“Detective—” began Valentine.
“Rauseo’ll be right back,” said Brosnan quickly.
Clarisse and Valentine began to fidget. Valentine shifted in his chair, and Clarisse uncrossed her legs and then recrossed them the other way.
Rauseo came back in, sidled around the desk, and seated himself beside Brosnan. “It’ll be half an hour. I’ll starve,” he said reproachfully. He glanced at Valentine and Clarisse.
“Don’t be so nervous,” he said. “Everybody comes in here scared shi—” he caught himself with a quick flick of his eyes to Clarisse and went on—“shirtless, but we’re not so bad.”
“It’s not you,” said Valentine. “It’s the cigarette.”
“I thought you said you didn’t mind,” said Brosnan defensively.
“We gave them up recently,” explained Clarisse, following the Kool from Brosnan’s hand to his mouth and back.
Brosnan took a last deep drag, and crushed out the cigarette. “You should have said something.” He stood up and went to the window. “My wife gave it up a couple of years ago.” He unlatched the window and drew it up a few inches. Crisp air streamed into the room. He sat back down at the table. “Five packs,” he said. “Five packs. The one thing she said helped her—”
“Sweeney Drysdale,” interrupted Clarisse. “He’s dead, and you don’t know who killed him.”
“And you wanted to ask us some questions,” said Valentine.
Rauseo drew the files toward him.
Clarisse pulled her coat up to cover her shoulders.
“You want me to close the window?” asked Brosnan.
She shook her head. “Just tell us how we can help you.”
“You got some pretty strange characters hanging around that place,” said Rauseo, turning a page of the report, without looking up.
Valentine and Clarisse said nothing.
“You know,” Rauseo went on, “everybody we talked to about this Drysdale character hated his guts. I mean, really hated,” he emphasized, glancing at his partner.
“One corpse,” sighed Brosnan, shaking his head. “Seven hundred suspects.”
“Hell,” said Rauseo, “I talked to his mother. Even she didn’t like him.”
Brosnan slipped one of the folders out from the stack that Rauseo was reading and opened it in front of him. Not looking at it, he said, “Mr. Valentine, Sweeney Drysdale came to visit you a few days before he was killed, isn’t that right?”
“He wanted to see what I was doing with the bar.”
“Did you show him around?”
“No.”
“You two had a fight. You both got hot under the collar. You threw him out on the street.”
Valentine replied without hesitation. “He was insulting, and I asked him to leave. I didn’t get ‘hot under the collar,’ and I didn’t throw him out on the street.”
“What are you gonna call the place?” asked Rauseo curiously.
“Nightmare Alley,” said Valentine. “The way things are going.”
Clarisse bit her lip to keep from smiling.
“I like that,” said Rauseo, then abruptly continued. “So Drysdale was on your case before he died, was he? He said some pretty nasty things about you in his column. Got away with it, too, didn’t he?”
“Sweeney said nasty things about everybody. He could have found something mean to write about the Easter Seals child.”
“He put in his column that you had a nervous breakdown when you were actually in Beth Israel Hospital with pneumococcal pneumonia,” Rauseo went on.
“How did you know it was pneumococcal?” asked Clarisse.
“We’re detectives,” said Brosnan, reaching for the cold, soggy steak fries. “That’s damaging, isn’t it?” he asked Valentine. “To call a man crazy who’s trying to set up his own business? Establish a good credit rating? I mean, you were fired from your last job. You were in the hospital. You were on your last legs, and here’s this twerp who tells the world that you’re a psychological incompetent. How does that make you feel?”
“I was furious!” cried Clarisse.
“Not you,” said Rauseo. “Him.”
“I wasn’t thinking about anything except trying to get well,” said Valentine.
“I tried to get him to sue,” said Clarisse, “but he wouldn’t do it. Too much trouble,” she said, glancing at Valentine with a little leftover reproach.
“And then,” said Brosnan, “the same guy comes back and writes a nasty piece about your bar. Trying to kill your business before you’ve even got your doors open. That’s enough to drive a desperate man to desperate measures.”
