossed in a few books and CDs with his clothes.
Jean looked at his Van Gogh poster. “Now I know why you like these old blues singers and that other misunderstood redheaded Dutchman. Their problems were as bad as yours.”
“Something like that. They keep me from feeling sorry for myself.”
They went down to his garage, and Jean gazed at his bike while he put his things in the back of the Jag. “I suppose we shouldn’t go cycling anymore.”
“Not till this thing is over.”
“I’ll gain weight if I can’t ride,” she warned.
“Yeah, you’ll get so fat no other man will look at you, and then you’ll be all mine.”
Jean smiled, and he let her drive to Beau’s.
CHAPTER 31
“Uncle’s bedroom is ready for you,” Roman said as he let them in Beau’s front door. “When you get settled we’ll have lunch in the garden.”
Jean taught Zeppo how to work the alarm system and led him through the house, a beautifully restored period piece with fanciful moldings and high ceilings. Most of the furniture and art was Russian, and the upholstery and rugs were in shades of deep red and gray. Nearly every room was lined with overflowing bookshelves.
They hauled their bags up the stairs to a bedroom at the back of the house. A big bed with a carved wooden headboard dominated the room. A collection of malachite eggs and Russian lacquer boxes sat on the dresser. Jean filled the red vase with water, added the flowers, and set it next to the eggs.
“I better tell Hannah where I am,” Zeppo said. He took out his cell phone and punched buttons. “Hi, it’s me. I wanted to let you know I’ll be staying at Jean’s uncle’s house for a while, with her.” He smiled, and she heard the affection in his voice. “Oh sure. I’m retaining my identity and free will, but just barely.” He winked at Jean, then laughed at something Hannah said. “Don’t worry so much. I’m having a great time.” He said goodbye.
“So you don’t tell her everything,” Jean said.
“She worries enough as it is. I’ll tell her all about it once it’s over.”
The leather-topped end table beside the bed held a phone and a small wrapped box with a bow on it. “This must be from Roman,” Jean said, picking it up and tearing off the paper. “Condoms. Definitely from Roman.”
Zeppo looked over. “Doesn’t he think we’re being good?”
“He wants to make sure. He’s a real crusader for safe sex. Half the people he knows have died of AIDS.”
“Is he HIV positive?”
“No, thank God, and in a way that’s part of his problem. He did everything his friends did back in the day—went to the baths, had lots of different partners—but now so many of them are sick or dead and he’s not. Logically, he should be dead, too, or at least positive, and he can’t figure out why he isn’t. He’s suffering from survivor’s guilt, like some Holocaust victims who walked out of the camps and went on with life.”
“Jeez, I never thought about that.”
“Back in 2006 he lost Perry, a man he really loved. Then last year he took care of Chris, one of his old lovers, who died here at his house. Roman’s so down about all of it that he’s been celibate for months. It’s good for him to have us here, to get his mind on other things. Come on, let’s go see him.”
The table in the garden was set for three. Roman came out of his house carrying a tray of sandwich materials. The sun overhead made the garden warm and fragrant despite the cool breeze.
“Thanks for letting us come over,” Jean said as they constructed sandwiches. On the phone that morning she’d told him about their narrow escape.
Roman poured himself mineral water. “So now Rivenbark’s trying to kill you in the city. Why don’t I go have a word with him?”
“No, Roman, stay away from him,” Jean said. “He’s not just some random goon like Felix—he’s a famous writer. You’ll get into trouble and they’ll connect you with Zeppo, and then you’ll be in jail and he’ll be on the front page.”
Zeppo looked at her with alarm. “Jeannie!” he exclaimed.
“Don’t worry,” Roman said. “She hasn’t told me a thing, only that you can’t go to the police because of your deep, dark secret.”
“Oh. OK.” Zeppo settled down.
“Here’s a piece of advice, if it’s not too late. If you want to hold her interest, don’t tell her all about it right away. Ration it out, like Scheherazade. She loves a good mystery.”
“Zeppo’s keeping me very interested,” Jean said. “There are things I love even more than a good mystery.”
“Tell me, Zeppo,” Roman said. “How are you holding up against the demands of Jean’s insa
tiable lust?”
Zeppo sighed. “OK, I guess, but it’s not easy. She treats me like a piece of meat.”
