St. Agnes' Eve

by Malachi Stone

  “Stout fellow.” Turning back to face the massive TV, Kokker enunciated, “Hard.” He must have had the whole setup voice-recog programmed. Twin chrome cylinders rose silently out of the floor on either side of him. One held a VCR server, the other a full rack of tapes. “I’ve been meaning to convert everything over to DVD, but where does one find the time or energy?” he sighed. Selecting the first tape from the rack, he inserted it into the server.

  My true specialty was chasing personal injury cases for Mark Kane all over hell’s half acre—a euphemism for the Metro East. I could always be counted on to settle any and every case for Mark Kane, no matter how many bugs were in them, and all the cases in Mark Kane’s office had bugs in them. Usually the same bugs. As a matter of fact, at the moment I was staring at the back of the beetle-bald head of one frequently encountered bug. I needed eighty thousand dollars to cover the major credit cards alone. I was two months behind on all four mortgages. Sitting beside Kokker in his weirdo-engineered rec room, I pondered life’s injustices. Hell, yes, I wanted high definition and surround sound. I wanted the quiet life, and I wanted Sandra and Janis in a three-way. I wanted all the crank I could snort or slam and more money than I could ever spend.

  Sandra Pulls the Train began with a gimmick: a silent-movie steam locomotive heads down the track straight for the audience. Animated titles spring from the iron horse’s cowcatcher. Twinky digital rendition of Casey Jones. Dissolve to Sandra in action.

  Kokker stood and addressed me, blocking the screen. “Ricky, as you might have suspected, I didn’t bring you all the way out here merely to show you adult videos. What I want to know is, do I have enough?”

  The on-screen scene had shifted. Men and women of all ages crowded around watching Sandra coupling with a powerfully built black man. From the looks of things onscreen, the man’s prepotent equipment threatened Sandra with an imminent size-related injury.

  “For a divorce,” Kokker added. “Do you think I have enough grounds for one?”

  “Who took these videos, Doctor?” I asked

  “I did, of course. Why do you ask?”

  “Because the law says you can’t connive to procure your own wife’s adultery and then use it as grounds to divorce her.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Kokker was indignant. “Why on earth should it matter?”

  Rather than justify it, I explained, “The point is, it’s easy to obtain a dissolution of marriage these days, maybe even too easy. The trick for a man in your financial position is hanging onto your assets. Did you have her sign a prenup?” Kokker’s dismal change of expression told me he hadn’t.

  Sandra’s pink tongue in extreme close-up now, clear enough to show her taste buds. Kokker, his back to the screen, moved a half-step stage left. Like an actor hitting his mark, he precisely superimposed his body between me and the central action onscreen. Kokker’s positioning was perfect; Sandra’s mouth seemed about to engulf the shining crown of his head.

  Try as I might, I couldn’t crane my neck far enough around Kokker to see what followed. Kokker kept up his defensive moves, strutting around, posing more and more questions as he did. Won’t Sandra’s video adultery deny her a property settlement? No. Would it help if she signed a prenup now? No, that horse is already out of the barn. What about the fact that the holdings—the string of chiropractic clinics, the shopping malls, the gaming boats—are all closely held corporations? No, none of it would protect him from a potentially ruinous divorce settlement.

  Then he asked me one that gave me pause. “What if one spouse knew the other had some connection to a murder?” Not one of your most frequently asked questions in my area of practice.

  “Go on,” I said.

  The onscreen image of Sandra seemed to flash me the same little-girl, cutesy-poo expression I’d seen that day in the chiropractic office. As she did so, I heard Kokker whine on the audio track, “Don’t look at the camera.”

  Kokker stepped aside at last, revealing Sandra conjoined with the others. Of one flesh, as the Apostle says, although I didn’t think Kokker wanted to hear my sermon right then. Watching the tape, it was hard not to visualize one huge, fleshy snowball of humanity—red and yellow, black and white; painted and unpainted faces, fingernails, and toenails; heads, legs, pits, and pubes, shaven and unshaven; big and small, pierced, clipped, or nature’s own; probing fingers and prying eyes—rolling downhill, gaining momentum, all the while grabbing up others in the irresistible gravity of its hurtling, hell-bent juggernaut.

