"What's this?" Spann said after tasting her mug of beer.
"They've got English draught on tap, warm and flat as it should be. The place even honors English pounds."
As the woman placed the mug down on the table she saw that its wooden surface was carved. Back in the sixties some freak had written in a fine classic script: "People are strange, but people are nice." More recently someone had scratched over it: "Fuck you and your mother."
"The door to the left." Scarlett said. "That must be the place."
Spann looked back to the stage. By now one roadie had collected all the voodoo masks and placed them in several cartons. He had carried the boxes one by one off to the left of the platform. As the woman watched she saw him knock on a door to the left of the stage. When it opened she caught a brief glimpse of a tall black man wearing a yellow suit. The roadie took in the boxes, then left, and a guard came out of the room to stand in front of the door.
"That cat looks like Rackstraw. He fits Tipple's description."
"Let's wait till the second act comes on and they kill the lights. Then let's pay a visit," Rick Scarlett said. He wiped some beer foam off his mouth with the back of his hand.
While they waited out the intermission and the roadies set up equipment, Scarlett busied himself by trying to place what was coming out of the speakers. Most of the old ones he recognized—Carl Perkins and Johnny Horton and Gene Vincent and Eddie Cochran. Most of the new ones he did not. It was during a souped-up version of Up a Lazy River that a woman at the next table offered a joint to Spann.
"No thanks," Katherine said. "I'm already flyin'."
"Suit yourself," the woman replied, and she shrugged her shoulders vaguely.
Spann said: "We missed the first act. Were they any good?''
"You like voodoo rockabilly? The Cramps? That sorta thing?"
"Some," the cop said.
"Then you might like Voodoo Chile. They use two drummers and a standup bass. Not my cup of . . .”
The lights were killed suddenly and she cut off the sentence. Around the club, people began to stomp their feet. There was hooting. There was yelling. There was whistling. Then a single spotlight lit up a high-school blackboard up on the stage. Scrawled in chalk across its surface were the words: "Erase the Blackboard Jungle!"
An announcer's voice cut in. "Tonight, live from London, England by way of the USA. May we have a warm Vancouver welcome for the one and only . . . RAW-T!"
With the shout that delivered his last word, a man's arm burst out of the dark onstage and into the stab of the spotlight where—before anyone could cover their ears—four black-painted fingernails scraped across the surface of the blackboard. The amplified screech that followed shredded a nerve or two. A microphone nearby magnified the noise about seven trillion times. As Scarlett gritted his teeth and Spann's neck-hairs stood on end, the lights onstage exploded and a born-again Buddy Holly ripped into There's Good Rockin' Tonight.
"Let's go!" Scarlett shouted.
They abandoned their beer and the table and made for the far left wall.
As they approached the door to the left of the stage, Spann began to play the drunk and leaned on Scarlett's shoulder. As soon as she was within distance the woman fell into the arms of the guard. For a second or two the man took a peek down her neckline and in that moment of distraction Scarlett dashed for the door. With a crash he swung it open—and interrupted a party.
In the center of the small room a black man and a white man were leaning over a tabletop mirror covered with chopped cocaine. As one man took a snort from a spoon Scarlett said: "It's the police." Involuntarily, in surprise, the man inhaled the powder into his lungs by mistake and abruptly began choking and coughing and wheezing. The cocaine on the tabletop rose like a cloud into the air.
"Hey, what's this shit?" Yellow Suit said as Spann also moved in through the door.
He snapped a glance at the worried guard who came running in behind her. Turning, the woman kneed the man in the groin and dropped him to his knees. As she kicked the door shut RAW-T was just beginning the Big Bopper's Chantilly Lace.
"Let's all take it easy," Scarlett said calmly, "so no one else gets hurt."
