Harmony In Flesh and Black

by Nicholas Kilmer

  Fred thought about it, wondering whether it would be worth it to find Russ and sit down with him. Or should he leave this where it was and tell Clay to take the loss?

  Meanwhile, the tail end of Smykal’s avocation flicked from under a rock Fred hadn’t turned over: the photography he had been making when Fred came back for the letter, of which no evidence remained when Smykal’s body lay there not long after, starting to cool in its blood and sweat.

  It was a troublesome fact to know about and not resolve if Fred decided to let it be his business. His urgent instinct was to leave it.

  * * *

  Fred called Molly and asked her to come into Cambridge. Maybe she could take in a movie with him.

  “Sam has a Spanish test I have to study for,” Molly said. “I can’t be gallivanting around with you.”

  Fred would sleep awhile, let things settle in his mind. Then he’d find dinner if he felt hungry.

  He was uneasy. He wanted something to unravel the tangles in back of his eyes between what he knew, what he didn’t know, what he didn’t know he knew, what he knew he didn’t know, and what he didn’t want to know if he could help it.

  He woke sometime after one, startled. Was there noise? Someone in the room? Something out in the hall?

  He recalled Molly’s waking in fear some nights ago to find him standing naked in her dark window. How could he not be the thing she rightly feared?

  He’d wakened as you do when the phone rings, adrenaline pulling you out of sleep like a diver hauled too fast from the deep. He listened, looked into the dark. Nothing else was breathing here. Pulling open the drawer of the bureau, he slid the gun out and paced through the room. Faint light reflecting off the river came through his window. He listened at the door, opened it quickly, and stared into the empty corridor.

  He was awake for certain now and wouldn’t sleep again.

  He went to the window. The sky had cleared. The glass was cold.

  Molly had packed a sweater with his clothes. It was wool, navy blue. He put that on over a heavy shirt, with his jeans and sneakers. Smart Molly to think he’d want them. He could call her, wake her, and thank her. Then the shoulder holster and the jacket. It was a tight fit, but warm.

  He eased through the hotel, still active in the bars and lobby with people putting off going to bed. He’d leave the car in the garage and walk down to Pearl Street, stretch his legs, maybe check on Russ; just take a look.

  Walking through Harvard Square, still fitfully merry with stragglers, he wondered, was it sympathy that had wakened him? His feelings about Ennery had changed, as if they’d been pushed off a high cliff. He had the kid in his mind and was feeling sorry for him. Whatever his business with Mangan was, Russ was outclassed, out of his depth, suffering a big loss and trouble he could only start to guess at. On the telephone he’d come on bravely, doing his best, trying to scramble long enough to retrieve something out of the ruin. If Russ was reporting to Mangan, Mangan was calling the plays.

  Fred didn’t want to despise Russ. He didn’t want to see him hurt. He didn’t want to see that silly bow tie, so naive and defiant, so newly out of its chrysalis, smashed into permanent submission.

  What had awakened him was a feeling of danger for Russell. Fred wanted to take care of the kid.

  He’d have to be careful, then, and see to it that he didn’t allow his judgment to be pulled out of focus by his instincts and emotions.

  Outside the square, traffic, vehicular and foot, thinned out fast. Fred stretched his legs, warming up, almost everything closed now along Mass. Ave. Video King was dimly lit but empty. Cops dozed in their cruiser on Turbridge Street in front of Smykal’s building. The Irish pub on Hancock Street was open. Someone was working behind closed doors at the Post Office, a few lights on. Central Square was brighter, friendlier. More people were out. It was a different population here, with more variety of color, shape, and size. It was more truly cosmopolitan, with Indians, Haitians, Arabs, blacks, Puerto Ricans, Chinese, and the multitudinous immigrants of the European countries.

  Fred spotted a place still open that did barbecue, and indulged a sudden hunger. He had coffee with his sandwich. Seven or eight people were in the storefront, a couple of them drumming on a table. It was lively. The walls were painted fire-engine red. A pair of cops walked in, in uniform, joking with the people behind the counter. No two people in the place were the same color.

