“Ahh,” she announced after a few moments, “the Ice Maiden cometh.”
The main door was pulled open to reveal Jed Black’s roommate, Press. He frowned slightly when he saw the number of callers. “Well, well, if it isn’t Spanky and Our Gang.” Press had a pale but not unhealthy complexion, pure platinum hair worn in a longish slash cut, piercing blue eyes, and a drooping platinum mustache. His blue work shirt and jeans were streaked with paint. His feet were bare. Press’s manner, under almost all circumstances, was fairly chilled, and Niobe wasn’t the only one who referred to him as the Ice Maiden.
“Miss Manners maintains that civility is in this year, Press,” Niobe said.
The blond man tightened his mouth into a smile and then dropped the expression immediately. “How was that?”
“Enchanting,” Niobe said.
“We dropped by to see Jed,” Valentine explained.
Press drew a breath and released it with a hissing sound. “I thought you’d want to come inside. I suppose it wouldn’t do any good if I told you I think Jed’s napping.”
“No good at all,” Newt put in from farther down the stoop.
Press peered through at Newt. “You’re drunk.” He swept his eyes appraisingly over the rest of them. “In fact, I think you’re all drunk.”
“Val’s not,” said Niobe. “But he’s injured. Show Press your hand, Val. Now let us in before I make a scene on your doorstep.”
“Before?” echoed Press skeptically, stepping aside. “All of you look like you’ve just made a mass escape from the detox ward.”
As the Slate team filed in, Valentine automatically headed toward the elevator at the back of the entrance hall, but Press waved him away from it.
“Elevator’s out,” he said, starting up the staircase. “Follow me—if you’re not all too drunk to hold on to the banister, that is.”
“I am not drunk!” Niobe screamed.
“You’re plowed,” said Newt, right behind her, poking her sides playfully.
On his way up, Press looked over his shoulder at Valentine. “What happened to your hand? You pick up some rough trade?”
“Game injury,” Valentine said shortly.
“Injuries on the ballfield, deaths in the barroom,” Press sing-songed as they crossed the second landing. “You ought to put a sign up over the door of Slate—‘Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.’”
“Press, you have wit as well as good looks,” Niobe said sarcastically.
“I hear,” Press said, “that the county coroner is about to open a branch office next door to your bar. You’re providing so much of their business nowadays.”
“Sic ’im, Rodan,” Newt said, joggling the canary’s cage.
Upon reaching the fourth-floor landing, the team gathered outside the door of Press and Jed’s apartment. Niobe, wheezing dramatically, fell against the wall. “I’m exhausted! I hate climbing stairs! Whose idiotic idea was this, anyway?”
Press opened the apartment door and led the team into the living room. Sunlight poured in through two high windows overlooking Mount Vernon Street. In one corner a color television was turned on at low volume, showing hordes of frightened people fleeing before an angry dinosaur crashing through Times Square. To the right of the main door was an archway leading to a wide, short hallway with three closed doors. In one corner of the living room the rug had been thrown far back and furniture moved away. There a metal easel supported a large rectangular canvas. The painting bore a portrait of Jed Black standing against a wintry view of the Public Garden. Press had evidently been interrupted in his work on the painting, for he strolled back over to the easel and picked up his palette and brush from a table scattered with tubes of paint.
After stacking their equipment as much out of the way as possible, the team gathered around the easel and voiced their admiration while the others looked at Press’s framed work on the living-room walls. Most of the members of the team had never visited Jed’s apartment before, though they knew Press, or at least had spoken to him.
The third baseman was staring at three charcoal portraits hung one atop the other between the two large windows. He pointed to the middle picture. “Hey, this one’s you, Daniel.” He looked down at the lower portrait, didn’t recognize the model, and brought his eyes up to the drawing above Valentine’s likeness. “Isn’t that—!” He broke off, taking a closer look at the image.
“God!” exclaimed Niobe, poking her head into the small kitchen. “Don’t you guys ever do your dishes? There’s a culture field in your sink.”