Apart from the two cops there were six black men in the room along with the single white. All the blacks wore leather jackets and had their hair straightened, swept back in pompadours like Little Richard. The white looked like an extra from Rebel Without a Cause. Yellow Suit didn't fit in. He was standing over near a bench along which several voodoo masks were set out. The blank faces of the masks seemed to stare up at him as if waiting in anticipation for the confrontation that was coming. There were guitars and drums scattered everywhere.
"What do you want?" Yellow Suit asked as cocaine settled like snow throughout the room.
"We're looking for John Lincoln Hardy." Scarlett took out his shield.
"Well, he ain't here. That's obvious."
"Who are you?"
Yellow Suit paused a moment, then said: "Rackstraw. Steve Rackstraw."
"Who's he?" Scarlett asked, indicating the coughing man.
"Ask him."
"I said, who is he? And I expect an answer."
"One of the drummers," Rackstraw said. "Didn't you catch the show?"
"Where's Hardy?"
"I've no idea. I'm not the man's keeper."
"Would you rather talk about the dope?"
Rackstraw didn't answer.
"Kathy, how much stuff do you think is floating about the room?" "Perhaps an ounce and a half."
"That's PPT, Rackstraw. And trafficking's the big one."
"You got nothin' on me, man. I'm leaving to call a lawyer,"
"The coke's in the room. You're in the room. That's enough for me. You can make your call downtown."
"That ain't sufficient evidence."
"You tell that to the judge."
For several seconds the man stood still, contemplating his position. Rackstraw wore his hair in a tight Afro and sported rings on every finger. His cafe-au-lait complexion contrasted with the suit. It was hand-tailored and pulled in at the waist. Beneath the concern that showed in his eyes he had a pencil-thin moustache tailored to his lip.
"Okay," Rackstraw said finally. "Can you and I talk in private?"
"Where?" Scarlett asked.
The man indicated a washroom off to the right. They left the room. Once inside the toilet, the black man closed the door and the white man leaned on the wall. Rick Scarlett waited.
"What do you want Johnnie for? You know the man's my cousin?"
"I know," the policeman said.
"So what's goin' down?" Rackstraw sat on the edge of the sink with one foot on the floor.
"One of his girlfriends got herself iced by a psychotic killer. We're trying to trace her movements. We think Hardy was her pimp. Perhaps he lined up a john."
"I see. You open to a suggestion?"
"Try me," Scarlett said.
"Okay. You leave me alone, and the boys alone, and I'll put you in touch with Hardy. But it'll take a couple of days."
"Where is he now?"
"Not till we got a deal."
The policeman thought a moment. In effect this was the exact same trip as Winalagilis and his fix. Same game, different players.
"All right," Scarlett said, "here's what I can do. We'll take the two on the mirror plus the stash of cocaine. You we let go. You produce Hardy and we'll reconsider the charge. If not we pick you up."
"Come on, man. Have a bit o' heart. I own these niggers and honky, lock stock and barrel. Next month we start a tour of over forty cities. They gotta practice. They can't be in the can." The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a tour schedule. "Here, look at this. Even John my cousin ain't worth a forty-city circuit. How am I gonna welsh if you know where I am?"
Scarlett glanced at the paper. "Okay, a compromise. No arrests now but we take the powder. And I want a ransom. Give me one of those masks."
Rackstraw frowned. He was puzz
led by the suggestion. "You don't know what you're askin'," he said. "Those masks are antiques. Each one is more than a hundred years old."
"Good. Then I'll take two. You see, my man, I want to check if you got customs clearance. Those masks are not from here."
"I don't need customs clearance. They're antiques."
"That means you don't pay duty. They still got to clear."
Rackstraw sighed.
"Where's Hardy?"
"LA."
"What for?"
"Scoutin" a record deal."
"When's he back?"
"Don't know. Depends how long it takes."
"Okay, you produce Hardy and we kill the charges and give you back the masks. You don't produce Hardy and we drag both you and your band off stage on a warrant. A deal?"
"Shit," Rackstraw said. "Yeah, it's a deal."
