Hell You Say

by Josh Lanyon

  The interview was going down the drain fast. I needed to make it quick, before the last of Bob’s coherency dissolved like the ice in the booze. I said, placating, “I’m not insinuating anything, Bob. I just wonder if there was another explanation for Gabe’s disappearance.”

  “I’ve told you what happened to him. I told the police. No one wants to believe me.” He shuffled back to his chair, sat down, letting his head fall back against the cushions.

  “How did you find out someone painted an inverted pentagram on my doorstep?”

  “Gabe saw it. He saw that you had tried to wash it out, but he knew from the shape.” Eyes closed, he drew a circle in the air, then wiggled his finger in an air-doodle.

  Now that was interesting. That meant that Savant hadn’t disappeared straight after leaving my shop. He had hooked up with Bob at least one final time. Yet, if I had understood the newspaper account correctly, according to Bob, he hadn’t seen or spoken to Gabe after he had gone out that morning.

  I didn’t say anything, sipped my drink.

  Bob went very still. “Oh, I see,” he whispered. He opened his eyes.

  “What do you see?” He seemed to have focused on a point over my left shoulder. I glanced uneasily over my shoulder, half-expecting to see an ectoplasmic manifestation.

  “I think you better leave,” he said, sitting up, reaching for the phone. “Before I call hotel security.”

  “Uh…okay.” I preferred hotel security to being shot, and I was relieved that he hadn’t remembered that option.

  I put my glass down. I let myself out while Bob still struggled to get out of his chair.

  On the elevator ride down, I kept thinking over what he’d said. Gabe had to keep it all to himself, this was his project, his baby… But weren’t they all?

  I stepped out of the elevator in the lobby in time to see Betty Sansone and a Harry Potter look-alike, both garbed in those long, black, leather duster-style coats, stepping into another one. Young guns from the fifth dimension.

  Straightaway, I tried to crowd back on the elevator, but was too late. The doors shut. I moved to the next one and punched the button, waiting impatiently. Passing guests gave me reproving glances.

  At last the elevator opened. I stepped in, pressed the button for Bob Friedlander’s floor. Before the doors shut, an elderly couple boarded. The man was bowed beneath the weight of shopping bags stuffed with white and silver wrapped Christmas presents. The woman carried an apricot toy poodle. Which is to say, it was a live poodle, but one of those pocket-sized, yappy ones. It wasn’t yapping at the moment, but its lip had caught on its tiny incisor in a sneer, as though it knew what I was thinking.

  “Six,” the elderly man rapped out.

  “Sorry?”

  “Six,” he said impatiently. “Six. Six. Six.”

  I pressed the button for the sixth floor.

  We started our slow ascent, the three of them surveying me in open curiosity. I realized I was tapping my hand against the wall and stopped.

  “Aren’t you Lisa English’s son?” the woman said.

  Oh, God.

  “No.”

  I glanced at them, then away. I guess it’s true about married people starting to look alike after a while. Or maybe they were brother and sister. They were both deeply tanned and correspondingly creased, and they had sparse hair dyed that awful fake red-blond color that certain seniors go for. They reminded me of shrunken heads — but with all the limbs still attached.

  The woman whipped out a blue rhinestone — I assume they were rhinestones — lorgnette from her Louis Vuitton bag. She viewed me closely. Smiled. “You are! He is, isn’t he, Ralph?”

  “Feh,” said the old guy. I hoped that’s what he said.

  “She’s such a lovely person!”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I couldn’t help it. I pressed the button again, leaned into it, as though this would speed the elevator.

  “She’s the true force behind the success of our annual Paws and Claws Ball.”

  Lisa had always been an active supporter of the SPCA, despite the fact that I was never allowed to have a dog or a cat as a kid (she was a staunch advocate of tropical fish, as I recall).

  “Her fundraising efforts on behalf of the Opera Guild are nothing short of miraculous. And now she’s getting married, I understand. Isn’t that lovely?”

  “Lovely.”

  “So romantic.”