“Are you people here to visit Jed or take inventory?” Press asked without looking up from his work.
“I didn’t know you had done a portrait of me,” said Valentine, looking over at the charcoal drawing. He was very pleased—Press’s picture showed him what he had always felt he wanted to look like. “When did you do that?”
“I did it from memory,” Press explained vaguely. “And Jed had a photograph of you. You have an interesting face. In certain lights.”
“Is there one of me?” Niobe inquired, looking eagerly about the room.
“It’s in that room,” Press replied, pointing at an open door at the very end of the hall. “Right above the toilet.”
“Ha-ha,” Niobe said, and then her eye caught the charcoal portrait directly above Valentine’s likeness. “That’s All-American Boy!” she cried, pointing.
“I knew he looked familiar,” said the third baseman complacently. “I knew it was somebody who was dead, but I just couldn’t remember who exactly.”
“Who else is in here?” Niobe asked excitedly, going from one portrait to the next all around the room. “Who else—”
She stopped suddenly at a small square ink drawing of a man wearing a cowboy hat that was much too large for him.
“It’s the Shrimp!” she exclaimed. “My God, Press, your walls are covered with dead people.”
All eyes turned questioningly to Press. He dismissed them with a frowning glare over his shoulder. “I do faces I find interesting, that’s all. If the Slate killer has the same taste that I do, it’s hardly my fault.”
“Don’t call him the ‘Slate killer,’” Valentine snapped.
“‘A rose by any other…’” Press mused.
Niobe rapidly completed her circuit inventory of the pictures in the room.
“No more dead people,” she concluded finally. “It is pretty weird, though, Press.”
“I thought you people came over to visit Jed,” Press said angrily, slapping his brush onto the table and turning to face the group.
“You said he was asleep,” said Valentine.
“Yes,” said Press, “Jed can sleep through anything—which he’s just proved. Valentine,” he added with a meaningful smile, “you know where his bedroom is. And you all have to answer to him for the cleat marks on his newly polished floors.”
“All right,” Niobe said in an exaggerated whisper. “Where’s Rodan? We’re going to give Jed a real rouser of a cheer—”
Niobe, Newt, and the rest of the team crept quietly behind Valentine as he walked down the hallway toward the door of Jed’s bedroom. He stopped at one side of the bedroom door and leaned sideways to grasp the knob. He waited as Niobe fluffed her pom-poms and then held them in position as she readied herself into a spring-squat that would propel her into the room. She affixed a broad smile to her face and nodded a go-ahead to Valentine.
Valentine wrenched at the knob and flung the door open wide. He pulled back out of Niobe’s way as she flew past him, screaming:
RAH! RAH! SIS BOO—OH, MY GOD!
Valentine thrust his head into Jed’s bedroom.
Niobe had landed with a thud at Jed’s bedside. Jed was sitting up against the headboard, staring at her. Two neckties were tightly bound around his neck, their ends tied about either side of the headboard. His legs were folded beneath his haunches, ankles bound by two ties attached to a third, securing his arms behind his back. Except for the bright bands of
silk and wool—and a blue bandanna stuffed deep into his mouth—Jed was naked. His cane had been placed on the bed, the end of it pointing between his legs.
Chapter Six
“DAMN!” CLARISSE CRIED as the blade of the paring knife sliced a shallow groove across her thumb. She flung the knife onto the butcher-block table and rushed over to the roll of paper towels mounted above the aluminum sink. She swathed the blue paper tightly about her thumb, but not quickly enough to keep blood from dribbling down the bib of her white apron.
At the cutting table Niobe paused to ask, “How bad is it?” before smashing apart a head of lettuce. Newt was beside her, rapidly slicing cucumbers. They both had on white aprons, but Niobe also wore a paper hat, now resting precariously atop her spiked hair. The table was covered with a bounty of fresh raw vegetables intended for an enormous aluminum salad bowl in the middle of the table.