  Fred thought, I’m playing bachelor. He’d been knocked off track by the seductive affection that had come over him in his sleep. If he’d had a son back when he was first old enough to have one, that son might be Russ Ennery’s age now. Was that it? Was Fred the bull cow looking for his calf? A sympathy like that was irresponsible. You could lose men that way.

  Well.

  He paid the guys at the counter, told them good-night, nodded to the cops, and went on to Pearl Street. It was three in the morning now. The front door of Russell’s building sagged open, as usual. No lights were on in the apartments, but one bulb burned in the stairwell. Someone was sleeping in the back of the first-floor hallway. It looked like an old lady back there, curled up. She snorted in a toothless way when he looked down at her, and curled tighter in her nest of plastic bags, stuffed with what she owned.

  You couldn’t tiptoe up these stairs, but people who conspired to leave their street door flapping open wouldn’t be surprised by heavy footsteps on the staircase at any time of the day or night.

  Fred climbed to the top floor. The kitty litter outside Russell’s door had been changed. There was a saucer of milk out. Russ was in residence. Fred stood listening at the door, but he knew there shouldn’t be anything to hear if Russ was sleeping.

  He stopped on the second-floor landing and stood outside the apartment he’d been in this morning, talking with Dawn and Sheila. Anyone who saw him standing here would take him for a middle-aged geek, a peeper.

  “Jesus Christ!” Fred said almost aloud. “What did I throw away?”

  He hurried back into Central Square, found an all-night convenience store where he picked up a tiny flashlight, batteries, and heavy gloves, and headed back toward Harvard Square.

  “Goddamn,” Fred said. “When’s trash day?”

  The night was darker and more deserted than before. The cops were still sleeping in their cruiser in front of Smykal’s place on Turbridge Street, lulled by the companionship of their radio, voices, static, and the occasional flickering shadows of passersby crossing the streetlight. The insides of their windows were fogged by their breathing.

  The barrels stood full, even brimming, next to Smykal’s building. Piled next to them, and heaped on top, were soaked cardboard, a mattress, a busted baby stroller, and the rest. Fred put it through his mind and called the image back, selected the second barrel in from the sidewalk, figured how far down he ought to have to go, and pulled the gloves on. The street surrendered enough ambient light for him to see what he needed to.

  “I’m not the only person in this town combing through people’s trash to look for cans and bottles,” Fred muttered. “And watching out for needles.”

  If the cops in the cruiser woke and saw him, it wouldn’t cause a moment’s question.

  I guess they found enough to go through in his place, Fred thought, surprised that the Cambridge detectives had not sorted through the building’s trash.

  “What do I do for Clayton Reed?” he said aloud. “You’d call me a curator, madam.”

  Two feet down and relatively dry, he found it: the Kinko’s bag he’d tossed early last Saturday morning on his way to visit Smykal’s corpse.

  LIGHTS ** CAMERAS ** ACTION and the rest of it. LIVE ** MODELS and the number.

  Fred put one of the posters in his pocket. Alone outside the dead man’s place, he felt a wave of dismal kinship moving toward him: the wary fellowship of the lone man.

  Live Models. A thing of beauty is a joy for about a moment. Fred had taken a thing of beauty from this place, a thing that had a genetic link with th
e dead man. Conchita Hill, that charming young woman, naked and frank as an apple—what had become of her? Where were the paintings she made? Her wedding dress? The basket of pins and ribbons she used, her glasses and false teeth? How had the energy and beauty of the woman, launched into the world, come to find itself finally cornered hopelessly in the dead end that was Smykal?

  That thing of beauty, Conchita—everything she had done or made had vanished utterly.

  * * *

  Fred sat in his room and watched the sun think about lifting itself to ride over the river. He laid the poster next to the phone. He looked at the phone number. He looked in the book; Smykal was not listed. He looked at the number and dialed it. Four-thirty in the morning. He listened to it ring until it clicked into a cheerful recorded voice: “Lights. Cameras. Action. Our models are busy but willing. Please leave your name and number. We’ll get back to you.”

