On the other hand,death ds-2

by Richadr Stevenson

  I drove over to Delaware. At the apartment, Timmy's car was not in his space. Nor was it in anyone else's, nor in Visitor Parking. I looked for the rental car he'd had but couldn't spot it either.

  The apartment was airless, silent, dead. I wrenched open a window. I put some Bud Powell on the turntable but never got around to switching on the amplifier.

  The bed hadn't been slept in. Or had it? He might have changed the sheets. I checked the hamper for dirty sheets. Two were in there-folded, naturally, probably in triangles, like the flag in repose. They could have been in there for days, though. I didn't know. Laundry was his job, not mine. Whenever the subject of household chores came up-had come up-I'd say, "You wash and clean, and I'll keep the windmill oiled and the hogs fed." A cushy deal I had. Had had.

  His clothes were in their assigned places in closets and drawers, his luggage stacked beside the vacuum cleaner in the "pantry-ette." I searched for a note, a message on a mirror, a letter(-bomb), and found none.

  In the bathroom the towels and washcloths were fresh and symmetrically arrayed, as at the Ritz-Carlton. His four varieties of shampoos and conditioners were lined up along the end of the bathtub: Maxine, Patti, LaVerne and-Zeppo.

  Only his toothbrush and Aim were missing. Mister Sweetmouth. Mister Oral Hygiene. Clean Callahan, the Germ-Free Child.

  I went back to the bed, fell onto my side of it, lay staring at the ceiling for thirty seconds, or half an hour. And then slept.

  The ringing sound went on and on for days, weeks, months, and when I realized that it was not in my dream I reached out, snatched up the receiver from the bedside phone, and placed it in the vicinity of my head. A mighty act of will enabled me to focus on the alarm clock, which read two thirty-five. I knew it had to be P.M., because fierce sunlight fell across my legs, roasting them inside the khakis I still wore.

  The caller was not Timmy. It was Dot Fisher, speaking in a trembling, tearful, frightened voice.

  She told me that Peter Greco was dead. end user

  18

  I met Bowman at his Second Division Headquarters office in the South End. The place looked and smelled like the old school textbook warehouse in the New Jersey town where I grew up, but instead of moldy books about Charlemagne's horse it was full of shiny new gunmetal gray desks, chairs and shelving, no doubt purchased at a 300 percent markup from one of the mayor's cronies. Albany was still back in the 1870s in that respect, as in others.

  "This thing is starting to get me down, Strachey. Christ."

  He'd slept on a cot in his office. A half-eaten Danish lay on a pile of papers on his desk, and he sipped at some oily black stuff in a foam cup.

  "When did they find him?"

  "About noon. A family out in their Chris-Craft spotted him floating by a piling under the Dunn Bridge. The police boat brought him in."

  "Cause of death?"

  "Dunno yet. The coroner's office has him now. Preliminary says asphyxiation, but that's unofficial, not to be repeated. Anyway, that can mean a lot of things. Guy falls into a baloney machine and half the time the coroner will point to his remains wrapped in little plastic packages on the luncheon meat shelf at Price Chopper and say, 'That man there died from asphyxiation.'

  Once in a while an autopsy comes in on the money. Depends on who's doing it."

  "When will you get a report?"

  "Six o'clock, seven."

  "Are you sure it's Greco? Who identified him?"

  "Mrs. Fisher."

  "Well, Jesus. I would have done it."

  "She knew him best."

  "What about McWhirter? Has there been any sign of him?"

  "Just the car he'd been driving. Mrs. Fisher's. We found it about an hour ago in the V.A. hospital parking lot. I've got two men going over it."

  I examined the dirty swirl of rainbow in his coffee cup. "This stinks. It is rotten. Loathsome."

  "Uh-huh."

  "It is also baffling. I don't understand it. At all."

  "That it is, Strachey. You said it. And now I am going to tell you why I asked you to come down here."

  Now it was coming. I leaned back.

  "The Albany Police Department has officially requested your assistance, Donald M. Strachey, because," he said, trying to look pompous, "I have reason to believe that you are withholding information regarding a criminal matter. You held out on me once, Strachey, but you will do it again only at the risk of revocation of your New York State private investigator's license.