“Get used to it, my friend,” Roman said. “That’s all a man can ever be to her.”
“Well, Roman, how would you treat a man who gets a hard-on if you wink at him?”
“Like the rare and wonderful creature he is.” He had a bite of his sandwich. “OK, back to business. I took another look at Home to Greenwood after you told me about Rivenbark’s wife. If Esther did indeed write it, she did a remarkable job of mimicking his style, but in a richer, more fully realized story. It’s a shame she never published anything in her own style.”
“We’ve got a plan to discourage him from coming after us again,” Zeppo said. “I’m going to tell him I scanned the manuscript, and if either of us gets hurt it’s public.”
Roman nodded. “That sounds reasonable, but you’d better do it soon.”
“I want to see a sample of Esther’s handwriting first,” Zeppo said. “Meanwhile, we talk to Frank Johansen today at three o’clock at his office.”
“I’ll drive you down so I can watch your backs,” Roman said.
“Thanks,” Jean said. “I was going to ask if you would. And Zeppo, don’t mention Rivenbark to Frank—he’ll believe whatever Diane tells him anyway.”
There was a knock at the gate and Zeppo got up to answer it. “Who is it?”
“Just little old me,” said a familiar voice of indeterminate gender. “I’m here to see the hairiest queer in captivity.”
Roman and Jean smiled at each other. “It’s OK, Zeppo,” Roman said. “Let him in.”
Zeppo opened the gate to admit a slender man with shoulder-length platinum blond hair. His lime-green T-shirt and black capris were tight, and he wore zebra-print mules. He’d plucked his eyebrows into thin arching lines, and his lipstick and nails were red. In spite of his clothes, his form was unmistakably male.
“Hello, big boy,” he said, looking up at Zeppo. “Who do you belong to?”
“I . . . uh . . .”
Jean got up and came to Zeppo’s rescue, taking his arm.
“Well, if it isn’t Jean ‘The Body’ Applequist. How are you, sweetheart?” The man gave her a kiss.
“Hi, Lou,” Jean said. “This is my friend Zeppo. Zeppo, Lou Kasden.”
“Pleased to meet you.” They shook hands.
“Would you like a sandwich?” Roman asked.
“No thanks.” He took a seat under the big tree. “I’ve got to watch my slim girlish figure.” Lou watched Zeppo sit back down at the table and pick up his sandwich. “Zeppo, honey, I’ll bet you can eat anything you want.”
“Pretty much,” Zeppo said.
“Lucky boy.” Lou glanced at Zeppo’s Adidas. “What size shoe do you wear?”
Zeppo grinned. “Thirteen and a half, same as Larry Bird.”
“Mother of God. Tell me, Jean, does the old rule of thumb apply here?”
“That all his extremities are proportionate? Yep.”
“And red body hair, too. You’re sure he’s straight?”
“Pretty sure,” she said. Zeppo blushed, but she could tell he was amused.
“If he’s making Jean happy, you don’t have a chance, Lou,” Roman said.
“You can’t blame a girl for trying.”
“Lou, should he grow his hair out?” Jean asked.
“Definitely. Lose the glasses, get a Kenny G ‘do. I assume the braces aren’t permanent.”
“God, I hope not,” Zeppo said.
“Well then, he should be quite presentable by the time he reaches the age of consent.”
“Let’s see the new pamphlet, Lou,” Roman said, chuckling.
Lou reached into his lime-green patent leather purse and brought out a glossy black pamphlet with a purple Bash Back logo on it.
Jean took it and unfolded it. Inside were listings for Bash Back self-defense classes and numbers to call for people who’d been assaulted or needed legal help. She handed it to Zeppo.
“It looks good,” he said. “What’s it for?”
“Those of us who are too dainty to patrol are going to hand them out at the Gay Freedom Day parade in June,” Lou said. “We always get a lot of interest after big events like that.”
“What kind of patrol?” Zeppo said.
“On Halloween, New Year’s Eve, and other occasions when rednecks come to the city to beat up queers, Bash Back patrols the Castro and Polk Street areas,” Lou said. “Lord help anybody they catch in the act.”
“So you don’t have to be a tough guy like Roman to join?” Zeppo said.
