The Dirty Book Murder

by Thomas Shawver

  Back in the hallway, I put on the mask, wrapped the black silk scarf around my shoulders, and crept to the top of a circular carved oak staircase that overlooked the main entrance. The gallery below teemed with attractive men and women in their middle-to-late twenties. They laughed and chattered with the familiarity derived from sharing the same private schools and country clubs since childhood.

  I knew the type, if only from my encounters with their fathers and uncles on high school football fields. They were wimps when it came to us Jesuit-educated punks, always whining how we hit too hard and too late. Circumstances, of course, changed when the playing fields became the social register and financial and professional institutions.

  Catholics who graduated Notre Dame, Boston College, or even Marquette or Saint Louis U. had their own kind of economic and political mafia in town, but nothing like these lads and lassies whose golden pedigrees from eastern colleges opened every social and economic door. They were the new elite, scions of the WASP hierarchy who were just beginning to make their mark in the downtown law firms, banks, and brokerage houses.

  For the most part, they were also very young emotionally. And here was Martin Quist, the pied piper their parents had probably warned them about, offering a liberating lifestyle; one more sophisticated and daring than they ever thought to find in their stodgy hometown.

  An enormous inglenook and Italian marble fireplace filled the north wall of the main hall. A pre-Raphaelite sculpture portraying Undine hung atop its mantel. It seemed appropriate, given the nature of the gathering, that to the ancient Greeks Undine was a water nymph who drowned her promiscuous husband with an embrace.

  On a marble table in the center of the room stood the ice sculpture of the Venus de Milo, minus the legs. Her truncated waist was surrounded by crepes and turnips cut to look like flower petals. I noticed the ice artist in a nearby corner, gazing forlornly at his half-melted masterpiece.

  The men wore tuxedos, the women shimmering dresses—more like slips really—that clung to their lithe bodies like lizard skins. A few couples lounged on old-fashioned silk davenports drinking champagne, smoking hashish, and dipping tiny spoons in dishes covered with white powder.

  An overly made-up young woman dressed in a skimpy black lace outfit cowered in the center of a pack of men who showered her with abusive language, comparing her breasts to cantaloupes and the like. Based on the tentative bond that she might be the giggling maid I’d spoken to on the telephone, I debated whether to intervene. Before I risked blowing my cover, however, a silver-haired gentleman appeared by her side. With arms defiantly crossed, he addressed the tormentors until, one by one, they sulked away.

  The maid pasted on a frozen smile and resumed wandering among the guests. Her rescuer returned to his post by the front door to continue his job checking the invitation cards of new arrivals.

  I seemed to have been the only one to notice the mini-crisis. Sounds of laughter and humming conversations continued to mix with the strains of Mozart played by a string quartet. Pretty young heiresses fluttered about like black-and-white moths, showing off their décolletage, their bare arms, their long legs, inviting the men who shimmered among them to spread their pollen. Virile Adonises and scantily clad Dianas, no doubt rented for the occasion from local health clubs, glided through the animated crowd proffering alcohol and pills with the assorted canapés laid out on round silver platters. Hands flew everywhere, patting shoulders, playfully adjusting one another’s masks, brushing against thighs, cupping breasts and crotches.

  The swanlike girls and their randy counterparts, stimulated by alcohol, drugs, sumptuous food, and the Gatsby surroundings, looked primed for whatever revels Martin Quist had planned as the time edged past eleven.

  The invitation had intimated that something sexual was in store for them, and, because the guest of honor was Hollywood’s infamous Long Bob Langston, they must have thought anything short of a Fellini-esque bacchanal would be disappointing.

  Two men and a young woman, each glowing with lustful expectation, stopped in front of me on the stairs. The latter, barely dressed in a flowing see-through tunic, nodded pleasantly as I bowed before her like a courtier. They invited me to watch their coupling, but I politely expressed my regrets. I descended the staircase looking for an inconspicuous place from which to look for my daughter.

