The Recycled Citizen

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “She really is the most exasperating woman,” Sarah fussed when she at last managed to get off the phone. “The awful part is that she means so well. Now where did I put that blouse I was going to mend?”

  She settled herself under the lamp and searched through her sewing box for the right shade of thread. “You know, Max,” she remarked as she compared the spools, “it’s odd they chose purple. That’s the most deceptive color there is. Under artificial light you often can’t tell it from brown.”

  “Good point, kid. Maybe they had the purple cans and figured they had to get the good out of them.”

  “A while back you were telling Theonia they had them printed up specially because price is no object with drug smugglers.”

  “So I’m willing to consider both sides of the question. Sarah, I have no idea why they picked purple, unless purple is a color less used for soft drink cans than other colors, which it may or may not be, or because purple is less conspicuous than orange or because somebody just happens to like purple. What’s important, as you’ve pointed out, is that choosing purple for their signal color has in fact tended to limit the time span during which they can safely make their drops and pickups.”

  “Maybe they started in June or July and didn’t realize what was going to happen when the evenings began getting shorter,” said Sarah. “I don’t suppose narcotics dealers are much in tune with nature. Oh dear, there’s the door bell. See who it is, would you, darling?”

  Max went to the speaking tube. “Who is it?”

  “Your trusted lieutenant,” came the squawky reply.

  “Advance and give the password.” Max pushed the release button for the vestibule door. “It’s Brooks, thirsting for adventure.”

  “For goodness’ sake, hasn’t he had enough to last him for one day? Brooks, why aren’t you home rubbing Theonia’s feet?”

  “She’s soaking them in bubble bath.” Brooks was frisky as a chipmunk, notwithstanding the hours he’d put in. “Max, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Congratulations. About the color purple looking brown under artificial light, right?”

  “Ah, you’ve been thinking too.”

  “Actually Sarah was thinking. We take turns.”

  “Then you’ve also thought of the ramifications?”

  “Sarah’s in charge of ramifications.”

  “Including Chet Arthur’s demise?” Brooks insisted.

  “No, demises are my department,” said Max. “It would seem Chet Arthur must have been killed a good while before he was found, otherwise that splash of purple paint on his bag wouldn’t have shown up much against the brown paper, and whoever killed him wouldn’t have known whom to mug. This of course is assuming he was killed for the heroin, but if he wasn’t, his death and particularly the shining of the body makes no sense.”

  “I’m quite ready to go along with your assumptions. The autumnal equinox was just this past week, on September twenty-first, so sunset the night he was killed was shortly before six o’clock standard time. Allowing an hour for daylight savings, that means he couldn’t have been killed much later than seven, yet it was a quarter to eleven when Dolph got the call that the body had been found. I’d guess close to dusk, myself. It could have been a serious problem, hiding the body for any great length of time.”

  “Unless he was killed in a deserted warehouse or a secret cellar,” Max suggested.

  “Or a cavern measureless to man,” Sarah put in. She’d ducked into the bedroom and emerged in a warm caftan of a shade between rose and apricot that Theonia had picked up on one of her lingerie raids to Filene’s Basement. “Though I don’t suppose there are many caverns around here, unless you count the underground garage at Boston Common. That would be a good place, actually. Whoever did it could stick him in a car, cover him up with something, and just leave him there till it was late enough to take him over to Marlborough Street and dump him.”

  “What would Chet have been doing in the underground garage?” asked Brooks.

  “Using the men’s room?”

  “How would the person who was supposed to collect the drugs know he was there?”

  “They’d either have followed him in or lured him in,” said Max. “No doubt it’s also occurred to you, Brooks, that these drop-and-scoop operations are well orchestrated. Considering how carefully the first part of the transfer was supervised this afternoon, I expect we’ll find the rest of it is too. To begin with, that guy in the purple suit must have known that woman in the purple sweater was on her way to the right spot.”

  “More than that, he knew there would in fact be a woman in a purple sweater,” Brooks added.

