Vermilion

by Aldyne, Nathan

  “That’s right. Thirty dollars, a ten and a twenty.”

  “Anything smaller?”

  Searcy shook his head. “No ones, no change. Of course it could have been a robber, and the thief took everything out of the front pockets but forgot to check the back.”

  “That’s not what I was getting at,” said Lawrence. “Of course if a thief is going to be thorough enough to murder his victim, he’s going to check all the pockets. You also found a white handkerchief with a lipstick smear on it.”

  “Yes,” said Searcy, “what about it?”

  “Well, just that the boy obviously came in contact with a woman sometime that night.”

  “How can you be sure? You ought to know that men have been known to use lipstick, especially—”

  “The kid was wearing a jock-jacket, he wouldn’t have been caught dead with lipstick—except of course that’s exactly what happened. Besides, young hustlers only wear colored handkerchiefs. Do your homework. Somebody gave the kid that handkerchief.”

  “It could have belonged to somebody who was—in drag.”

  “Did you see the handkerchief?” demanded Lawrence.

  “Yes, it was a plain white handkerchief with a lipstick smear in the center of it.”

  “Then it didn’t belong to a drag. A drag would carry a woman’s handkerchief, something frilly to wave about and show off. Otherwise she’d use Kleenex. Lieutenant, these days, only a straight woman would leave a lipstick smear on a plain white handkerchief.”

  “The kid was gay—” protested Searcy.

  “The single point I’ve found in his favor,” snapped Professor Lawrence, “at least insofar as he’s been described in the papers—bad childhood, bad complexion, bad credit rating.” Then, in a fine imitation of a little child’s voice, he plaintively sang: “Oh father’s a drunkard and mother is dead…” Then, abruptly resuming his normal low-pitched sonorous voice, he added: “Of course, now he has a second point in his favor.”

  “What’s that?” said Searcy.

  “He’s caused Mario Scarpetti a great deal of trouble. I hear that the honorable representative’s been getting calls of congratulations from people who think that he did it!”

  Lawrence laughed, turned on the porch light, and opened the front door for Searcy.

  Thursday, 4 January

  Chapter Eight

  “FIFTY-EIGHT.” Clap! “Fifty-nine!” Clap! “Sixty!” Clap! Valentine paused before starting his fourth set of twenty push-ups. His arms were stretched out before him, pressed against the plushly carpeted exercise floor. In the long mirrored wall, he checked to be sure that his body was perfectly parallel to the floor. Not liking the way his toes bent in his red-striped Adidases, he straightened them, and thought, Better…At the International Health Spa, people noticed.

  Five deep breaths were drawn into his lungs, and then released explosively. Valentine’s hair lay flat against his head in damp waves. His red T-shirt and silver gym shorts were soaked through with perspiration. He held the sixth breath, and began another set of twenty push-ups, cursing himself for his first cigarette ten years before. Down, up, clap hands before he again smashed against the floor. To atone for his physical lassitude over the holidays, he didn’t pause between the fourth and fifth sets, and counted steadily up to one hundred.

  He dropped to the floor and rolled over onto his back, wondering if he would live. When he decided that he would, he did fifty sit-ups, and considered the question again. No pain, no gain, he told himself with a sneer.

  He lay still until his pulse dropped below one hundred. He sat up, and inched backward till his spine pressed against the cool cement blocks of the long wall. He consciously relaxed all of his muscles, beginning at his toes and working upward.

  He was well into his second hour of exercising and reflected that it was just as boring as he had anticipated. Thursday was not his usual day for a workout, but Wednesday’s slow and difficult exercising had warned him that he had slipped over the holidays. An extra day was called for.

  The gym was crawling with men: pushing-up, sitting-up, jumping rope, climbing rope, grappling with the horse and the parallel bars, or torturing their bodies on one of the Universal gym machines. Locked into the contraptions of steel bars and chrome springs, they looked to be victims of a trendy Inquisition as they attempted to expand thickly corded arms that didn’t fit into the sleeves of their T-shirts as it was, and develop legs that would split the seams of their tight trousers as they rode their bicycles along the Esplanade.