The kitchen, located just off the Slate barroom, was a small but conveniently laid out space. It was put to full use only on Sundays, when Slate, like the other gay bars in the city, offered a very reasonably priced buffet to its customers. Around town, these buffets were staggered so that it was possible for the very hungry or the very sociable to hit five or six in succession. Slate’s brunch, at one P.M., came first. Valentine and Clarisse had prepared the food the first few times, until Niobe mentioned Newt’s culinary expertise and he was hired for the weekly event. The buffets were popular and proved a successful way to take up the slack of a slow Sunday afternoon.
“I don’t think it’s too bad,” Clarisse said, and lifted the paper to look. Blood gushed from the wound, and she wrapped the towel once more around her thumb.
“You cut your finger because you’re distracted and depressed about Jed,” said Niobe confidently.
“Of course I’m depressed and distracted. I’d feel worse if I weren’t upset about it.”
“Think how I must feel,” said Niobe, adjusting the strap of her brassiere where it was biting into the flesh of her shoulder. “I was the one who found him.” She picked a slice of vegetable from the salad bowl. “His face was as purple as this beet.” She popped the beet slice sadly into her mouth.
“That’s the problem with people when they die,” Newt added as he scraped the cucumber into a pile. “They’re suddenly the center of attention”—he looked up and waved his knife at Clarisse—“whether they deserve it or not. Don’t get me wrong. Jed was great, but no matter how many flowers we send, he’s still not going to smell them.”
“You’re so damned sensitive, Newt,” Niobe observed as she wrenched apart a head of romaine. “I guess that’s why I married you.”
“I don’t believe you two!” Clarisse cried. In her frustration she grabbed a handful of carved radishes and flung them into the salad bowl. “You’re being positively and totally callous about this.”
Newt and Niobe looked up at her, exchanged glances with one another, and went back to their work.
Angered further that neither Newt nor Niobe would defend their attitude, Clarisse tore off another square of paper toweling and loosely rebound her finger, securing the improvised bandage with a rubber band.
“I’m going to start putting things out.” Clarisse sullenly picked up a large container of knives, forks, and spoons and piled two economy-size packs of paper napkins atop it. With a frowning scowl of disapproval for Niobe and Newt, both of whom avoided her gaze, she backed out the single swinging door into the barroom.
A long white-linen-covered table was set up in the open back area. Plates and saucers were stacked on one end of the table, and a large arrangement of daisies, a gift from a florist friend of Valentine’s, was prominently displayed mid-table. Steam trays were already in place, although the Sterno heaters were not yet lit. Clarisse placed the tray of flatware down next to the plates and then crossed to turn on the tape machine. As the music filled the bar, she went about arranging several rows of paper napkins on the table. Earlier, she and Niobe had brought up cases of liquor and beer from the cellar and refilled the ice chest behind the bar.
When she finished with the table, Clarisse removed her apron and tossed it on a shelf behind the bar. She looked in the mirror to right a wayward strand of her dark hair and then frowned unhappily at her reflection. Worry and a fitful night’s sleep had taken their toll about her eyes, despite an attempt to disguise her condition with makeup. Clarisse sighed, came around the bar, and walked to the front doors.
After propping open the inside set of doors, she unbolted the two heavy main doors, then gripped the handles in both hands. She yanked the doors inward, shutting her eyes against the blast of bright sunlight. When she opened them again, a black-clad man was standing directly in front of her. His appearance there was so sudden and startling that Clarisse gasped in alarm. Her hands tightened on the door handles, ready to slam them shut again if need be. Yet her grip relaxed when her eyes adjusted to the change of light and she saw the small rectangle of white just below the man’s prominent Adam’s apple. He was wearing a clerical collar.
Clarisse, startled again, looked the priest over. He was only a little taller than she, with reddish-blond hair and blue eyes. His complexion was pinkish and even this early in the season had proved its inability to take the sun. Clarisse guessed he might be near forty, but it was hard to tell his age any closer than that. It was much easier to discern a fondness for alcohol in his puffy cheeks and his red-tipped nose.