  That world had already claimed me as its own. I resolved then and there never to allow any of it to touch my family. And yet, I was drawn in like a lost soul by the snare of something akin to familiar curiosity as I witnessed Sandra re-applying her lip-gloss. Kokker must have sensed me getting excited. He stared down at me with inseam-measuring eyes. The moment for any more talk of murder had passed, I thought. I was wrong.

  Leaving the tape running, Kokker sat down next to me again, this time on the side opposite the TV. Now I had a choice: make eye contact with him or watch his wife take on half the three-one-four area code. I decided to look at him. After all, he was the client.

  “Do you know what a snuff film is, Ricky?” he asked, his voice lowered to conspiratorial level here alone together in his rathskellar with the door barred.

  “I have a fairly good idea.” I’d seen part of a television documentary.

  “Do you?” Kokker replied. “Then perhaps you’re just the man to advise me. Confidentially, of course. Nothing we say here leaves this room. Are we on the same page in that regard?” I nodded. Attorney-client privilege and the rule of confidentiality sealed my lips like the Angel of Death from a professional standpoint, and Kokker knew it. That didn’t mean I was necessarily eager to hear what followed.

  “What if one spouse came into possession of a snuff film? Quite by accident, mind you, but the pesky thing falling into the wrong hands could possibly lead the authorities to the perpetrator of an unsolved murder or two. And then the other spouse finds out about the snuff film. What then?”

  “I’d need more facts,” I said, basically stalling. “What use does the finding-out spouse intend to make of the information? In other words, are you asking me about interspousal privilege?”

  “Interspousal privilege,” Kokker said, seeming to relish some delicate irony in the words. “Just for fun, let’s pretend that I am. Can the finding-out spouse tell the police on the other, given the scenario I’ve described?”

  I switched my gaze while I considered the question. In close-up, Sandra obligingly accommodated enough men to field a starting squad—and I’m talking football here, not basketball. “When did she first acquire the information? We are talking about a she, aren’t we?” I ventured.

  “We are indeed. Let us assume, for the sake of our little game, that Hypothetical Hubby becomes aware, after the fact, mind you, that a crime has been committed—let’s say murder, to keep it interesting.”

  “All right.”

  “And let us further assume that Hypothetical Hubby knows the identity of the killer, having recognized the killer from watching the snuff film. For whatever reason, Hypothetical Hubby keeps mum and doesn’t tell the police, not even anonymously. Ergo, the killer roams free to commit further atrocities. Assuming all this happens before the wedding bells chime, is there any way Hypothetical Wifey can turn around after the honeymoon and testify against Hypothetical Hubby about it?”

  Video Sandra was taking on the bench warmers now. My wariness had grown while Kokker had delivered his speech. He’d reminded me of a wily law professor, fond of the Socratic method, setting up some elaborate trick of logic where resort to legal syllogism threatened to lead me down a dark alley to a dead end devoid of common sense and justice.

  “The answer is yes,” I said at last. Kokker turned pale before I could quickly add, “But what you’ve described—accessory after the fact—is not a crime in the state of Illinois.” I paused. “We are talking about something that hap
pened in Illinois, aren’t we?” Why had I so easily assumed a snuff film would have originated in the Metro East? One always has to be so careful making assumptions about jurisdiction, practicing law so close to the line. The state line, that is.

  “Has that been the law for some time?” Kokker inquired.

  “Since before I went to law school.”

  “And when did you happen to matriculate, if I may be so bold to inquire?”

  “Over twenty years ago,” I said.

  Kokker seemed relieved until I went on. “Now, there is a statute on the books making it a crime in the state of Illinois to aid or conceal a fugitive. It would constitute a crime if Hypothetical Hubby did something affirmative—for instance, performed some act that aided the killer to escape, hid him away, or furnished false information to the police.”