Valentine looked from one detective to another. “If I had wanted to kill Sweeney, “ he said quietly, “I wouldn’t have done it with a gun because I don’t know how to shoot, and I certainly wouldn’t have done it in my business partner’s apartment.”
Rauseo made no reaction to this, but only turned to Clarisse. “So there was Sweeney Drysdale, sabotaging the future of the bar in which you had invested heavily. If that bar fails, you stand to lose a great deal of money, don’t you?”
“I have no money invested in the bar,” said Clarisse. Then she added loyally, “But I have every confidence that Slate will be an incredible financial success. If I did have a few thousand dollars that wasn’t already invested in my wardrobe, I’d give it to Valentine in a minute. I could end up one of the ten richest single career women in eastern Massachusetts.”
Rauseo nodded and then asked, “What time did you leave for the library that night?”
“About ten,” said Clarisse.
He looked at Valentine. “And you met her there?”
“Yes, at about eleven. A little after. What are you getting at?”
Ignoring Valentine’s inquiry, the detective went on, “And this whole business about your claiming to be gay.”
“Claiming?” echoed Valentine.
“You live in the same building. Last summer you shared a house in Provincetown. Hell, we see you two coming and going together, day in and day out. And, Mr. Valentine,” Rauseo concluded with a triumphant smirk, “your fingerprints were found on Miss Lovelace’s nightstand, on the headboard of her bed, and on the wall above the bed.”
Clarisse stared, as if unable to find words for her astonishment.
“I helped her to move her furniture in,” said Valentine. “My fingerprints must have been on every damned piece of furniture she has.”
“Your place was covered with prints,” said Brosnan to Clarisse, as he swallowed some of the cold coffee. “You must have a pretty active social life.”
“Besides Valentine,” said Clarisse coldly, “there were workmen in and out of that apartment every day for two weeks. And, in reply to the rude implication of your question, may I say that no first-year law student has any sort of social life.”
“Sorry,” said Brosnan, “I wasn’t implying anything.…”
“Aren’t you two going to deny that you’re actually lovers,” asked Brosnan, “and that this homosexual business is just a front?”
Valentine groaned.
Clarisse shook her head in increasing wonderment. “I can’t believe this. Why on earth would anybody pretend to be gay?” she demanded.
“Because he’s opening a gay bar, that’s why!” Brosnan exclaimed.
“Pretending he’s one of them so they’ll come and buy his booze.”
Valentine said with Job-like patience, “If you checked to find out what kind of pneumonia I had, then you probably checked out our alibis for that night. So just what the hell are we doling here today? Instead of a few of the other seven hundred suspects you mentioned?”
“That seven hundred was an exaggeration,” said Rauseo.
“Nobody’s off the hook yet,” said Brosnan.
“If nobody’s off the hook,” said Clarisse, “why did you single out Valentine and me to talk to this morning? Why aren’t you hauling in lots of other people?”
Brosnan and Rau
seo glanced at each other but chose not to answer the question.
“Unless you’re going to accuse us of something,” said Valentine, “we both have things we’d like to get done today.”
“Maybe you’d just better make sure you’ve got a lawyer waiting in the wings,” sniffed Rauseo.
“By the time all this is settled, I’ll be a lawyer,” murmured Clarisse, slipping into the sleeves of her coat.
Valentine reached into his shirt pocket and took out an engraved business card. He slipped it across the scarred surface of the table.
“This is our lawyer. He pretends that he’s gay, too. It’s a real racket these days.”
Scowling, Brosnan took the card.
Chapter Ten
AS VALENTINE ROSE SLOWLY in the ancient cage elevator, the cables and the pulleys shook and wheezed and screeched as if they had not been oiled since their installation. When, with a rattle and a sigh, it finally lurched to a halt on the sixth floor of the narrow office building, Valentine threw back the accordion grate and the wooden safety door and stepped onto the landing. He looked around for the fire stairs and decided that that would be his way back down.