  Though set a little to one side, the bench press was the “center ring” of the place. For the straight men who visited the International Health Spa it was the essential element in foundation building, and they employed it to develop bulky, rounded upper bodies which, according to heterosexual lore, was the universal and infallible turn-on to beautiful women. Gay men, on the other hand, flocked to the defining equipment, the barbells and the U.G.M.s, after a short while on the bench press, to carve out their muscles, until, ideally, they resembled a page out of Gray’s Anatomy.

  In the International Health Spa the way to tell gay men from straight—and they were there in about equal numbers—was by the shape of their bodies. Gay men were trim and well-defined, but straight men had bulky chests, shoulders and upper arms, but suffered along with potting bellies, flabby buttocks, and spindly legs.

  The wall behind Valentine vibrated slightly. Only a dozen feet above him was a suspended running track attached to the walls and the ceiling. He craned his head, trying to loosen the muscles there, and counted eleven men jogging around in unbroken rhythm.

  Three of the men Valentine knew, but he liked only one: Randy Harmon. Valentine had not seen Randy since before the holidays, and had hoped to find him at the gym today. Disliking exercising with the same violent intensity, they often kept one another company there. “Misery loves visitors,” Randy would say glumly as they changed into their gym clothes.

  Valentine stood and moved to the middle of the floor, or as near as he could get without standing on a notorious muscle-exhibitionist who invariably took the center spot, and entertained and amazed all the novices with a display of the most complicated exercises for the lower stomach yet devised. He watched Randy’s graceful athletic body go through the mechanical paces of running; he tried to catch his eye, but couldn’t.

  Randy Harmon was a couple of inches taller than Valentine; his hair, also reddish-blond, was worn short and he had a thick moustache some years old. When they had been roommates at Tufts, they were more than once mistaken for brothers, and though that no longer happened, they still bore a general physical similarity. Valentine waved a couple of times, but gave that over when he captured the attention of every man in the gym but Randy.

  Valentine crossed the floor and climbed the metal stairs to the track. He leaned against the concrete wall, out of the way of the runners, who approached him from the left around the windowed corner. After the fourth passed, he stepped in without missing a beat. He did not see Randy at first, but then located him a few dozen yards ahead, just around the next bend. Rather than increasing his pace to catch up, Valentine decided it would be easier to drop his pace until Randy came up from behind. This took several minutes. He glanced over his shoulder when Randy was only a few yards back, but when Randy still showed no signs of recognizing him, Valentine fell into place beside his friend.

  “I was looking for you earlier,” gasped Valentine between breaths.

  Randy continued to look straight ahead.

  “Randy?” Valentine shouted and waved his hand in front of Randy’s face.

  Randy blinked and turned his head sharply; his face was expressionless. He stared at Valentine for a few seconds, then laughed, and broke his rhythm. He pointed to a little depression in the wall ahead, and he and Valentine fell away from the scattered group of runners and took shelter there.

  Randy bent forward and pressed his splayed fingers against his muscular thighs and massaged them in long stroke
s to his knees. After a moment he straightened and took seven deep breaths, arching his back and spreading his arms to his side as he did so.

  He turned to Valentine and smiled. “I hate all this.”

  Valentine nodded sympathetically. “I know. But you’ll have to teach me your technique.”

  “Technique?”

  “How to sleep with your eyes open and run at the same time.”

  “I just pretend I’m—” Randy turned his back on Valentine in the narrow space, lowered himself to the floor, and stretched his legs along the wall.

  Valentine waited for him to finish the sentence. He didn’t.

  “Randy,” said Valentine, “something wrong? Is your hypnotist playing tricks on you?”

  “No,” said Randy slowly, “I trust my hypnotist. It’s something else. I—” He didn’t finish that sentence either.