  “You bet.”

  “December weddings are so special.”

  She smiled fondly into the watery eyes of the poodle. It licked its chops.

  The elevator lurched to a stop on the sixth floor. The doors slid languidly open.

  “Do tell your dear mother hello!”

  “Will do.”

  She continued to smile at me as they shuffled off. I hit the Close Doors button. Hard.

  The elevator shot up the last floors. The doors opened onto a silent and empty hallway. No sign of the extras from The Matrix. I strode down to Friedlander’s suite. I heard the phone ringing from inside.

  He answered on the first knock. His glasses were askew, his hair sticking up in un-groomed tufts. He straightened the specs, examined me in disbelief.

  “You! What do you want?”

  “I thought you should be aware that there are two kids who might be involved in Gabe’s disappearance in the hotel. They were headed upstairs.” I wasn’t sure myself what threat Sansone and company posed. I figured they’d probably like to get into Gabe’s room, although they could hardly search the place if Bob was present.

  He goggled at me. “Are you insane? Kids? You think this is about juvenile delinquents? Mind your own business, or I will call the police.” He slammed shut the heavy door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When I got back to the store, Velvet had already closed and gone home. I checked to make sure she’d battened down the hatches, but it looked secure. The day’s receipts and cash drop were in the top drawer of my desk.

  My cell phone was ringing. I glanced at the number display. Jake. I smiled sourly. Kind of late, in my opinion, to worry about his calls being traced.

  I pressed the button.

  “Can you talk?” he asked brusquely.

  “What did you need?” I was equally curt.

  There was a pause. He said mildly, “You want to fill me in on the Savant situation?”

  It was hard to believe that I hadn’t found time in a week to tell him about Savant and his weird behavior. I had planned to, but it had never seemed quite the right moment. Or maybe I just hadn’t been in a rush to get my ass chewed for tracking mud through Jake’s murder investigation.

  Not that I had ever intended to wander into Jake’s case. I had wanted to find out who had vandalized my store and sent Angus running for cover. But that wasn’t going to cut any ice. From the start, Jake had believed that these events were connected — irritatingly enough, he appeared to have been right.

  So I told him then about the missing disk, the warning about Blade Sable, all of it. I filled him in on Bob Friedlander’s erratic behavior this afternoon. I figured Friedlander might make good on his threat to turn me into the cops. It might defuse the situation if I came clean first.

  He listened without comment until I wound to a stop.

  “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

  “When did I have a chance?”

  Silence.

  “Did you find the disk?”

  “No. I did look. Maybe not as carefully as I should have.”

  Another silence.

  “The cult thing is far-fetched.”

  “You’re the one who first came up with the cult theory. Remember?”

  Crackling noises.

  He said finally, “You’re sure the girl you saw in the hotel was the same one who came into the store with the murder vic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Assuming you’re not mistaken, she could have been there visiting a guest. Or maybe she works there. She could be staying there h
erself.”

  Satan would have to give these kids a mighty generous allowance to afford rooms at the Biltmore, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “And you think Friedlander is lying about the last time he saw this missing literary genius?”

  I answered indirectly. “I don’t know what Savant’s net worth is. He seems like a guy who might have trouble hanging onto money. I think it would be helpful to find out who inherits his literary estate.”

  “You mean the rights to his books?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “You think they’re queers?”

  “Uh, no,” I bit out. “I don’t. But I think something’s queer. Friedlander suggested that the police might be involved. He seems genuinely frightened, but he’s also hiding something.”

  “Gee, hard to believe,” Jake drawled.

  “Yeah, I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t trust a cop.”

  The silence lasted so long I thought he might have lost signal. The physical one. Clearly he’d lost the other long ago.

  I said into the crackling void, “I’m sure they weren’t lovers, but their relationship was more than a publisher’s representative and a favored client.”

  “Look, I’ve got to go.”

  I said, trying to sound indifferent, “Later.”

  I waited for the click that didn’t come. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” he asked through another surge of static.

  I laughed.