He unzipped his brown leather jacket and loosened the gray scarf that had been tightly wrapped around his neck. He glanced down the narrow hallway. Two glass-domed lights hung from the ceiling, inadequately illuminating the dingy gray walls and the chipped linoleum floor. The linoleum perhaps once had had a distinct pattern, but years of wear and patching had obliterated it. At the end of the hall, past four single office doors, sunlight filtered weakly through the dusty panes of a tiny window overlooking West Street. Valentine could hear traffic, construction machinery, and a siren from below. From behind the office doors, he heard a telephone ringing, muted murmuring voices, and a radio playing soft rock. Valentine stepped over to the wall directory and checked his reflection in the glass. He then walked down the hall and opened the last of the four doors, entering the reception area of the Boston Area Reporter, employer of the late Sweeney Drysdale II.
“Excuse me—” Valentine began, but then was startled into silence. The receptionist was Apologetic Joe.
Joe didn’t look up. He wore Sony Walkman earphones. The Walkman itself was propped up in an open desk drawer. Joe was listening with intense concentration and jotting notes on a piece of BAR stationery. The clacking of a manual typewriter could be heard behind a closed door to one of the inner offices.
Valentine shut the outer door of the office, and the vibration caught Joe’s attention. Valentine smiled and greeted Slate’s future bouncer in pantomime. Joe pushed back the earphones, which slipped gracefully off the back of his head and closed around his neck.
“Sorry,” said Joe, “I didn’t hear you. What brings you here? Can I do something for you?”
“I brought in an ad for Slate,” said Valentine. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m recepting,” said Joe. “I just started a couple of days ago. I mean, I can use the extra money till the bar opens— especially since they’ve given me a column. You know,” he added shyly, “it’s always been my ambition to have a newspaper column, but I never really thought I’d get it. It’s not one of BAR’s big columns, but it’s in every week.” He tapped his pen on his note pad. “That’s what I was working on when you came in.”
“Gossip? Sports? What are you doing?”
“I’m writing the Disco Digest column.”
“Disco Digest?”
“I take the most popular songs of the week, and I listen to ’em real carefully,” he nodded at the Walkman, “and then I write down what the songs are about—what they’re really about.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Well, I just listened to this song about twenty times before I got the real gist of it. It’s about this girl named Gloria—which is actually an alias—who tells everybody that she’s real popular. She says her phone never stops ringing, but it never actually rings. Gloria whatever-her-real-name-is is having a nervous breakdown and hearing voices in her head. It’s all told by her girlfriend, but you don’t ever find out the girlfriend’s name, and that’s why it’s so hard to figure the song out, but the girlfriend is real upset about Gloria’s condition.” Joe took a breath.
Valentine smiled. “All that is in ‘Gloria’?”
“See what I mean? You miss so much if you don’t listen. You’ve got to go beyond the beat and the melody; you’ve got to listen to the words, the story of the song. There are messages in the music—and that’s what Disco Digest is all about.”
“I guess,” replied Valentine vaguely. He unsnapped one of the large breast pockets of his jacket and removed a medium-sized manila envelope. “I brought a rough layout of the Slate ad, and—”
Valentine was cut off by the sudden appearance of a handsome large-boned woman with thick blond hair. She wore jeans and a crimson sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up on her forearms. She had an officious air about her and barely glanced at Valentine as she stepped up to the desk and dropped a cassette tape on Joe’s desk.
“This is the new People Buying Things tape, Joe,” the woman said. Her voice was edged with urgency. “I want a report on every cut for the next issue. I ran it twice myself last night, and it’s all about race relations after the nuclear holocaust. Except for one song, and that one’s about getting all dressed up and going out dancing.”
“Bernie,” Joe said, waving a hand toward Valentine to direct her attention that way, “this is Daniel Valentine. Bernie’s our assistant editor,” he added to Val, completing the introduction.
Bernie’s brow furrowed momentarily. “You’re Slate, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Valentine, pleased.
“Slate’s a good name,” said Bernie, smoothing a wayward strand of hair off her cheek.
“Thank you.”