“Good afternoon,” she greeted him uncertainly.
“You’re late opening today,” he said.
“Just a bit.” Clarisse secured the doors open and then faced the priest again.
“I’m sorry I startled you like that,” he apologized.
“It’s all right. Umm, are you here to see the manager?”
“No, I’m here to have a drink.”
Clarisse hesitated a brief moment and then said, “You know this is a gay bar…”
“Yes, in fact I do. If you’re not prejudiced against clergy, the clergy would dearly love a gin and tonic.”
Clarisse shook her head and went back into the bar, the priest following closely behind her.
“I’ve been on my feet since six A.M. Two high masses, a christening, and a wedding. The christening was twins. Screamed like hell.” The priest sidled up onto a stool near the ice machine as Clarisse ducked behind the bar.
She mixed a generous gin and tonic for the man, and after he had taken a long swallow of it, he presented her with a satisfied smile. He had already laid out two one-dollar bills. Looking around the empty barroom, he asked, “Is Niobe off today?”
“She’s in the kitchen, cooking,” Clarisse replied, wondering more and more. “There’s a brunch today.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, nodding. “I forgot about that. My name is Father McKimmon. Father Cornelius McKimmon. You must be Clarisse. Niobe’s mentioned you a few times.”
“How well do you know Niobe?” Clarisse inquired curiously. She picked up a fresh bar towel and began to polish glasses.
“Around here, you might say I’m a semi-regular.”
“Semi-regular?”
“I say mass at the men’s shelter on Pine Street every third Sunday.” He took another swallow, finishing off the drink. “Believe me, I need this.” He handed the glass back to Clarisse, and she mixed a fresh one. “Besides, this is the one place where I am absolutely safe from the well-intentioned ladies of the Rosary Altar Society.”
“The what?”
“Women of the parish who volunteer their time to keep fresh flowers on the church altar, polish the holy instruments, make sure the priests are kept in good cheer, and so forth. Unfortunately, their taste in liquid refreshment hardly ever runs to good gin.”
“I see,” Clarisse said slowly.
Father McKimmon looked at her a moment. “It bothers you to have me in here, doesn’t it?”
“No,” Clarisse replied firmly. “It’s just— Well… I don’t think I’ve ever seen a priest in a bar in broad dayligh
t before— in uniform, so to speak.”
“Well, if the Rosaries start looking for me—and I put nothing past them—this is surely one of the last places they’ll try.”
“Is your parish around here?”
“I’m at the other end of the Orange,” he answered cryptically.
“I see,” Clarisse said. She would have pursued the matter if a second customer hadn’t entered the bar at that moment. He was a tall bearded man who, despite the warmth of the day, was wearing a black leather jacket. He ordered a Budweiser, and as Clarisse snapped off the top, she watched to see if the man showed any surprise at Father McKimmon’s presence.
“Corny!” called out the man in the leather jacket. As Clarisse watched with widened eyes, he took his Budweiser down to the far end of the bar and fell into hushed but animated conversation with the priest. Father McKimmon, Clarisse decided, might be more than a semi-regular.
When she returned to the kitchen to check on the progress of the preparations for brunch, she found Newt and Niobe standing on opposite sides of the table, glaring at one another.
“Are you two throwing vegetables again?” Clarisse demanded. “Last Sunday this whole kitchen was littered with shallots.”
“The next thing I throw,” Newt muttered, “will have a shiny sharp edge and a wooden handle.”
Clarisse leaned against the refrigerator with an exasperated sigh. “Niobe, where is the ‘other end of the Orange’? One point five seconds after I opened the front doors today, we got our first customer—a priest.”
Niobe glanced up at the calendar taped to the wall next to the sinks. “Oh, yes, it’s Father McKimmon’s day, isn’t it? Every third Sunday of the month, like clockwork.” She looked at Clarisse. “Tell Corny I’ll be out to see him as soon as I’ve committed my first capital crime of the day, would you? The other end of the Orange means the subway line. The Orange Line ends in Malden.”
Canary Page 5