  “Yeah. Whatever,” said Jake and rang off.

  * * * * *

  Lisa had also called. I discovered her message on the answering machine when I went upstairs to get a beer.

  “I realize that you’re under a great deal of strain, Adrien, but your behavior today was extremely hurtful. I hope you will try to see this from my perspective. Your welfare is my first and foremost concern in life.”

  I sighed and erased the message. I wasn’t sure why I had lost my temper with her. It’s not like Lisa had wavered one centimeter from her fondly held position that I was a semi-invalid child (with slightly embarrassing sexual inclinations) who needed to be protected from his own self-destructive impulses. Getting mad at her was like getting mad at the Great Wall of China for not welcoming the Mongol hordes.

  I wasn’t sure it was such a great idea to help Angus pay for his legal defense. I felt like I should be doing something. I guess my fear was that a portion of this was my fault. Would it have made a difference if I hadn’t given Angus money and sent him out of town? In fact, wasn’t that one of the Eleven Satanic Rules of the Earth? Do not give opinions or advice unless you are asked. Not only had I opened my trap, I had put my money where my mouth was.

  I spent the next hour zoned out in front of the television set watching the first half of Captain Blood. The last time I’d seen it had been with Jake in a funky theater up north in the Mother Lode country. Seemed like a lifetime ago.

  I tried to make sense of the last forty-eight hours.

  Never mind the last forty-eight hours, how about my entire life? I remember reading once that one of the officers of the Titanic survived three shipwrecks. Even taking into account his profession, that seemed excessive. Apparently, once that cosmic target was pinned to your back, the arrows kept flying. In my case the arrows seemed to be involvement in murder cases.

  I guess if I didn’t enjoy the puzzle aspects of crime, I wouldn’t have opened a mystery bookstore, but there’s a serious difference between an intellectual puzzle and having people you know arrested for murder — or killed.

  Obviously there were healthier ways I could spend my time — I wasn’t thinking so much about the potential physical danger as the fact that I was so busy running around sticking my nose in other people’s business that I hadn’t made a bank drop or bought groceries for over a week. I was dangerously low on Lean Cuisines — and totally out of Tab.

  Sipping my beer, eyes getting heavier, I watched the black-and-white images on the screen “celebrating in pirate fashion,” when it dawned on me that in a little over a week I would be celebrating Christmas with four strangers for whom I hadn’t bought Christmas presents.

  I swore. Sat up. So much for my plans for an early night.

  I went downstairs, turning on the lights to the ground level. The shelves threw oblong shadows in the dim lights. The skull paperweight on the counter grinned hollow-eyed at me.

  On impulse, I went over to the shelves near where Gabe Savant had sat the night of his signing. I lifted the books in sections, sat down, flipped through them. Nothing. No sign of any disk.

  I got on my hands and knees to inspect under the writing table where he had sat. Nothing. Well, nothing of interest. I made a mental note to ask Velvet to vacuum more thoroughly.

  I had trouble with the whole lost disk bit. Accepting that there had been a disk, why would Savant have carried it around with him? And if he had been nuts enough to carry it around, how could he have lost track of it? Wasn’t the most likely scenario that he had mislaid it before he ever got to Cloak and Dagger?

  He had been late arriving that night, I remembered. And he had arrived with a posse. How well had he known the women with him? Were they friends, acquaintances, or just chicks he’d picked up along the way? Would Bob know? Would Bob tell me if he knew? Would Bob shoot me for asking?

  About then I remembered that I had come downstairs for a non-crime-related purpose.

  I picked myself off the carpet, stretched, reflected that another thing I had been neglecting was my tai chi. I wandered into the stock room, where I sat stiffly at the desk, signed onto the computer.

  I don’t have a problem with shopping. I don’t have a problem with malls at Christmas. But shopping in the malls at Christmas — yes, that I do have a problem with. I shop online.