  This last seemed to trouble Kokker. “What if Hypothetical Hubby removed some insignificant token from the crime scene, something that didn’t seem that all-fired important at the time? Let’s say merely as a sort of trophy or souvenir, but as time wore on and the killer was never caught, something that might even today prove crucial in solving the murder? What then?”

  “Then I think Hubby definitely has something to worry about,” I said. “Hypothetically.”

  In the periphery of my vision Kokker’s fingers drummed away on the crushed velvet as soundlessly as the flutter of moth wings, oblivious to the fact that Sandra had changed partners yet again. The camera scanned a restive line of bikers and accountants, millwrights and playwrights, ding-dongs and ho-hos. Like Studio 54 rejects of a bygone age, flat-footed on the wrong side of the velvet rope, they moved forward one by one until each took his turn. A line long enough to turn away customers at the multiplex. It looked like men’s night at the naked amusement park.

  “I love the logic of the law,” Kokker said at last. “I find its clarity stimulating. And you may rest assured, Mark Kane’s firm will be the one I’ll always call upon if I need any additional legal advice and counsel regarding these concerns you and I have discussed.”

  As a salaried non-equity partner, I, for one, was grateful as hell, but I responded, “Thank you, Doctor. I’m sure Mark will appreciate your kind words.”

  “By the way,” Kokker said, “I want there to be no room for misunderstanding between us, Ricky. All photographs, all videotapes in this house are my own personal property. They are not to leave these four walls without my express authorization. Their content is sacrosanct, intended by me to remain absolutely, inviolably secret, confidential and privileged. Understood?”

  I nodded, but he still seemed unsure. “As my attorney you will doubtless appreciate and honor my expectations in that regard. Agreed?”

  “Relax, Doctor.”

  “I am relaxed,” he said. “Unfortunately, some of my video subjects aren’t exactly the laconic type. As you might suspect, many of those I’ve captured on videotape over the years are quite happily married—like you and Diane—and some enjoy positions of the highest regard and trust in their communities. It should prove extremely embarrassing to some very well placed and influential parties should any of these chronicles become public. Hence my request, which I harbor no doubt that you, as my attorney and valued friend, will honor.”

  “Your secrets are safe with me, Doctor.”

  “Are you speaking now as my attorney, or as my friend?”

  Now it was my turn to drum on the crushed velvet. “Both,” I choked, throat dry as parchment.

  Kokker patted my hand and stilled my busy fingers. “Good,” he whispered. I told myself it was all part of the job and took another peek at Sandra taking on all comers. Noting my interest, Kokker commented, “Take it from me, Ricky, Sandra is a kinetic masterpiece in bed, a sexual acrobat.”

  I panicked. Did he know about us?

  “You and your lovely wife Diane must come join us for an evening’s frolic.”

  “Frolic and detour,” I said. A legal term. It didn’t mean anything in context; I just felt like saying it for a goof. There was no way I was going to involve Diane in any of this, I told myself. The funny part was, I actually meant it at the time. But Kokker wasn’t finished.

  “Diane is welcome to come and observe merely as a spectator at first. Let her stand dockside and wave if she’s shy about boarding the Love Boat right away. I should advise you, however, that many of those who began with us as landlubbers now number among our most seasoned shipmates. There’s sure to be an avid waiting list to book passage on Diane’s maiden voyage once she decides it’s time she got her sea legs.”

  My inner child traced an imaginary bull’s eye around Kokker’s right orbit. Call it a double standard, but Diane’s name would never grace the labels on any of Kokker’s video “chronicles” if I had anything to say about it. And after fourteen years of marriage, I thought I did.

  “And I take it you’re an able-bodied seaman yourself, Ricky,” he added. I knew from reading about “the lifestyle” that available women were the currency of the swingers’ realm, the price of admission to every soiree. In Kokker’s circle, however, I wasn’t so sure. So I asked.

  “What’ll it cost me?”