“Scene of the Crime’s a better one though,” the editor said with an impish grin. “It’s not too late to change. I mean, just think what kind of publicity Sweeney’s already handed you.”
Valentine blinked, but said nothing.
“Hold my calls,” Bernie said, turning to Joe. “I’m going to think up the nasty replies for the Letters to the Editor—and while I’m at it, I’ll think up the letters too. By the way, are you and Ashes coming with the rest of the staff next weekend?”
“We’re still thinking about it,” said Joe doubtfully. “Something may come up at the last minute,” he added vaguely.
Bernie looked at Val. “How about you? Would you like to share in the Advocate Experience next weekend? It’ll change your life.”
“For the better?”
Bernie looked displeased with the small joke and started to turn away. Valentine stopped her with his voice. “Look,” he said quickly, “who do I see about this advertising copy?”
“Vinny’s out right now,” said Joe helpfully.
“God knows.” Bernie sighed bravely. “I do everything else around here.”
Valentine removed a five-by-seven-inch sheet of cardboard from his envelope and handed it to Bernie. Joe half-rose from his chair in order to peer at it. Angled across the paper was the name of the bar in scripted black type against a mottled gray background. There was no other information.
“An ad generally advertises,” Bernie remarked, and glanced up at Valentine.
“You said yourself,” shrugged Valentine, “Sweeney’s already put the place on the map. Besides, we’re not opening until New Year’s Eve. I’ll run the ad like this for a couple of weeks. Then I’ll include the address, and then the information about the party, and so on.”
“A teaser campaign,” mumbled Bernie, disapprovingly.
“I thought it was more tasteful than a photograph of the corpse,” said Valentine.
Bernie glanced at Valentine, then peered at the advertisement a moment more. She said in a low, insinuating voice: “‘Chalk up a hot one at Slate.’” She looked up and smiled. “How’s that for a clever slogan?”
�
�Very clever,” said Valentine impassively.
“Yes,” agreed Bernie, “it really is. So look, I’ll give this to Vinny and it’ll go in next week, just as it is. If there’s any problem, he’ll call you.” Bernie stepped back into the inner office, saying quickly over her shoulder, “Get right on that People Buying Things tape, Joe.”
Joe obediently took out the tape that he had been listening to and inserted the new one. “Bernie’s a little on edge,” Joe explained in a whisper. “She had to write all Sweeney’s columns this week. Fashion. Entertainment. And gossip.”
“I thought Sweeney just wrote a gossip column,” said Valentine.
“That was the only column he had a by-line on,” said Joe. “The others got pseudonyms. They didn’t want to make it look like one person was writing the entire paper—which was just about the case.”
“Have you got somebody to take his place?” asked Valentine.
Joe put the earphones back over his ears and pressed the play button. “Don’t you know?” he asked, surprised.
“How should I know who’s—”
“Because I’m Sweeney’s replacement,” a familiar voice said behind Valentine.
He turned. There stood Paul Ashe, holding a sheaf of yellowed tear sheets. “I thought I heard you out here,” said Ashes.
Joe was already making preliminary notes on the first People Buying Things cut.
“You’re taking Sweeney’s place?” Valentine noticed an open office door halfway down the narrow hallway. Ashes must have been inside.
“He’d die if he knew,” Ashes said with a malicious grin. “If he weren’t already dead, of course. Come on in.”
Valentine followed Ashes down a short hallway and through a door that still had a three-by-five-inch index card bearing Sweeney’s name thumbtacked to it. The office was small and cramped, with a gray metal desk and a filing cabinet taking up most of the space. Ashes had to slide along one wall to get around the desk to his chair. The space there was discolored where, Valentine guessed, Sweeney also must have slid against it many times. The wall also showed light-colored rectangles where framed pictures had been removed recently. These—nearly two dozen—were leaning in a stack against the wall. The photograph on top showed Sweeney smiling broadly, his arm flung about the shoulder of Wayland Flowers. Flowers’ puppet Madame had her grotesque wooden face turned up to Sweeney with an expression of open-mouthed astonishment. Valentine removed a pile of books from a wooden chair by the door and sat down.
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