  Behind Randy, Valentine dropped to his knees and peered over his friend’s shoulder. “Randy, it’s me—Val. If you don’t tell me what’s bothering you, I’m going to hamstring you.”

  Randy turned and drew his knees up under his chin. He cleared his throat. “OK—but you’ve got to be Tomb-mouth on this one—”

  “Scratch my heart and hope to croak.”

  “Well,” said Randy, “Sunday was New Year’s Eve, and on Monday night this little hustler got his debts called in, and—”

  Valentine closed his eyes and fell back against the wall. His feet slid underneath Randy’s thighs. “Are you going to tell me a story about the Pig-man?”

  Randy’s brow creased. “What? Listen Valentine, if you don’t—”

  “You’re going to tell me you got visited by Our Lady of the Pigpen? Searcy of the Waving Wand?”

  “I didn’t see his wand,” said Randy. “How did you know?”

  “And he pulled out a four-hundred-watt light bulb and ten feet of rubber hose, threatening you with the third degree—right?”

  “You’ve run into him before then?”

  “Yes.”

  “He showed up at the baths last night,” said Randy.

  Valentine laughed. “Searcy at the Royal Baths? I’ll bet somebody was surprised to find that the bulge underneath his towel was a Magnum.”

  “It wasn’t a social call, Val. Do me a favor, and shut up—I’m upset about this.”

  Valentine grimaced sympathetically. “He came in about William A. Golacinsky.”

  Randy nodded. “Worst possible time. Wednesday night is dollar night and every queen in town with four quarters to her name shows up. So, they’re all lined up, all the way back to the elevator, and I’m checking ’em in, and this stud breaks in line, and everybody’s saying, ‘Well who does she think she is?’ and then he waves a badge and ID in front of the window, and says, ‘This is the police.’ Well, that lobby emptied out like they were showing Dark Victory across the street. So I got Jerry to take over the window and took the cop in my office to talk.”

  “Did you know anything about Golacinsky?”

  Randy hesitated and retied a lace that didn’t need retying. “Yes, in fact I did. He was a regular, usually on the weekends. His weekends started on Wednesday.”

  Valentine sat up. “You knew him then?”

  “I knew him like I know the other regulars. I didn’t take him home to meet my parrot, if that’s what you mean. He’d come in with a trick and the john would pay for the room. John would leave half an hour later, and Billy would leave the next morning.”

  “And he was there that Monday night?”

  Randy nodded.

  “Same formula? In with the john, john comes out, Billy leaves in the morning? And after that, I presume he takes the MTA out to the sticks, lays himself down under the hemlocks, bludgeons himself to death, and then hides the blunt instrument where fifty cops and an hysterical legislator can’t lay their hands on it?”

  “First part’s right,” said Randy. “In with john, but this time he leaves with john.”

  “Then you saw the guy he was with!”

  “No—”

  “Wait, I thought you—”

  “Valentine,” said Randy, with his arms outstretched before him, “you mind if we continue this in the sauna? The vibrations here are giving me a headache.”

  They ran one lap more around the trembling platform, and then descended the metal stairs.

  Valentine and Randy showered quickly, threw their towels over their shoulders and entered the sauna. They took seats on the top tier, carefully searching out a section of bench without splinters, but didn’t say anything until the two men already there had left.

  Valentine checked his pulse. It was up again. He dropped down a tier, where the temperature was not much more than 150°.

  “I hate hassles,” said Randy, “and that cop hassled me.”

  Valentine said nothing for a moment, then asked, “Was he drinking?”

  Randy shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I can’t smell anything. He could have been gargling Aqua Velva and I wouldn’t have known it. He wasn’t slamming off the wall, if that’s what you mean, and he could apparently walk a straight line. But he was—belligerent.”

  “What did he say when you said you couldn’t remember what john looked like?”

  “He didn’t believe me. You know, you’re behind the counter and you’re thinking about going home in half an hour, so you take their money, look at the membership card, make out the time check, and buzz ’em on inside. You don’t even look at ’em. At two in the morning, who cares?”