  The voice was Dawn’s.

  * * *

  Fred tasted the fecund air of the outdoors. Mangan nagged at him. He wasn’t going to sleep. The man had had the gall to hand his card over as if he were an insurance salesman. Mangan was up to his eyeballs in Fred’s business. In Smykal’s killing, too, maybe—not Fred’s business. But it was Fred’s business if Mangan had the letter, the Chase autograph. He itched to drive to the South Shore, take a look at Mangan’s famous spread, walk in and look around. A move like that would have to wait, though, until after the auction. Fred should at least follow his own advice and not risk making waves until the issue of the Heade was settled. Wait. Let it wait.

  Let Russ be. Forget Dawn’s voice on the machine. It’s not your problem, Fred. Interesting, but not your problem. File the following observation, though: Buddy Mangan is more than a loud noise. He’s dangerous.

  * * *

  Telephone.

  It was Molly’s voice in Fred’s ear. He put the gun down.

  He’d picked the gun up when the phone rang. That was instinct working: old habits; nerves.

  “Miss you,” said Molly. “You awake?”

  “I’m awake.” He looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock. He’d slept again. “I miss you, too. Did you do good Spanish? Let me talk to Sam. I’ll try to egg him on.”

  “He left already. I told him you wished him well.”

  “Let’s have lunch. We could go to a place,” Fred said.

  “I liked how we did it yesterday,” said Molly. “It makes me feel egregious. I’ll bring a snack. See you—what?—around one?”

  “Check. Meet me in the Quiet Bar. It’s my new hangout.”

  “Be in your room,” Molly said, “because that’s where I’m going.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I want to warn you: Ophelia may call you.”

  “How come?”

  “She wants your opinion. I couldn’t think what to say about why you were at the Charles, since I won’t tell her your business.”

  “God, no.”

  “Say whatever you want. Ophelia has the impression there’s a rift between us. I didn’t deny it since, with Ophelia, there’s no point.”

  “If she calls,” Fred said, “I’ll try to be decent with her. Is she still with Finn?”

  “She said she has to talk with you,” Molly said. “We didn’t talk about her sex life.”

  “Ghastly thought. I’ll see you, Molly.”

  “Believe it.”

  22

  Fred showered and dressed for the day, putting on white shirt and tie. He put the gun under his arm and pulled on the sport coat over it. He went downstairs for a paper and breakfast. The hotel’s dining room was filled with the clean and blessed. He sat. Two minutes later, behind the headlines, Ophelia materialized. She was all business in a blue suit and exhibited elaborate surprise at seeing him.

  “Fred! What are you doing here? Breakfast at the Charles! La la. Alone? Or are you meeting someone?”

  Ophelia was content to trade an hour’s scandal for her sister’s well-being.

  “I’m having breakfast. Alone, as you see. Until now. Molly said you’d call.”

  “Oh, you talked to Molly?” Ophelia said, disappointed. “I’ll join you, may I?” she said, sitting, her tail end used to being warmly received wherever she presented it. “I want your opinion, Fred.”

  “So Molly said. Let me order.”

  He asked the waiter to bring pancakes, and coffee as soon as possible. Ophelia ordered coffee also, “as long as I’m here.”

  She leaned across the table, her hands clasped, a gleam in her eye. “I decided I must see you this morning. Fred, I need your advice. About an idea.”

  She paused, waiting for Fred to bite. He drank coffee and waited, looking at her.

  “You are the first person I’m talking with. I haven’t even mentioned it to Sir Albert. Al. Al Finn.”

  “Do you want something to eat?” Fred asked her.

  Ophelia shook her head. “I’m excited about Al’s potential. He knows so much, though, it intimidates me. I’m afraid if I talk with him prematurely, he’ll laugh. I don’t want to go off—pardon my language, Fred—half-cocked.”

  Ophelia looked at Fred, waiting.

  “Why should he laugh?” Fred asked her.