  “He knew there’d be somebody in a purple something, anyway. That means he was working with somebody who’d had the SCRC under close surveillance, who knew where that woman was likely to go and when she’d be likely to get there. They must have been in contact by telephone or walkie-talkie.”

  “Or telepathy,” said Brooks. “You do see, Max, that the dispatcher is most apt to be someone connected with the center itself.”

  “It wouldn’t have to be someone who’s always there, though, would it?” said Sarah. “I don’t suppose they keep dropping those cans all day.”

  “Oh no,” said Max. “Nothing like it. They couldn’t pull this stunt too often without somebody getting wise. Besides, there’s so much profit in heroin they wouldn’t have to.”

  “We can find out easily enough,” said Brooks, “just by watching to see how many people leave the center wearing purple.”

  “Right,” said Max. “You might disguise yourself as a hydrant, stand on the sidewalk and count them as they go by.”

  “Unsubtle, my boy. I suppose your idea is to go straight for the rat i’ the arras.”

  “Annie,” said Sarah, not happily.

  “Ah yes,” said Brooks. “The non-topless ex-waitress from the Broken Zipper with the sticky fingers.”

  “That was only Theonia’s impression,” Sarah reminded him even as she herself was recalling how deftly Annie had swiped all the sugar yesterday at the restaurant. “I shouldn’t have mentioned her. The name simply popped into my head.”

  “And for good reason, I expect,” her cousin replied.

  “She’s around the center a good part of the time, isn’t she? Hostessing, or whatever they call it? She must get to know, the members pretty well, and no doubt she can tell purple when she sees it.”

  “It’s her favorite color.”

  “Well, don’t say so in that voice of doom. Dash it, Sarah, if we start playing favorites, we’ll never get anywhere. Max, do you know anything about that sink of iniquity she worked in?”

  “Not really, but I have one of my secret agents casing the joint.”

  “Stout fellow. When do you expect a report?”

  “Any time now. He said he’d be along.”

  “Whom are you talking about, or is that a secret too?” Sarah asked him.

  “He’s one of your old boyfriends.”

  “Max, not that awful Bob Dee?”

  “Perish the thought. Last I heard of Dee, he was selling used cars in Phoenix.”

  “Gad,” said Brooks, “you do keep in touch, don’t you?”

  “I never know when a stray piece of information may come in handy. Such as Annie’s liking purple. How did that come out, Sarah?”

  “Quite innocuously, or such was my naïve impression. We were talking about what colors to paint the rooms in the new housing facility.”

  “Mary didn’t take you over to look at the building, did she?”

  “No, she didn’t. I’m not even sure where it is. Do you know, Brooks?”

  “Certainly.” Her elderly cousin whipped a street map of Boston from his pocket and spread it out in front of her. “You see? Right here.”

  “But that’s right near the harbor,” Sarah protested. “Won’t it be terribly chilly for those old people in the wintertime?”

  “Name me a place that isn’t. And think how pleasan
t it will be in the hot weather.”

  “I can think of a few other things it might be,” said Max. “Did I hear the door bell?”

  It came again, that merest hint of a tinkle. Max grinned, sidled over to the door, flattened himself against the wall and eased it open with his foot. Sarah gaped, gasped, then began smiling too. Brooks looked from one to the other in perplexity. Nor was his puzzlement lessened when a thin, dark wisp of a man in a filthy raincoat, dirty chino pants, and moccasins with no socks despite the raw late fall evening, slunk through the door, hugging the wall.

  “Bill Jones!” Sarah came to him with her hand out. “What a lovely surprise.”

  “Yeah-h-h,” he breathed, then added in a confidential murmur, “Hi, Sarah.”

  “And this is my cousin, Brooks Kelling. Brooks, you remember Bill Jones, who was so helpful to us in the Wilkins* affair?”

  “Indeed yes, sir, though I don’t believe we two actually ever did get to meet. This is a great pleasure.”

  Bill Jones allowed his tiny hand to be pumped. He didn’t commit himself to the extent of saying it was a pleasure for him too; but his dark eyes and his excellent teeth flashed a momentary signal to that effect before his not uncomely face settled back into its usual expression of wary watchfulness. Brooks, used to the ways of small creatures in the wild, adjusted to the newcomer without difficulty.

