All But a Pleasure

by Phyllis Ann Karr

  “On what we’ve got right now, Judge Farquhar would sign a search warrant for Imani’s house and grounds in a heartbeat. Osaka’s and Friedman’s, too.”

  “Congratulations, Detective, you have already grasped the point I’ve been trying in my bumbling sidekick way to get across to you.”

  That gave him pause, but just for a moment. “We could search Naismith’s premises any time we want. Strong evidence of an illegal business.”

  “Which we’ve known about for years, and been letting slide because the floater hasn’t caused another infection in decades, and what happened before that, when he was in some other jurisdiction, we’ve figured is between him and the International Association of Body Artists. Search his place now, out of the blue, and we telegraph a warning to the other tattoo artists in town. After which we might as well forget about searching their premises. No. Either we get enough general grounds to search all three at once, or we get really specific grounds—present, here and now grounds—for zeroing in on just one.”

  “Good plan, Sarge, as soon as we figure out how we’re going to pull it off. Sam Imani,” Dave mused on, his voice going soft and introspective. “…Paul…Curly…how many others, I wonder…”

  “You can fold the map up and drive on to Dupont and O’Toole’s now.”

  Refolding the map, he gave a sudden jerk so hard the paper tore a few centimeters. Then he relaxed, shaking his head and grinning. “Naw. She can’t know a darn thing about it. Of course not!”

  His Julie, he obviously meant. His Julie of the catered lunch. Lestrade decided this wasn’t the time to remind him that good detectives never ruled anything out, and they drove on to Dupont and O’Toole’s.

  Where nobody was at home except the dog Pango and a by-the-day groundskeeper who told them the owners were up in Milwaukee for an IABA convention, but should be back by late tonight.

  * * * *

  caterina is prowling in the dark there are no mice she finds a spider to play with ching ching ching the telephone makes its noise ching ching ching it is loud in the quiet ching ching ching both the telephones sound the noise ching ching ching the one here and the one where her human sleeps ching ching ching humans are so strange about sleeping ching ching ching he lies down on a special soft thing humans call a bed ching ching ching and sleeps from when it is still dark to when it is bright for half the day ching ching ching he does not sleep in little naps and wake up often when he is on his bed ching ching ching with his head on a softer thing that they call a pillow ching ching ching and sheets and blankets up to his big human chin ching ching ching so that if he is not clever when he throws them aside ching ching ching they tangle when he gets up ching ching ching caterina pads into the room where he is stretched out on his bed ching ching ching she sits and watches the telephone ching ching ching it does not move while it makes its sound ching ching ching she leaps up onto the bed ching ching ching and pats his long human nose with a velvet paw ching ching ching pat pat pat ching ching ching pat pat pat ching ching ching and he stirs a little but he does not wake now the telephone goes quiet humans sleep too hard how do they survive she thinks evermore sleeps like that too in his high cage with the cover over it but she is not to eat evermore her human gives her nice things to eat but he is sleeping very very hard caterina curls up to his chest and feels it going up and down and up and down and listens to him breathe it is so soft and nice she naps a little and wakes up and hops down off the bed to prowl again for mice there are no mice but maybe another spider and a sip of water from her bowl and a nibble from her other bowl

  * * * *

  “But he said to phone any time of the day or night,” Angela told Aunt Sally, “and this is even the time of night he’s usually still awake.”

  “Well, dear, his usual pattern could be off a little. Apparently he wore himself out yesterday worrying about us. He may have taken a sleeping pill and gone to bed early.”

  Angela said, “I hope you’re right. And this is good news—Barb in a regular hospital room and they think they’ll be able to pronounce Dad out of danger and move him to a regular room, too. So maybe it doesn’t quite fit the conditions when I’m supposed to call him day or night, only…”

  “Angie, dear, you should get a little sleep yourself. Let me drive you to the inn.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right, Aunt Sally. We both need…a few hours of sleep.”

  She only hoped, as Aunt Sally led her away, that she could get it.