The two men left the washroom and returned to the larger room. Scarlett and Spann took down the names of all those present and as best they could collected up the scattered powder. Scarlett then found an empty box and walked along the row of masks set out on the bench. He stopped beside a black Demon's Face with a curled protruding tongue. As he picked it up, the voodoo mask slipped from his fingers and tumbled toward the floor. Scarlett managed to catch it just before it smashed.
"Jesus!" Rackstraw shouted. "Can't you be more careful? That's my people's culture. And that ain't just any wood."
I know. Rick Scarlett thought. It's carved ebony.
Wolf at the Door
Friday, November 5th, 12:22 a.m.
Robert DeClercq arrived home late to find Genevieve sound asleep. For a long while he stood in the door to their bedroom listening to his wife's shallow breathing and watching her chest rise and fall in the wedge of light cast in from the hall. His shadow lay across her like a strange man in their bed.
How long has it been,he asked himself,since we did nothing but that? Just lie in bed together, relaxing or making love or whispering small talk? It seemed to him like years.
In a wave, suddenly, exhaustion overwhelmed him and in that moment he truly wished that he had never gone back to the Force. He wished that she were awake now and that they could make love unhindered by time and pressure. He wished that the case were over and this weight were off his shoulders. He wished his book on World War I were waiting in the greenhouse. He wished . . . well, he wished . . .Well, if wishes were horses then beggars would ride, he thought as he turned away.
The Superintendent walked down the hall and over to the front door. Before leaving the Headquarters building he had packed several briefcases full of the pertinent documents in the case, his intention being to set up another overview at home. He had long known that his best insights came in the hours before dawn and he had reached the point where mentally he had to draw on every asset just to keep on going. The first briefcase he picked up seemed ten times as heavy as when he had carried it down the driveway. His head ached and his back was stiff and his legs were full of lead.
Robert DeClercq had spent the entire day analyzing the results of the sweep. With each new arrest there were reports, computer projections and videotape interrogations to be reviewed. As the day wore on he had begun to get depressed lust from the number of weirdos there were out there walking the streets. Had it always been that bad—or were more people snapping lately?
Leave it alone till tomorrow, he thought, and then it occurred to him that tomorrow had already become today.
As he took the briefcase out into the greenhouse and placed it on his desk he wondered if someone would find another victim tonight. He wondered if he would get yet another call.
It was while he was unpacking the contents of the case that his eyes fell upon a note that he had made about hematomania. He picked up the piece of paper. Until today the Superintendent had never known that there actually was a medical condition akin to vampirism. The incidents were rare, but they were well recorded. John George Haigh confessed to eight murders in 1949 stating that he took a wine-glassful of blood from the neck of each victim and drank it.
Was that it? he asked himself. Did the Headhunter suffer from hematomania? And if so might there not be a record of it somewhere? Perhaps a minor incident? Something someone had noticed?
His eyes fell upon the books.
For there were now five volumes standing at the corner of his desk which had not been there that morning. Each book was bound in rich tooled leather with gilt worked into the hide. All five were held upright by two bronze bookends, one of a very fat man.
DeClercq removed one of the volumes and looked at the spine. It read:The Very Best of Nero Wolfe.
He opened the cover to the title page. On one side there was a color plate of the great detective himself, sitting in his own greenhouse surrounded by hundreds of orchids, waiting no doubt for Archie Goodwin to return. Across from this in black ink and a fine hand his wife had written: "To the Greatest Detective of Them All. I love you. Genevieve."
The Superintendent smiled. Then he remembered what she had said to him early yesterday morning. Do me a favor? Please. Take it easy on yourself.
"All right," he whispered. "I'll try to do that for you."
He walked out of the greenhouse door and into the living room. In spite of his tiredness, DeClercq knew that he was just too wound up to sleep. That he had to calm down first.
In the record rack he looked for something very light by Chopin. Withdrawing a disc, he placed it on the stereo, turned the volume very low, and sat down between the speakers.