  Now. What else do you know about this goddamn rat's nest?"

  I tried hard not to think about Peter Greco lying cold on the medical examiner's table, his bright eyes blank, and for the next half hour I described yet again my involvement in the case from the very beginning. My mind kept drifting back to Greco-had my distracted ineptitude helped cause his death? — but I concentrated hard, and I told Bowman everything I had seen and learned, how I had learned it, and the tentative or not tentative erroneous conclusions I had drawn at various points along the way. I left out only a little: all my contacts with Lyle Barner; my causing 79 an ex-cop to become inebriated in the Hilton bar; the name of my San Francisco contact.

  "I detect selected omissions," Bowman said when I'd finished.

  "Oh? And what do you detect them to be?"

  "Like, where you got that hundred grand."

  Back to that again. What was he sniffing after? "I borrowed it from an acquaintance who owed me a favor. What difference does it make?"

  "Uh-huh." He gave me his palsy 'I-know-you-you-sly-devil' look, which invariably meant that he was about to say something stupid.

  I said, "Now what? Go ahead. Speak the words."

  "You know what I'm thinking," he said sagely.

  "I do not."

  "Hah."

  I waited. He leaned back in his swivel chair and peered at me across his cauliflower nose.

  "You're in on it," he said. "Aren't you?"

  "'It'?"

  "This big production. Scam, grift, fraud. Six-count felony."

  I studied his face for signs of insincerity, which was not one of his eighteen character flaws. He looked as if he had meant what he said.

  I said, "And Peter Greco's death was part of the plan? The big production?"

  "That was an accident. Poor bastard Greco slipped up somehow. Ten to one the coroner will find accidental death, drowned in the bathtub, lemon-scented bubble bath in the kid's lungs. But instead of calling the whole thing off, you all decided it would work out even better this way with Greco dead. Oppressed minorities, all that garbage. Fruits'll come out of the woodwork all over the place now to sign up for this protest crap of McWhirter's. The hundred grand is just a prop in the drama, and when it's over the dough just goes back to your fag pals, and nobody loses so much as a dime. Am I right? Do I make sense, Strachey? You like my scenario?"

  I stood up and walked out of the room. I could hear him yammering after me. "So maybe you weren't in on it, but you know goddamn well, you told me yourself…"

  As I moved down the stairway and out the front door, no one tried to stop me. That was lucky for all of us.

  The heat hit me like a tire iron. I rolled down all the car windows and drove over to the 1-787 on-ramp. I headed north along the river, then west on 1-90, then north again and got off by the Northway Mall. Inside Cines One thru Six the temperature was about sixty. My seat in a rear corner was comfortable. I don't remember what movie was playing. I think it was about some California kids and a short greenish guy from Mongo, or Chicago, or someplace.

  From the theater lobby I phoned my apartment. No answer there, and my service had no messages. I called Dot and told her I'd be there soon. She said there had been no word yet from or about McWhirter, and no further contacts by the kidnappers. That scared me; during the movie I had concluded beyond all lingering doubt that I had been fooled, diddled, flummoxed-mainly by my own self-and that the kidnapping had all been for real right from the beginning. Now I was scared to death about McWhirter.
<
br />   I stood by the phone thinking about calling Crane Trefusis, but not knowing what I'd say to him, what questions to ask. I considered breaking into his office and going through his files, but the place had seemed well protected and it wouldn't have helped just then to be caught with my finger in my employer's back pocket. Marlene Compton was a possibility; she'd have keys, though I figured unless I could convince her I was really King Hussein or Lee Iacocca, her 80 interest in me would not be sufficient to overcome her numerous and varied loyalties to Crane

  "Quite-a-Guy" Trefusis.

  In any case, the more I thought about it the less likely it seemed Trefusis's files would yield up anything usefully informative. Persons of his special station in life rarely wrote down anything incriminating. And unlike, say, Richard Nixon, the personally secure and unkinky Trefusis would not likely have bugged his own office in order to admire his own excretions at some later date.

  Because I didn't know how to approach him, I put Trefusis on the back burner yet again.

  I phoned Lyle Barner and told him that Peter Greco was dead.