  CHAPTER 19

  Tuesday, October 3

  it is daylight now caterina curls up on the bed beside her human ching ching ching the telephone makes its noise ching ching ching she lifts her head and listens ching ching ching she gets up and pad-pads on the springy bed ching ching ching and puts out a velvet paw and taps his nose ching ching ching pat pat pat ching ching ching pat pat pat and he wakes up and turns and gropes for the telephone but it has stopped making its noise but he gets it into his hand anyway and tells it hello hello hello and then he puts it back and says i thought it was chiming i must have dreamed it i must want so intensely to hear her voice that i dreamed it and it is too late now but i should have liked to hear her voice once more and he yawns and stretches and strokes caterina his hand trembles a little on her fur it is early for him to get up he says allow me to slumber on and dream again and he lies back down and turns and twists and groans and twists and sighs and get up

  * * * *

  “And he still doesn’t answer!” Angela cried. “It’s oh nine thirty—even if he took a sleeping pill last night, it should have worn off enough by now, the phone should wake him up. He has to be in Arnheim! Where does Cory ever go at oh nine thirty hours? Aunt Sally, Dad’s officially out of danger now. I’m going to fly home right away.”

  * * * *

  After getting off her 1600 to 2200 shift, Julie had come home, taken her own sleeping pill, and caught her full eight hours, then showered, swallowed toast and coffee, and gone with the fasting Paul to Sam’s. Curly had already arrived.

  It was their second emergency planning session in two days. Yesterday afternoon’s had accomplished little except speculation, worry, and the outline for this afternoon’s special meeting. Paul, who was next in rotation, would share penitent duty with their new initiate.

  “Though I’m still not sure we really want to go ahead with this for a while,” Paul repeated. “Not with the pollies knowing about the tattoo.”

  “Yeah,” Curly said in an unusually neutral voice. “You really sure your Dave floater never noticed yours, Julie?”

  Julie had been asking herself the same question several times an hour since yesterday morning. Now she replied, “No, I really don’t think he could have. It’s so well incorporated into the dragon design. And then the shock of finding that poor young body—I think it just drove…other things…out of his head for the moment. If he’d made the connection, surely he would’ve said something about it when he cautioned Paul and me to help the police keep it secret about the stamped tattoo.”

  “Well, that’s still a point,” Curly agreed.

  “Not the sharpest point I’ve ever heard,” said Paul. “He might be your Dragon Prince, Julie, but he’s still a pollydeck. They can keep things pretty close-lipped when they want. Maybe what we should rethink is our decision not to take it to the police ourselves.”

  “Little bit late for that,” said Curly, echoing Julie’s old thoughts. “Already they’d wonder why you never spoke up about it yesterday morning.”

  Julie protested, “Just the two of us couldn’t make that decision for the entire Purgatorio.”

  “There’s always danger,” Sam rumbled. “There’s always been danger, coming up on half a century now. In fact, even with the current situation in town, there was probably more danger in normal times back when my grandfather started the group. But there’s also a special need in Forest Green right now. However, we’re not g
oing to do anything without a consensus. Julie? Go ahead with it this afternoon, or lay low a while?”

  She swallowed. But if Dave had made, or ever did find out about the tattoo connection, she might lose him anyway, no matter what they did now. “I say, providing our recruit is fasted and ready, let’s go ahead.”

  “Sure,” Curly agreed before Sam could ask, her grin strong and ivory across her Chocolate face. “What’s life worth without a little spice of danger?”

  “Paul?” asked Sam.

  Paul replied, “I haven’t broken my fast. Kind of a shame to let all that effort go to waste.”

  “And I say yes, too,” Sam concluded. “Well, gang, we’ve got our consensus.”

  * * * *

  Lestrade and her partner sat in their office. He was going through phone books, city directories, and maps. She was taking another good stare at the photos of Harry Jackson.

  “Well,” Dave announced, putting down his pen, “of the three whose names we’ve got, they almost have to have their den somewhere in Sam Imani’s house. Curly Friedman has to be living above the Good Times Deli on Second—I think those are two- or three-room apartments—and of course Paul Osaka is just down the hall from Julie in the Pankhurst Arms. Paul…” Dave’s voice trailed off uneasily. “He would’ve recognized it… Well,” he finished, brisk again, “unless there’s somebody else in this thing that Davison doesn’t know about, we’ve got to be looking at Imani’s big old Victorian.”