  I wallowed into the throng that filled the main room to overflowing. Not everyone wore the black masks provided at the door, but most did. The sense of anonymity fueled by alcohol, beautiful bodies, and the languid air of unchallenged privilege led to a palpable lack of inhibitions by these ambitious and reasonably intelligent young professionals.

  Now that I was among this crowd, it wasn’t hard for me to understand why. The scent of expensive perfume and testosterone-charged sweat, combined with the lush surroundings, had a remarkably enticing effect. Given half a chance, pheromones will trump any sense of caution, no matter one’s age; the bulge in my trousers testified to that.

  I found a seat on a cushioned bench of the inglenook, discreetly crossed my legs, and began looking for Anne and Josie Majansik.

  There was no sign of my daughter, but it wasn’t difficult to spot the tall Edward Worth, who stood under a portrait of a satyr. Josie, partially hidden by a Corinthian post, leaned against it next to him.

  I watched as she straightened his bow tie, then reached for two martinis offered on a silver tray by a server clad in leather briefs and nipple rings. After handing Worth one of the glasses, she took a sip and scanned the crowd. It didn’t take her long to catch my stare.

  A flicker of recognition crossed what I could see of her face, but the eyes behind the mask quickly glazed over as if I were just another piece of decoration. She whispered something to Worth, who pretended to laugh rather too hard. A few breaths later they strolled through open French doors onto a veranda.

  I decided to follow them after spending another minute futilely scanning the crowded room for Anne and Langston. The loggia was open on one side that looked onto the swimming pool. People stood on Tuscany tiles in coveys of three and four, sipping champagne and checking their watches. I saw Worth studying a pair of cavorting swimmers, but Josie had disappeared.

  A bell chimed half past the hour and the stately baroque cantata being performed by the quartet abruptly ended, replaced by the wall-shattering bleating of a Kid Cudi recording of “Wild’n Cuz I’m Young.” I returned from the loggia to find the room a playground of frenzied dancing.

  A statuesque girl, most likely hired by Quist, slipped out of her dress as casually as removing a glove. Her companion put down his drink, neatly folded her dress, and led her to the staircase. Another young woman did the same and, like her friend, was carried away by a roguishly laughing boy. A third kicked her shoes into the air and performed a clumsy striptease to the music. Out in the loggia, horny young men loosened ties and unzipped trousers with the help of strangers. The bacchanal was beginning.

  Desperate to find Anne, I checked a semi-darkened room with a billiards table in its center. The heads of several species of African wildlife littered its rosewood walls. Shadows created by the flickering light of candles in glass hurricane lamps gave the creepy illusion that the animals were alive.

  A pale, loose-fleshed man, bald as Mount Hood except for a monk’s ring of hair about his ears, sat on a zebra skin couch tapping ashes from his cigar onto the detached palm of a mountain gorilla. The macabre ashtray rested atop a stool made from the lower leg of an elephant in a den where only a beautiful hand-knotted Kurdistan rug seemed to have escaped the hunting knife.

  “Well, hello,” the man said, patting a spot next to him. “Care to join me in this charming place?”

  “No thanks. Have you seen a tall girl with blond hair?”

  “Dear boy, the house is crawling with such Aryan blue bloods. Anyway, the only statuesque blondes I’m interested in are of another gender.”

  “She’s with an older fellow, a man about my age.”

&nb
sp; “Ah, you’re stalking her,” he said with a smile as slippery as a cheap hotel bathtub. “Jealous? Or are you her daddy?”

  That thought struck him as so absurd that he laughed until a bit of snot flew from his nose. He quickly pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the mess off his trouser leg.

  “Good-bye,” I said, turning to leave.

  “Come to think of it,” he said to my back, “I did see such a couple. Not more than a half hour ago. They were hovering about Martin himself. I believe the girl was with that director fellow who makes such abominable moving pictures.”

  I spun around. “Where were they?”