  "I know," he said. "That sucks. The news hit me hard. I'm gonna ask around some more, see what I can pick up.

  "Do that."

  "And… I want to apologize."

  "Don't bother. I understand the shape you're in."

  "No, really. The way I came on to you yesterday. My timing was terrible, Strachey. I felt like a real shit after."

  "Good. But let's let it go. I've got a name for you in San Francisco. A gay liaison with the cops out there. You should give him a call."

  A silence. "Yeah. Well. Guess I should. I'll get the name from you next time I see you. Are you.. doing anything later tonight?"

  I wondered if I was hearing what I thought I was hearing. I said, "I'm busy for a few days, and so are you. But I'll check with you later to find out what you've turned up. Leave a message with my service, wherever you are."

  "Right. Sure thing. I'm not on duty tonight, but I'm going to be out and around. I'm gonna take off right away, soon as I grab something to eat. I'll be in touch, Don. I'll give you a call."

  "Thanks, Lyle. Dredge up what you can. On renegade cops, ex-cops, Millpond, Trefusis, professional thugs, loonies, whatever. This thing is no bad joke anymore. And it can only get worse."

  "Yeah. I guess it can."

  I rang off and tried the apartment again. There was no answer after twenty rings.

  As I turned off Central and headed down Moon Road, Kay Wilson was standing by the roadside peering at something in her hand. She looked up, saw me, and began energetically waving what looked like an envelope. I pulled over. "You missed em again! Those crazy queers stuck another letter in our box, and just like the last time the cops are all off in the doughnut shops somewhere instead of out here apprehending perpertrators. Those bastards keep using our mailbox, people are gonna get the idea Wilson and me are mixed up in this crap. We got enough trouble already, and I want somebody to put a stop-"

  I said, "What 'crazy queers,' Kay? What have you got there?"

  She thrust the envelope through the window at me. It was addressed, as before, to Dorothy Fisher, and said, "Open imeatedly-Life or Death matters."

  "I saw 'em, this time!" Kay bleated excitedly. "I was out by the back stoop chuckin' horse chestnuts, tryin' to knock down a wasps' nest up under the eaves, when I heard a car stop, and I peeked around the corner and saw 'em just when they backed into the yard and then took off back out to Central. This time, I'll tell you, I got a good look, a real good look."

  "That's terrific, Kay. That's great. Did you get the license number?"

  She jammed a finger into the flesh at the corner of her mouth and looked like a cartoon character looking thoughtful. "Well, no. Didn't get a good look at that. But I saw the car."

  "What kind was it?"

  "Big."

  "Big like a-what?"

  "Like an Olds, or Ford. Or Chevy maybe."

  "What color was it?"

  "Sort of brownish, like Wilson's. Or blue maybe. Coulda been green, I guess."

  "How about the people in it? There were more than one?"

  "Two."

  "Both men?"

  "Yup."

  "What do you remember about them?"

  "They were… white."

  Or green. "Take them one at a time. What about the one driving?"

  She thought some more. "Matter of fact, I didn't get a real good look at him. Shoot. It's hard to remember. I was way out back, ya know."

  "What was he wearing? The driver. Sports shirt? T-shirt? What?"

  "Nothin'. He wasn't wearing nothin'. I mean, no shirt, ha-ha. Probably had pants on, though you never know these days. One time out at the home I was on my break, and I walked into the canteen, and this one nutty aide we used to have by the name of Neut Pryzby, he was standing by the soda machine with-"

  "The man driving the car, Kay. He wore no shirt? The car window was open?"

  "His arm was hangin' out," she said. "Yeah, that's right. Drivin' with the other arm. Nice arm, the one I saw. Thick and muscle-y, like Wilson's used to be. Nice big round shoulders. I like that in a man." She gave me a look.

  I said, "You must have seen the side of his face. Did he have a beard?"

  "Nuh-don't think so. Nope. No whiskers."

  "Big nose? Little nose? Pointy? Flat?"

  "Yeah. Nose. Guess he had one. Average, I'd say."

  "Right. What about the other guy?"

  "Hoo. Jeez. Guess I didn't really get a good look at that one."

  "He was in the front seat, too?"

  "Yup."

  "How do you know it was a man?"