Fifteen minutes,he told himself,and then I'll go to bed.
Three minutes later he fell asleep sitting in the chair.
12:55 a.m.
Some days you're lucky, some days you're not. Life just plays it that way.
It was twenty minutes to one by the time that Monica Macdonald and Rusty Lewis returned to the Headquarters building to retrieve their personal vehicles. Most of the afternoon they had spent booking in bikers charged out of the Iron Skulls scramble. Following that they had turned once more to their sweep sheet pickup list and gone back out on the street. Between 5:00 p.m. and midnight they had collared six more skinners. By half-past twelve, exhausted, they were ready to call it quits.
"Let's meet back here at eight," Rusty Lewis said.
"Fine," Macdonald agreed.
She climbed into her Honda Civic and pulled out of the lot.
Tonight she was simply too tired for highway driving so she chose the long but quieter route home. It happened to take her by the Pussycat Club. A neon sign outside blinked: "Our Girls Bare All."
Monica Macdonald did not intend to stop.
At the moment her mind was a jumble of visions, the foremost of which was her eiderdown bed and soft, soft pillow. The image of Robert DeClercq, however, was also in her thoughts, for Monica could not forget how beaten down he had looked that morning. Yet even in adversity the man rose to the occasion and what he had said about duty had stirred something within her. Your duty is maintain the right, no matter what the cost, her weary mind told her now.
So Monica Macdonald pulled to the side of the road.
She found a pair of jeans and an old sweater among the clutter in the back seat of her car and changed out of uniform in the shadow of a doorway. Then she ran through the rain across the street and in through the door of the Pussycat Club.
"It's not ladies' night," the burly doorman said. "We bring the cock out Thursday night at seven."
"Thanks," Monica said. "But I'll look anyway."
"Suit yourself, lady. But it's pretty rough in there."
She came through the door to find a naked stripper on her knees in front of a table of men. The men were all wide-eyed and staring between her legs. The woman was smoking a cigarette with her vagina.
It's too late for this, Macdonald thought—then her heart took a lurch.
For there in the front row of men was Matthew Paul Pitt.
Special O
7:45 a.m.
R
obert DeClercq climbed the stairs that morning to find five people waiting outside his office door. They were all sitting on a bench along the opposite wall of the corridor. Four of the five were squad members, while the other was a civilian. He took the civilian first.
DeClercq felt better for a good night's sleep in which his nightmare had not come again. He was ready once more to tackle the sweep and whip it into shape. He had told himself that perhaps today the break would come in the case. But either way it mattered not: when you've got a job to do, you roll up your sleeves and do it. Wisdom ought to tell you, nothing does like doing.
"My name's DeClercq," the man said. "I command this investigation."
"I'm Enid Portman. Joanna Portman's mother."
A jolt hit the Superintendent. How am I so stupid! he thought, for there on the wail just behind this woman was the picture of her daughter's head stuck on the end of a pole. What the hell am I doing bringing the public into this room? DeClercq was angry with himself. How would he correct this?
"I apologize for the mixup with your daughter's . . . with your daughter," he said. "I realize how that must upset you."
Mrs. Enid Portman was about fifty-five years old. She was very thin and her hair was already white. She did not look in good health. Her eyes were sad and it was obvious that she had cried a lot.
Any policeman will tell you that the toughest part of his job is informing the next-of-kin that a wife, a husband, a child, a relative will not be coming home. It never gets any easier, and every case is different. Sometimes a mother will not say a word, just silently walk into the kitchen and plug in the kettle for tea. Another time a wife will break into hysterical laughter and shout: "Why that bugger! It's about time." Yet another occasion a father will attack you for bringing the news and have to be subdued. Every cop knows that a death close to home can bring forth any emotion: silence, a scream, sorrow, tears, hysteria, violence. What do you tell a widow who has lost her only child? That she'll remarry and have a baby and be happy once again? Not at fifty-five you don't, Robert DeClercq thought.
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