  “Mmm,” Lestrade muttered. “Before we look at that, take another look at this, Detective.” Reaching across the table, she set the photos down on top of the city map.

  He picked them up and studied them closely. “Harry Jackson. What else am I looking for, Sarge?”

  “See any resemblance?”

  The frown line between his eyebrows got deeper. “Yeah…maybe…just a little…Sheboygan, Sarge, you don’t think…?”

  “Jackson was just about the right height, too. Yes, Detective. I mean that at a little distance, Jackson could maybe have looked like Davison. Of course, so could about a quarter of the young floaters in town.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. The Thesaurus Kid does maybe look a little generic. Until he opens his mouth, of course.”

  “Most of us look more or less generic, Dave. It’s the psychomystique that makes us different. Okay. One victim a ringer for Garvey, the other one more or less Davison’s physical description…getting a little close to write off as coincidence.”

  “And they’ve both been at Sam Imani’s—Garvey and Davison, I mean.”

  “Yes. And what else do they have in common? Jackson and Soderstrum, I mean.”

  “I don’t know. Have we found anything in common yet, besides the way they were murdered and that stamped tattoo? He was a local boy, just home from college…she just moved to town with her family about a year ago… As far as we’ve learned, the families didn’t even know each other…”

  “Are we going to have to get Davison back in here to help you out, Detective?” Lestrade snapped. “You’ve had exactly the same information in front of you all this time that I’ve had. Both Jackson and Soderstrum were thinking about getting themselves tattooed.”

  “So are a lot of people. Maybe half the population. Where are you going with this, Sarge?”

  “At this point, Detective Clayton, I’d rather test my theory by seeing whether you come up with the same idea independently.”

  “Same theory you’ve had in mind before? As in the reason you want to get search warrants for all the city’s tattoo artists at once?”

  She nodded.

  “And this new stuff—possible mistaking of both victims for someone else, and all that—doesn’t shake it?”

  “Strengthens it, if anything. Damn!” Lestrade added softly, half to herself. “If I’d only found enough to act on, right away that first week, Gaia Soderstrum might still be alive.”

  “You’ve got your eye on one of our tattoo artists, don’t you? Or two? Which one or ones?”

  “You’ve got the same information I have,” Lestrade repeated.

  “Sheboy, Old Woman! Sometimes, as your slave-driven junior partner, I wish you didn’t treat me quite so much like Holmes treated Dr. Watson.”

  “Holmes? Wash your mouth, boy!” It was about as close to humor as she usually went. The strain must be telling on me, she thought. “I’m no Sherlock Holmes, you whippersnapper. I’m not even an honest and reasonably intelligent Dr. Watson. I’m just a poor, bumbling, by-the-book Lestrade.”

  “Old Woman,” Dave said with an appreciative grin, “you are anything but ‘by the book.’”

  * * * *

  caterina is searching for mice there are no mice maybe spiders her human makes more black tracks on more papers and folds them and piles them all up and puts another piece of paper on top he starts to move the telephone and roll down the slidy cover of the desk and then he stops and leaves the cover up and puts the telephone back he bends down to stroke caterina she likes being stroked sometimes not always she arches her back and purrs and strolls away he goes out and caterina has all the rooms to herself except for evermore who is making chirpy sounds but caterina does not mind them

  * * * *

  When Julie pulled up to the Marquette Apartments at 1130 hours, she found Corwin waiting in the lobby. He looked much better than he had yesterday: a good night’s sleep would do that. Pale and apprehensive: hadn’t they all been that, going to their first session? Paul still got pale and worried-looking every Friday morning, even more so yesterday afternoon and this morning.

  At the same time, Julie’s recruit acted resolute, eager, a little too determined to be cheerful, and…slightly guilty? Well, they were breaking some of the most automatically accepted of modern society’s unwritten guiderules. That was why the Purgatorio had always been kept private almost—not quite—to the point of secrecy.

  “Now,” she asked him, just to be sure, “have you slipped up and broken your fast?”