  She snorted. "Huh! You think I can't tell the difference? I ain't that old yet."

  "You mentioned 'crazy queers.' What made you think they were-queer?"

  "Because it was on the radio. Cripes, it looks like I know more about all this crazy shit flyin' around here than you do."

  "There was nothing about the two men you saw, though, to make you think that they were gay?

  Or their car?"

  "No wrists flappin' in the breeze, if that's what you mean. Say, we could use a little breeze, huh?

  Anyways, Bob, you told me before that you was one of them. Bet that was just a line, though, wasn't it? Huh? You ready to own up to ol' Kay?"

  She gazed at me forlornly. Happily, I was able to say, "I'm queer as a three-dollar bill, Kay. You want a good reference, check with officer Bowman. Not that I've ever passionately nibbled the man's lobotomy scar. Nonetheless, he will vouch for me in a forthright manner. Check it out."

  She hooted. "G'wan! Next think you'll tell me Rock Hudson's one!"

  "Yeah. Or Liberace."

  Her laughter thundered out into the neighborhood and she slapped her great thigh with delight.

  The clap was like a sonic boom rippling across Georgia.

  I said, "Listen, Kay, the cops will undoubtedly want to ask you some more questions about the car you saw. Meanwhile, I'll see that Mrs. Fisher receives this envelope."

  "Glad to help out. Hey, is that Greco guy really dead? Lord, I about peed my pants when I heard that. Radio said he drowned. I mean, was he really kidnapped, or did he steal your money, or what the hell's goin' on around here?"

  I said truthfully, "I don't know, Kay. I wish I did."

  "When Wilson gets back here he's gonna kick up a real storm when I tell him the cops'll be back.

  Bill don't take to cops. He was kind of a juvenile delinquent when he was a youngster and had some pretty rough times with the law. When I tell him, I hate to think."

  "Where is your hubby, Kay? He doesn't work Sundays, does he?"

  "Hadda meet some people. Somethin' about the ball games. Business." She looked at her feet, then up at me again, not happily. "I won't tell him it was you that was here, Bob. Wilson's the jealous type. If I told Bill not to get his dandruff up, that you was just a homo, he'd call me a liar and a lot of other names. Wilson cares a lot about my reputation
, I gotta say that. He puts me on a pedestal." She smiled feebly, and I smiled feebly back.

  I told Kay I'd be in touch, then drove on down the road. I pulled over in front of the Deem house

  — both cars gone, no sign of life-and opened the envelope.

  The note, in the by-now-familiar handwriting, read: "If you don't want Fenton to die like Peter pay $100,000 dollars again Mrs. Fisher. We will contact you. And this time no cops." end user

  19

  Dot was on the phone with Peter

  Greco's mother in San Diego. "Oh, no, Mrs. Greco. No, Peter did nothing to bring this on himself, you can be dead certain of that." She winced, and went on. "Peter was one of the sweetest, most considerate people I've ever known, and this thing is just the most unfair- Yes, I'm afraid it's not a mistake. I saw your son's body myself and- Is there someone there with you, Mrs. Greco?"

  She stood slumped against the wall, her eyes half shut in a face collapsed with age and grief. As I passed her, our eyes met and she shook her head in spent resignation.

  I went over to the cop seated at the kitchen table, apparently on guard against sugar bowl thieves.

  You guys screwed up," I said. "This was tossed into the Wilsons' mailbox fifteen minutes ago." I dropped the envelope on the table. "How come their place wasn't covered?"

  His jaw dropped and he snatched up the letter. His mouth clamped shut as he opened the envelope, and when he read the note his jaw dropped again. Getting up, he said, "I better notify the lieutenant."

  "Right. This puts a new light on things. Or an old one."

  The cop trotted out to his radio car as Dot went on speaking with someone who seemed to be a neighbor or friend of the senior Grecos'. After a moment, she placed the receiver on the hook but didn't move. There was a long silence. She glanced at me, then looked away. I could see what she was thinking.

  I said, "It's no one's fault. Except the people who did it. They are the only ones to blame. When I find them, I'll tell them how we feel about what they have done."

  "I offered them the money," Dot said in a broken voice. "What more could I have done?"