  “He doesn’t believe in TV, but I think he’s a natural ham, and you know I have an instinct for the medium.” She leaned back, awaiting Fred’s approval.

  “You want to get Finn on one of those ‘Be Happy with the Body You Have Already’ things?” Fred asked. “It would be great to see the old boy in a white leotard, pontificating.”

  “No, no. It’s a new series I’m developing, trying to bring to the proposal stage. Totally new idea. I produce it and appear as hostess since people want to see me. But my idea is to have Sir Albert as, well, the artistic director.”

  Ophelia gleamed.

  “Al and I get on so well,” she went on. “We are almost inseparable, except when he’s working or—”

  “What’s the plan?” Fred interrupted.

  “The Great Collectors. A series about the interesting art collectors. Al knows them all and helps them with their collections. He knows where the bodies are buried.” Ophelia’s merry laugh sounded as if she’d spent far too much time already in the company of A. Finn.

  “The idea is, we film the collections. We go all over the country together. WGBH pays for it. Albert can do a spinoff book without even thinking. You do the shows to sell the books. Sir Albert introduces each show in his beautiful English way, he talks to the collector for ten minutes, then they show the collection. Albert and the collector talk, with my help. It’s made in heaven. It’s never been done.”

  “I’ll tell you right now,” Fred said. He occupied himself with his pancakes. “Clay’s such a private cuss, you won’t get to first base with him.”

  “With Clay?” Ophelia looked perplexed. “Oh, you mean your boss. No, no, heavens.” She vouchsafed a peal of laughter. “My plan is to have Sir Albert talk with people of importance, not locals. Some of the persons he advises. A few chosen others.”

  She leaned across to where she could almost strip a bite of pancake from Fred’s fork. “Some of these collectors have never consented to be interviewed before. Al’s reputation, and the growing momentum of the project, will bring them on board. You’ll never guess who I’m thinking of to do the kickoff.”

  “I never will,” said Fred. “Listen, Ophelia, I’ve learned to love the body I have. Do you want my last pancake?”

  “No. Thanks. I’m serious. I heard Al talking about him last night, very excited, you know how he can be, and it came to me, the whole thing. We’ll lead the series—The Great Collectors—with Arthur Arthurian.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I knew that would impress you,” Ophelia said. “From something Albert let drop late last night or early this morning—I lose track of the time, he’s so exciting to be with—he’s going to write an introduction for the catalog of the Arthurian collection.”

  She reached out,
took Fred’s remaining pancake, lathered it with butter and syrup, and started eating.

  “I wondered,” Ophelia said with translucent innocence, “because you know so much about it and I know so much about other things instead, before I start talking the project through seriously with Al, what can you, Fred, personally tell me about the famous Arthur Arthurian?”

  Finn had been in town for what, three days? four? and already his network had caught the scent of Arthur Arthurian. He must be going crazy wondering about this collector he’d never heard of.

  Fred signaled for more coffee while Ophelia sharpened her attention. Let her wait for a change.

  “One only hears rumors. He’s not your Onassis type,” Fred told her, “nor your Gulbenkian. From what I hear, Arthurian abhors the light of publicity, the beaten track.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ophelia said. “Let me take notes.”

  Fred obliged. Ophelia found a notebook in her Hermès handbag, which she’d put beside her on the table so the room could see she had one.

  “Don’t breathe a word to anyone,” Fred advised, “until you have Arthurian’s permission.”

  “Of course not,” Ophelia said. “But since you’re telling me, it will save the great man’s time later.”

  Fred had an uncomfortable suspicion that Ophelia was here not as what she seemed but as an ambassador, looking, on Finn’s account, for information that he couldn’t get himself because it did not exist. If that was the case, Fred would send back smoke. Clay deserved a gesture of revenge.

  “The art world is a small world, and Arthurian a very private man,” Fred said.

  “I understand. But tell me, for example, where does he live?”

  “I hear he has become a recluse.”

  “Became a recluse where?” Ophelia said.

  “I know nothing I can guarantee,” Fred said.