  He shook his head. “Neither sip nor sup has passed my lips. I might have, had I brushed my teeth this morning; but, having brushed them well last night, in the process using up the last of my measure of water, and having actually masticated nothing at all since yesterday morning, I judged that an additional brushing upon arising would be superfluous.”

  “And has the laxative worked?”

  “From anyone other than a medical professional, I should probably resent that question as embarrassing, impertinent, and overly personal. But, yes, it has, and, as you intimated, in pleasant cooperation with the sleeping dose.”

  “And…” She laid her hand on his forearm, “Corwin, are you still sure you want to do this?”

  “I shall not renege.”

  So they got into her car. As she pulled away from the curb, he remarked, “Your otherwise informative sheets fail to mention where, precisely, we are going.”

  “Sam’s.”

  “Ah. So the self-same house that hosts our Sunday rolegaming does indeed enclose Dante’s Delight Purgatorio as well. Beneath our very noses, down in the cellars?”

  “Above our very heads, up in the highest tower room. ‘Mount Purgatory,’ you know. It’s really a very comforting place. Clean, all painted in whites and pale purples, walls hung with gilt-framed quotations done in illuminated calligraphy, dayglow wall lights—though on sunny afternoons we slit the window shutters a few centimeters open and get a surprising amount of real daylight. The cross is light green composite and stands on a dais between two of the windows. The raised bar stands facing it near the opposite wall —”

  Corwin suddenly shuddered, with a sharp indrawing of breath. “No, no,” he assured her at once, waving his hand. “I am all right. It sounds…unexpected, as a place of purgation. Julie…would you be so good as to repeat to me those quotations on the wall?”

  “All—except ou
r motto, of course, and the verses from chapter twelve of Romans—are taken from the middle part of Dante’s Divine Comedy, the Purgatorio.”

  ‘I say our pain, and ought to say our solace,—

  For the same wish doth lead us to the tree

  Which led the Christ rejoicing to say ‘Eli,’

  When with his veins he liberated us.’”

  Julie quoted from memory.

  “And,

  ‘God’s lofty fiat would be violated,

  If Lethe should be passed, and if such viands

  Should tasted be, withouten any scot

  Of penitence, that gushes forth in tears.’

  “And, of course,

  ‘To drink of the sweet wormwood of these torments.’

  Corwin remarked, “Dante’s vision furnished Mount Purgatorio with less…lurid penances, did it not? than those of his Inferno.”

  “Yes, but they aren’t very adaptable to people with this-world bodies and regular worklines. As it is, I had to get Friday nights off written into my hospital contract. Probably three quarters of the staff assume I go to AA meetings. I just let them think so.”

  “This is, after all, not so excruciatingly different from awaiting certain medical procedures.… Julie…this will be safe, will it not?”

  “Oh, yes. Definitely. You won’t be comfortable, Corwin, but you will be perfectly safe.”

  “What an exquisitely delicate piece of phraseology!” He closed his eyes, leaned back in the car seat, shuddered again, and began to murmur, like a mantra, “‘Pain enjoyed is hardly penitential.… Pain enjoyed is hardly penitential.…’

  Actually, he was having a very healthy reaction to the time closing in. Julie was glad to see it. Also glad that her own angel duties today would be somewhat lighter than usual.

  * * * *

  Angela had to change planes in President City, which according to a brochure from the stand in the airport had been renamed that from “Parsonsburg” in 1938 at the height of the nation’s Mount Rushmore fever, for the fourth great face, the face of the “Greatest Future President,” the face purposely left blank. There had been talk in 1946 of carving it into the likeness of Santina Raincloud, the first Native American president, who had seen the country through the Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, and most of the second act of the Last Great War; but two factions of public opinion had united to defeat the plan: the people who said it would be like shutting the door on the possibility of an even greater president sometime down the road—in effect, saying that the R.S.A. had already passed its great days; and the people who said the blank face had always been meant to be purely symbolic. Symbolic of what? Angela had thought, ever since fifth or sixth grade, symbolic of all the great presidents after Lincoln? Corwin preferred the idea that it was symbolic of any president—any person, really—who had done something great without being specifically recognized and honored for it…but now the public phone was finally free, and she had time to try another call to Arnheim.