  Thus put at his ease, Bill ventured an opinion that this was a nice place they had here. Sarah explained that it was only temporary and told him a little about the house they, were building at Ireson’s Landing. Bill said, “Hey-y-y,” and then, the amenities taken care of, they got down to business.

  “Who owns the Broken Zipper, Bill?” asked Max.

  Bill shrugged, an exercise that involved his entire body, from his dirty bare feet to his curly black hair. “Who owns all those places?”

  “Another blind trust, I suppose.” Max sighed. “And you have no idea who’s behind this one?”

  “Bunch of Greeks, I guess. It’s called the Thanatopsis Realty Trust.”

  “Thanatopsis?” Sarah wrinkled her nose. “What an odd choice. Thanatos in Greek means death.”

  “Yeah-h-h,” said Bill Jones.

  “How long have they owned it?” Max wanted to know.

  “Only since 1977.”

  “And who owned it before that?”

  Bill became extremely uncomfortable. He wet his lips and looked wistfully at the door as if he had an urgent rendezvous with destiny.

  “Come on, Bill.”

  “Well, it was somebody who owned a lot of property around the city. Came from one of the old families.”

  “All right, Bill,” said Sarah. “Which of the Kellings was it?”

  “Name of Frederick.”

  “Great-uncle Frederick? Goodness, I wonder if Dolph knows. At least he got rid of the place before Dolph inherited. How long did he have it, Bill?”

  “Just a year.”

  “And what was it when he bought it?”

  “Same as it is now.”

  “Oh. Well, don’t look so stricken, Bill. I suppose Great-uncle Frederick meant to start up a redemption center for barflies or some such thing, found they didn’t want to be redeemed and unloaded the building to these Thanatopsis people because they reminded him of Great-aunt Letitia.”

  “Or because Dolph made him sell,” said Brooks. “Wasn’t it in 1976 that Dolph finally got up his courage to have Uncle Fred declared legally incompetent?”

  “I think so,” said Sarah. “It was after that business of the Boston Common pigeons, I know. But anyway, it’s out of the family now so we don’t have to worry about that angle. Bill, what can I get you to drink? Coffee, brandy, your usual gin and tonic?”

  Bill confided in a barely audible murmur that he could use a gin and tonic. Max brought it, along with tots of brandy for himself and Brooks and a glass of her fizzy grape juice for Sarah.

  “So what’s doing at the Broken Zipper these days?” Max asked. “Thanatopsis boys got everything under control?”

  Bill shrugged but only from the waist up. “Like you’d expect.”

  “Any snow on the ground over there?”

  Bill took a kittenish lick at his drink. “I don’t go in much for winter sports, pal.”

  That meant he knew but didn’t want to rat. Max was well aware of the way Bill Jones’s mind worked. So was Sarah. She wasn’t up on drug dealers’ jargon, but she did know that snow was a name for heroin. Horse, was another, though she couldn’t imagine why.

  “What about horse droppings?” she asked, to everyone’s surprise including her own. “Bill, we’re not just making conversation.”

  Like an increasing number of other men, Bill Jones was more or less in love with Max Bittersohn’s wife. Perhaps his feeling was rather more than less, although he’d never been heard to wish old Maxie would fall off a cliff, as a fellow artist was wont to do. This man was a sculptor, though, whereas Bill was a commercial illustrator. By the laws of compensation, blood might run hotter in those constrained to work with cold clay. Anyway, Bill wasn’t so besotted that he could deny Sarah nothing, but neither was he indifferent enough not to give her something.

  “Most places like the Zipper, you get a little buying and selling,” he conceded. ,

  That was a lot from Bill but not enough for Sarah. “Bill, we’re talking about more than a little buying and selling. We mean substantial quantities being shifted around right in broad daylight on the streets of Boston. We’re pretty sure we know how it’s being done and we have reason to suspect there may be some kind of tie-in with the Broken Zipper.”