  “‘What’ll it cost me?’ Why Ricky, I’m surprised you’d weigh the sincerity of my hospitality. In other words, you want to know the quid pro quo, as you lawyers are so fond of saying? That means tit for tat, doesn’t it?”

  “More like fair exchange,” I said.

  “You should have ventured to inquire before you shipped out,” Kokker said.

  “Doctor, I hope I haven’t misled you by giving you the mistaken idea either of us wants to begin anything like this—”

  “Begin? Ricky, it’s much too late for that. You’ve already cast off merely by watching. You’re in it up to your eyeballs now, matey. By not plucking them out at your first opportunity, you’ve made your choice clear. I can tell you’re eager for the savor of forbidden fruit.”

  “I’m afraid it might leave a bad taste in my mouth,” I said. Sandra’s gluey lips had bloated into a pout from exertion until they resembled a bad collagen job. The middle finger of her right hand seemed to have become grossly elongated. Home video distortion—Kokker probably needed to adjust the tracking.

  “We’ll even let you cut to the head of the line so you can get first crack of the evening at her. How does January twentieth sound?”

  “Not interested,” I lied. It would be public sex with Sandra, and with the husband’s permission. But was I prepared to pay the price?

  “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it, Ricky. You’re what, forty-six now? When are you going to grow up and sample life’s adult pleasures? Whatever puritanical hang-ups you might be laboring under, simply lay them aside for one night—for Diane’s sake. I daresay you’ll both find the entire ‘do what thou wilt’ experience quite liberating. January twentieth. Dress for dinner.”

  “Doctor, I said no and I mean no.”

  I got up to leave. Kokker’s whiny voice pursued me. “Do you think it’s fair to Diane, keeping her cooped up with four children and nothing to do but cook, clean, and wait on all five of you? Doesn’t she deserve some fun out of life, or perhaps you make that decision for her as well?”

  “Good day, Dr. Kokker.”

  “We’ll reserve the date for the two of you. In the unlikely event you change your minds and wish to cancel, you have my private number.”

  It was a judgment on me that I even knew Dr. Kokker, much less had his private number committed to memory. As I passed near his tape rack on my way out, I squinted to read some of the names on the labels, but the light was too dim for close work. Besides, I was late for a house blessing.

  Chapter Two

  Entertained by the Dead

  Wolf was at the door. Wolfgang Galeer, our four-year-old son. I knelt and hugged him. He smelled like chocolate chip cookies.

  “Where’s Mommy?” I asked.

  “Stripping,” he said.

  I found Diane on her knees in the
cold, drafty shop, her plastic-gloved hands rubbing out the last vestiges of Mary Kay pink from a ladder-back chair. All the windows were open to let the paint stripper fumes escape. The chair was her latest acquisition, one of a set of six she’d glommed onto at an estate sale. Her expert eye had seen through the garish surface to the inner quality beneath.

  Diane had a third eye. Whenever we kissed and our eyes lined up together just right, hers—clear blue as Curacao—would seem to converge into a single cyclopean orb centered just below her hairline. The mystery was how that eye had so far been blind to all my betrayals.

  Diane had been the darling of psychic researchers on two continents before she could ride a bicycle. Look up world parapsychology in the late sixties if you want to see pictures of her as a child.

  I preferred the way she looked as a grown woman. In tight, faded jeans and an oversized work shirt, she was my denim Delilah, my furniture-rescuing femme fatale. A year ago, in a burst of quixotic entrepreneurial spirit, we’d set about to transform Diane’s avocation into her vocation. We bought a hundred-year-old house in east Belleville; went ass-over-teakettle in debt to remodel most of the main floor into a spacious, well-lit salon with a workshop in back; and Remembrance of Things Past was born. The rest of the main floor was our kitchen, family room, den, and half bath. Upstairs were four bedrooms: Anastasia and Tatiana shared one, Nicholas and Wolfgang another. Diane and I had the master bedroom with adjoining bath. That left one for company, if you’ve been counting. Had I known what company was coming, I’d have done better converting it into a study. It soon would prove to be one bedroom too many.