  “They hadn’t gone upstairs yet, but it was still early. I must say the girl didn’t seem very comfortable. I felt rather sorry for her. Martin and the man were shouting at each other about a film they were making. Dreadfully boring stuff, so I found somewhere else to wander and located this room. They were in the music chamber on this floor, but I shouldn’t think they would still be there.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Oh, you’re so very welcome,” he twittered with false bonhomie. “Please do come back if you’re feeling lonely. These parties can be so dull in the beginning and sometimes never properly take off. A few unfortunate events too early and all mystery and eroticism are lost. Then one might as well be at the Pink Pussycat gazing at a stage full of dancing cocks and vulvas.”

  The fat man turned around and spoke, jowls twitching with merriment, into a darkened corner.

  “Wouldn’t you agree, Denny?”

  “Most certainly.”

  The man who said this sat in an oversized armchair next to a cabinet of exotic butterflies pinned to a board. Another person—it was impossible to tell in the darkened space if it was a man or woman—kneeled before him.

  I couldn’t see “Denny’s” face, but I’d heard the voice of Denton Crowell often enough in court to recognize it. I hoped, as I slipped into the hall, that the district attorney had been too occupied with the bobbing head in his lap to recognize mine.

  It wouldn’t have mattered.

  I’d barely gone five steps when a beefy fellow dressed in a black turtleneck and jacket tapped my shoulder. He hadn’t bothered to wear a mask, which was unfortunate because his scarred, wall-eyed face would have looked better hanging on the wall of the room I had just left.

  “Mr. Bevan?”

  I almost nodded.

  “Come with me,” he ordered in a Mexican accent as he grabbed my elbow.

  He resembled a bowling ball, as wide as he was tall, which was something like five feet seven inches. When a second thug, also Hispanic but more my size, nudged a sharp point against the base of my spine I decided to forgo making a scene.

  Having come to terms decidedly in my new acquaintances’ favor, we marched off, arm in arm, two tall guys and one bowling ball, looking as if we were in a rush to catch a Los Lobos concert.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  They hustled me through the bustling kitchen. The chaos there didn’t seem any more controlled than before.

  Half a dozen cooks prepared crepes, stuffed venison, and foie gras—the usual stuff one finds at a party if you happen to live in Monaco. Servers rushed past carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. A few guests lounged at a table sampling goodies hot out of the oven, much to the annoyance of the fat chef with the big mustache. Another partier, her back to the rest, stood by the sink drinking a glass of milk and staring out a window, seemingly oblivious to the commotion around her.

  At the far end of the kitchen next to the pantry, my guards opened the elevator door and shoved me in. The tall one stayed behind while the bowling ball jumped in with me, binding my hands behind my back with plastic handcuffs.

  We descended three stories, maybe four, before clanking to a stop. The door opened to a tunneled chamber that stretched into blue darkness.

  “Get out,” the Mexican gnome ordered.

  “Where are we?”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “It won’t help you to know.”

  “Do you do much of this sort of thing?”

  “Too much, buddy. If you haven’t already guessed, my boss is a very sick motherfucker.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Not like him. But after a dozen years in federal prison, my employment opportunities are rather limited.”

  I felt the blunt end of something push the base of my spine and hesitantly stepped out.

  Before the door closed, however, I turned and grinned at him.

  “Don’t bother offering me money,” he said. “I’ve had prettier folks than you try to buy their way out of this.”

  I stared at him as if studying an insect.

  His eyes got more guarded.

  “You’re not fooling me a fucking bit, pal. If you ain’t scared shitless by now, you oughta be.”

  He had a point. I felt like guppy bait about to be tossed into a shark tank, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of showing it. I kept the smile, nodded as if he’d just dropped me off at the airport, then turned around and marched into the darkness.

  I fought the onset of panic as the noise of the whining motor and straining cable receded above. A putrid odor of decaying animal flesh filled my nostrils. It emanated from both sides, leading me to think that something had been entombed within the walls. Lacking other options, I continued down the corridor, straining my eyes and steeling my will to face whatever horrors lay ahead. The echo of my footsteps resounded hollowly against the stone walls.