  This was heavy stuff, and heavy stuff made Bill Jones squirm. Since he had nothing on but a thin shirt with his chinos, his squirms were not constricted and a student of modern dance might have found them inspirational to observe. Sarah, Max and Brooks merely sat and waited till he quieted down and they could get on with the business of the meeting.

  *The Palace Guard

  Chapter

  13

  “I COULD MAYBE—YOU know—drop in for a drink,” Bill ventured at last.

  “Are you known there, Bill?” Max asked him.

  The artist made gyrating motions with those incredibly wee hands. “I’ve been.”

  There were few places around town where Bill hadn’t been. The Bittersohns had found that out long ago. For an almost painfully honest man, which in all truth he was, Bill knew a remarkable lot about what lurked in the dark corners of Boston. He never got into trouble. Everybody knew Bill didn’t carry tales. And everybody knew he was the kid brother of Pericles Jonubopoulos, another honest man, and one nobody cared to get on the wrong side of.

  “Before we go further, you may wish to familiarize yourself with the appearances of some people we’ve run across in the course of our explorations,” said Brooks, fishing a small packet from his inside breast pocket. “I managed to get these developed and printed during odd moments before and after dinner. Here’s one you took of that fellow kicking the, can away from Theonia, Max.”

  “Nice composition,” said Bill with professional interest. “Theonia? I had an idea she was your wife, Brooks.”

  “She is, I’m proud to say. Perhaps you hadn’t realized what a talented actress she is. I must say I hadn’t myself. She disguised herself as a bag lady and spent all day yesterday tramping the streets, gathering evidence.”

  “Hey-y-y! But where does the tonic can come in?”

  “We have reason to believe such cans are the receptacles in which the drugs are distributed, presumably from the supplier to the pushers,” Max told him. “We have no proof yet, but you’ll notice it’s a purple can of a brand even Brooks never heard of. The guy kicking it away is dressed in purple from head to foot. And less than a minute later this same guy stood back and let the can be picked up by a woman wearing a purple sweater.”

  “Okay pal, but why do you say heroin?”

  “Because we’d already found a few grains of it in a bag that h
ad purple paint squirted on the side of it. Wait a second, I’ll go get it.”

  Max fetched the torn bag again. “The guy who carried this was mugged and killed the night before last. He was another SCRC collector—you know, they go around picking up waste and turning it in for salvage. Their bags are marked with the logo, as you see. This one had been ripped open and left at the scene. There were other cans lying around but none like the one in the photo. I managed to see a photograph the police had taken at the scene.”

  “You didn’t tell me that,” said Sarah.

  “I suppose it didn’t seem important at the time. I spun them a yarn about trying to trace his family so the center wouldn’t have to pay for the funeral, but it didn’t get me far. They just said forget it, guys like him don’t have families interested in paying for their funerals. The photograph wouldn’t have helped much, anyway, because he was lying face down.”

  “But surely they took other pictures, dear.”

  “That was the one they showed me, and I didn’t want to make waves. They suggested I wait till the undertaker got him tidied up and take a shot then for identification purposes if I wanted one. That made sense, so I did.”

  Max picked out the photograph of Chet Arthur. “Ever see him?”

  Bill Jones shook his head. “Not to remember. Who made the identification?”

  “Sarah’s cousin Dolph. He and his wife run the center. This man was one of their best workers.”

  Bill waited.

  “We’ve managed to fill in a little of his background. His name was Chester Alan Arthur and he used to work over in South Boston, possibly in a boiler factory that went out of business a few years ago.”

  “Grotters and Wales,” Bill replied promptly. “Grotters died, but Wales is still around. Nice old man, looks like Winston Churchill. He plays golf with my brother’s father-in-law.”

  “Great. Is there any chance you might get your brother’s father-in-law to ask Mr. Wales if Chester Arthur ever worked for him, what position he held and roughly how much he got paid? Arthur turned out to have a good deal more money stashed away in the bank than a man who made his beer money collecting other people’s bottles might have been expected to, and we’d like to know where it all came from. It may have been on the up-and-up. He was a frugal type, and he hit the lottery for twenty grand a while back. I found the lunchroom where he bought the ticket, pretty much by accident.”