  “Then how’d you know it was Billy, if you didn’t look up?”

  Randy laughed. “You know what his card says? It says ‘Duke Wayne’ on it. I didn’t think anybody bothered using a fake name these days, especially not a bus station hustler. I remember when he bought the card, he hesitated before writing his name on the back. Duke Wayne? No punky little kid with bad skin is called Duke Wayne, for Christ’s sake. I wouldn’t call my dog Duke Wayne, and she’s dead. So when I saw the card come across the counter it was Billy. I heard somebody call him that one time, and that’s how I know Billy was his name. Anyway, I could see john out of the corner of my eye. He was standing to one side, with his back to me, as if he didn’t want me to see his face.”

  “How long did Billy stay?”

  “They got a room, but in twenty minutes Billy was back at the desk, dressed, and he threw the keys on the counter and went to the elevator, mad. Even forgot to take his card back. I was looking this time, because I knew that something had gone wrong. John joined him—no, I can’t remember john’s name. They didn’t say a word, looked like a lover’s quarrel.”

  “But did you see the john then?”

  Randy sighed and sat forward. He swept the perspiration from his thighs and flung it onto the hot rocks in the deep tray beside the door. It evaporated with a loud sizzle.

  “Medium height, gray hair, overcoat…”

  “And?”

  “That’s it. He kept his back to me. They got on the elevator and left. Maybe I would have been more curious if I hadn’t been so busy. So that’s what I told Searcy. And I gave him the membership card that said ‘Duke Wayne’ on it.”

  “And Searcy said—”

  “Searcy said I was lying. He said I was the last person to see Billy alive, and that I was protecting the murderer. Covering up the trail. He said if I wasn’t down at Berkeley Street with a full description and telephone number of that guy he’d have me charged with conspiracy and withholding of evidence.”

  “He can’t do that.”

  “Of course not. But you remember my old boyfriend Cal? He’s a lawyer—his firm represents Clarisse’s office. Anyway, I called him up, and if Searcy comes back with any more threats, I’m just supposed to give him Cal’s card.” He shrugged dismally. “I’m not afraid of Searcy for that, because I can take care of myself, and the time is past somebody like him can come in and push me around just because I’m gay. No judge in town would listen to him for more than five minutes. But like I say, it’s t
he hassle. I don’t like having to carry around Cal’s card in my wallet all the time, and I certainly don’t like the man coming around flashing his badge.”

  Valentine sighed heavily. “I wouldn’t worry about it now. Searcy’s just blowing off steam because he hasn’t got any leads. He’s got problems of his own. Mario Scarpetti is probably onto the cops every waking minute. Now, I talked to Searcy a couple of times, and he’s got a problem. He got put on this investigation in the gay community, and he thought he was going to come down on top of all these squishy little faggots and strike terror in our hearts, and from what it sounds like, nobody’s getting struck with terror. He’s getting pushed himself, and so he’s pushing you.”

  “Yeah, he did that too.”

  “He laid hands on you?”

  “He shoved me up against the wall.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I said, ‘When do you get off duty?’ He said, ‘I’m off duty now.’ So then I shoved him back, hard. I knew better than to raise my hand to a cop that’s on duty, even if there weren’t any witnesses. He’s in decent shape—more than decent shape—but he’s not as quick as I am. He stormed out and said he’d better see me on Berkeley Street by Friday or my ass was cooked. Cal said it was just possible he could drag me into court, if he’s really crazy, but I don’t want it to go that far. I hate hassles.”

  Valentine raised himself onto the top tier again. The two men then arranged themselves lengthwise on the narrow bench, leaning against either end of the small timbered room, facing one another. The heat was exhausting.

  Randy knitted his brows. “The problem is…”

  “What?” urged Valentine.

  “The problem is, that after that cop left I thought of something else, but I’m afraid to call him up again because he’ll think I was holding back on purpose, and that I know even more.”

  “What was it you remembered?”

  “Billy’s john. He had a bag of toys.”

  Valentine said nothing.