  Initially, the ceiling had been only a few inches above my head, adding to my sense of claustrophobia, but the tunnel eventually opened into a large, dimly lit chamber. Recessed lighting displayed patches on the concrete floor that were the color of dried blood. My eyes became accustomed to the semidarkness and, after taking another twenty or so hesitant steps, I detected a platform no more than a foot off the floor that was carpeted in black. Dark drapes formed a backdrop to the small stage.

  Drawing closer, I saw a human figure standing ramrod straight in front of the platform as if bound to something in front of the curtain. Another person kneeled before the other, a few yards away. Because they were both clothed in black, they were almost invisible against the backdrop of the drapes. If the standing figure had not twitched, I might not have noticed them at all.

  A spotlight suddenly illuminated a poster-size photograph on the wall to my right. Portraying a woman tightly wrapped in dark fabric, the photo was similar to the ones I’d seen in the upstairs room. Another beam flashed onto a photo of what looked to be the same woman, but with the cowling on her face adjusted to expose an eye. A long slit had been cut in the fabric from chin to navel, exposing white breasts and a flat belly.

  A third picture revealed the dark line of a thin red horizontal wound across a slender neck. Dark eyes stared vacantly into the camera. The tip of her tongue, the last evidence of a long scream, protruded from parted lips.

  “ ‘Smile on our loves,’ ” Quist’s voice intoned from somewhere in the dark, “ ‘and while thou drawest the blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew on every flower that shuts its sweet eyes in timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on the lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, and wash the dusk with silver.’ ”

  A new light came up. It displayed Martin Quist to the right of the stage. He sat casually atop a small table. His feet dangled an inch or two above the floor. On either side of him were cameras and video equipment. He wore a checkered bow tie with his tuxedo, along with a silly grin and a nine-millimeter machine pistol. The Glock looked like a cannon in his small hands.

  “Truth shines brighter when clad in verse,” he said with a sigh. “Don’t you just love William Blake’s poetry?”

  “Until just now,” I said, not bothering to grin this time, “he was in my top five. Right behind John Lennon.”

  Quist slid carefully off the table.

  “You might as well know,” he rubbed his gun with a shiny little finger,
“I create sublime poetry through the administration of pain. Lovely girls, preferably blond and full-breasted, are my tablets; the camera my pen.”

  “What d’ya want to do when you grow up, Marty: write ads for Hooters?”

  “Oh, how amusing. A pity that she couldn’t hear that.”

  Against my better instincts, I looked as the spotlight shone on another photograph.

  “You’re insane,” I said, looking back at him.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He sighed. “People have been telling me that ever since I bit the nipple off my wet nurse, but I simply have a child’s soul.”

  Right, I thought, and it’s in a special jar in the attic.

  Quist motioned with the gun for me to step forward.

  “That’s close enough,” he said, after I had moved within fifteen feet of him.

  When I stopped, he lowered the gun and continued with his speech.

  “I could hardly believe my luck when I learned you had crashed my soiree this evening. Your presence adds such a dimension to the art that I am about to produce that … well, it’s indescribable. Thank you, Bevan. Thank you very much indeed.”

  The little bastard bowed.

  “And now,” he said, like a barker at the county fair, “on with the show!”

  Quist used a clicker to shut off the overhead lights. In their place, a klieg lamp sparked on to reveal a tall, slender woman. Chained to a post in the center of the raised platform, she was entirely clad in black leather, but the front zipper had been pulled down, exposing the top half of her breasts and her throat. A dark cowl covered her face except where holes were cut for the eyes and mouth. A rubber mouth plug stifled her cries. Strands of strawberry blond hair that had escaped the cowl gleamed in the harsh light.

  It took only an instant to recognize my daughter. Her eyes were pools of terrified watchfulness.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  In the shadow of the light a few feet from the stage, Bob Langston kneeled behind a loaded crossbow. Like Anne, he wore the leather outfit head to toe. His hands were secured behind his back with the same type of plastic handcuffs that bound mine. A string attached to the trigger extended to an iron ring embedded in his tongue. I shuddered with helplessness and rage. The taut line meant that the slightest movement would pull the trigger, hurtling the dart into Anne’s exposed throat.