  I surfed the ’Net for a while, trying to come up with ideas. When you’re a guy, you get extra credit for any sign of thoughtfulness, and I’ve earned a lot of mileage out of chocolates, flowers, and gift certificates. But buying for one’s new supplementary family members seemed to require more effort. I reconnoitered for a moment, then recalled one of those universal truths about chicks of a certain age: anything vaguely reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn is going to be a hit.

  I browsed a few pages further, then settled on a retro designer silk scarf for Natasha and a cloisonné compact mirror for Lauren. Emma was easy: five 1946 blue board editions of Nancy Drew novels. And for Dauten, a silver whisky flask. True, he didn’t strike me as a whisky flask kind of guy, but after months of living with Lisa, he might discover the comfort of always having a drink close at hand.

  I pressed yes for gift wrap, yes for second-day shipping, and sat back feeling self-congratulatory.

  Smothering a jaw-cracking yawn, I clicked to open my e-mail. Nothing particularly interesting. I yawned again, reviewed blackster21’s e-mail.

  What do you know? Along with the usual offers of home loans, university degrees, and penis enlargement, was an e-mail with the cryptic header: Your Question.

  I studied it warily. No sign of an attachment. It had been sent by darkwing@something.net.

  I clicked. Immediately my entire screen went red.

  “Shit!”

  I hit alt+control+delete and jumped about a foot as someone right next to me screamed. Heart hammering, I absorbed the fact that the scream came from my computer. As I stared, the screen filled with an ominous Grim Reaper figure. Scythe in one skeleton hand, hourglass in the other, it drifted slowly toward me, the hooded skull filling the monitor screen. Then it disappeared. Ghostly shrieks of laughter vibrated my modem. My entire screen went black. The computer turned off.

  * * * * *

  I was brushing my teeth when I heard Jake’s key in the lock.

  Like I hadn’t enough excitement for one night. I scowled at my reflection. Foaming at the mouth. How appropriate.

  Then the front door slammed. It was like one of those goofy campfire tales: I’m on the first step…

  I bent over the s
ink, rinsed my mouth, and spat. I wiped my face on the towel draped around my shoulders.

  He was pouring himself a brandy from the liquor cabinet. He had discarded his jacket, but he was still wearing his shoulder holster.

  “Hey,” I said, leaning against the door frame leading into the bedroom.

  “Hey.” He knocked back the brandy. Bared his teeth. He set the glass down, advancing on me.

  I held my ground. Studied him quizzically. I wasn’t sure what he had in mind, his expression was kind of grim for romance. He reached me, his fingers digging into my shoulders.

  Pain is not my scene. I tried to slip out from under his grip. He pushed me back toward the bed. I lost my balance, exclaiming, “Jeez, Jake —!”

  He went low for a tackle, hoisting me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, surprising a laugh out of me.

  “D’you mind, asshole?” I protested, upside down.

  No reply. We got to the bed in about three steps, and he flung me down. The pillows bounced, the mattress springs squeaked in maidenly alarm. Jake’s hand went to his belt buckle.

  “Whoa. You mind disarming first, cowpoke?” I sat up, reached for the fastening on his shoulder holster.

  His eyes met mine. There was something unfamiliar there. I felt a prickle across my scalp.

  He yanked off his trousers and shorts, and pounced, pushing me back into the pillows. His mouth covered mine hungrily. Toothpaste and brandy. I gave up on the holster, preparing to give as good as I got.

  What I got was a fast, fierce, mindless fuck: sweaty, bruising, and a little weird. I don’t mean that in a bad way — I enjoy sex for sex’s sake as much as the next guy — but I can’t say that it was exactly Chicken Soup for the Gay Man’s Soul, either.

  We wrestled around some, Jake not hurting me, but not holding back either. He flipped me over without much of a tussle, pinned me, pushed my legs apart and up, and then shoved two slick fingers inside me. I jerked with surprise more than pain. He worked my prostate with ruthless efficiency, taking my breath away, even if I’d wanted to protest, which I didn’t particularly. I grunted in helpless, mindless response, and he withdrew his hand and crammed his cock in my ass.