“Not at all. I joined because I’m a satisfied customer. After the parade four years ago, three cholos cornered me in an alley. I was terrified. I thought I’d never play the skin flute again. But then two bruisers in black and purple T-shirts came into the alley and the big furry one said something very rude in Spanish—that was Roman. The next thing I knew Roman and his friend were stomping the cholos.” He grinned. “I’m sure those boys never told anyone who did it. Now I always have one of the bruisers walk me home.”
“We’re a full-service organization,” Roman said.
“Lou,” Jean said, “before I forget, I have a pair of shoes for you.” She went into the house and got the high heels out of her suitcase.
Lou took them from her. “Oh, how nice,” he said. “Fuckme pumps. And nearly new. Why would you give these away?”
“I fall down when I wear them. I can’t walk in high heels.”
“She’s more of a round-heeled kind of gal,” Roman said. Jean stuck her tongue out at him.
Lou slipped off a mule and put on one of the heels. “A perfect fit. Thanks, Jean.” He put the shoes into his big purse. “Well, I’ve got to run. I’m designing a website for my friend who owns the fetish boutique. She’s going to try online sales with some of her exclusive items. Victoria’s Secret just doesn’t meet everyone’s needs.”
“What a good idea,” Roman said. “Now the people in North Dakota can have rubber merry widows in men’s sizes.”
“See you all later.” Lou headed out the gate.
When everyone had finished eating, Roman took the pamphlet into his office, while Jean and Zeppo carried the lunch things back to Roman’s kitchen and worked on the dishes.
“I’m glad you get along with those two,” Jean said. “Lou makes a lot of straight men nervous. And if Roman detects any ambivalence in the way you feel about him, he gets nasty.”
“Don’t worry—one thing the loony bin did was make me a lot more tolerant of harmless deviants. Although Roman’s not exactly harmless, is he?”
“Not exactly.”
When they’d finished cleaning up, Zeppo phoned the bookstore in Mendocino and Jean listened on the extension.
“Hi, this is Zeppo,” he said when Edward answered. “I have a weird request.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I need to see what Esther’s handwriting looked like. I can’t say why, but I promise I’ll tell you in a couple of days. Could you please fax me a sample?”
Edward hesitated. “What does this have to do with Martin’s death?”
“We don’t know for sure, but it may help answer some questions.”
After a moment, he said, “OK, I guess I can do that. Good luck reading it—Esther’s handwriting was awful.”
Zeppo gave him Roman’s fax number, and in about ten minutes they heard Roman’s fax come to life and start printing.
Jean looked over Zeppo’s shoulder as he examined the sheet with Esther’s writing. It was part of a letter to Edward, about visiting a friend and going for a hike. The writing was large, loopy, and very hard to read.
“Bingo,” Zeppo said. “This is exactly like the writing from the manuscript. OK, let’s call Big Hugh.” Back in the living room, Zeppo dialed as Jean picked up the extension just as Hugh answered.
“Hello, Hugh. This is Zeppo.”
“Zeppo! Good to hear from you.”
“I’m glad you think so. I wanted to run something by you.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“When Martin gave me your manuscript to send back, I was intrigued, because I couldn’t figure out why he kept it. Well, I just figured it out.”
“What are you saying?” Hugh’s voice had lost its warmth.
“I saw your handwriting on the wedding card you sent to Martin, and I have a sample of Esther’s handwriting. I know who wrote Home to Greenwood.”
Hugh chuckled. “Very well, I confess: I dictated it to her.”
“I don’t think so. Martin would never have bothered with something that was just embarrassing. He only saved really prime dirt. And you’re always saying that you wrote every book by hand. You want to spend the rest of your life explaining this?”
“I have nothing to explain because you don’t have the manuscript.”
“True, but as it happens I took the precaution of scanning it onto a thumb drive before I sent it to you.”
There was a long silence. “What do you want?”
“I know you pushed Martin off that boat, but I’ll never be able to prove it. Just stay away from us.”
“First you accuse me of attempted murder and then you insult my intelligence. This is nothing more than a prelude to blackmail. You’re obviously taking up where Martin left off.”
“I give you my word I’m not,” Zeppo said.
“Then you’re a blundering moron,” Hugh said angrily. “Threatening me is the biggest mistake you’ve ever made.”
“Now wait a minute—”
Hugh hung up.
CHAPTER 32
Zeppo hung up, too, and looked at Jean. “Not exactly the response we wanted.”