Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

Collinsby sat on the edge of his chair. “No, thank you. I feel bad about coming here unannounced. At least I should’ve called to . . . make an appointment.”

  “Nonsense. Bonnie, pour Mr. Rosen a glass of champagne while he tells me about his little errand.” He was smiling, and, lifting a silver case from the table, offered the men a cigar. Collinsby shook his head.

  “No thanks,” Rosen said. “This may be nothing at all, but in the interest of our client, we need to be as thorough as possible. I’m sure you understand. Thank you.” He took the champagne.

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure,” the woman said and wiggled over to Dickerson, leaning against his shoulder while he stroked one of her knees.

  “Yes?” the Senator asked, his hand coming to a stop.

  “We were wondering what you were doing in the Paddy yesterday morning.”

  “Wha . . . what?” Dickerson and the woman burst out laughing. “I can assure you, gentlemen, I wasn’t there yesterday morning. I was otherwise engaged.” Bonnie laughed even harder. “Why I haven’t stepped foot in that place since the last election. I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. Sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing.” He lit a cigar and puffed contentedly.

  Rosen said, “Your car was there.”

  “My car? You’re certain?”

  Rosen nodded.

  “Which one?”

  “That bright red lunar module in the parking lot. I saw it parked across from the tailor shop belonging to the murdered woman’s parents. It was there yesterday morning just before the funeral procession.”

  Dickerson stroked his jaw and remained silent, but Bonnie said, “Why, it’s simple, honey. Your boy Junior must’ve taken the car. He uses it more ’n you do.”

  “Hmm.”

  “All we gotta do is ask him. Junior!” she shouted toward the cabin door. “Junior, company!” No response. “He may be busy with Lu Ann. Junior, put your pants on ’n get up here right this minute—oww! That hurts!” She rubbed her knee where Dickerson’s hand had left its mark.

  “You needn’t be so loud,” the Senator snapped. Lowering his voice he said, “Dickie, would you please come up here for a moment.”

  He must have been standing behind the door, for instantly a young man stepped onto the deck, and just as quickly Rosen recognized him as the white face at the wake. Junior was shirtless, his chest almost smooth as a woman’s, and his cut-offs exposed the same skinny legs as his father. His face also closely resembled Dickerson, especially those emerald eyes.

  The young man went directly to the buffet table, placed a stack of cold cuts between two slices of white bread liberally spread with mayonnaise and ate heartily, making loud chomping noises. Only then did he lean against the table and look at the two attorneys.

  Bonnie clapped her hands. “What you been doin’ to make you so hungry! Lu Ann, you got any mileage left in you!”

  “Shut up,” Junior said between bites. “Hi, Lester.”

  Collinsby nodded.

  “What’re you doing out here?”

  Dickerson said, “This is Mr. Rosen from the . . .”

  “Committee to Defend the Constitution.”

  “Yes, of course. He and Lester represent the man accused of killing that Vietnamese woman. You read about it, I’m sure.”

  Finishing the sandwich he made another, stopping only to burp.

  “Dickie.”

  “Yeah? What’s all this got to do with me?”

  “Mr. Rosen claims to have seen our car parked yesterday near the shop of the dead woman’s parents. That’s in the Paddy. Were you out there?”

  Junior shrugged. “I was at lots of places yesterday.”

  Rosen said, “Perhaps there’s a better way of expressing this. I saw you inside the tailor shop at the wake itself. What were you doing there?”

  Junior looked at him and burped.

  Dickerson cleared his throat. “Now, son, the man asked a simple question. Let’s get this settled before we waste the whole day.”

  Another young woman walked through the cabin doorway. Like Bonnie she wore a skimpy bikini. She slunk along the railing, dabbing a wet compress against a puffy cheek, and looked down at the deck.

  Bonnie hurried to her. “What’s the matter, honey, Junior up to his old tricks?” She glared at the young man. “You know she don’t like to be treated rough. We ain’t animals.”

  Dickerson held up his hand. “That’s quite enough from everyone.” To Rosen, “You’ll have to forgive them, but you know how it is—kids will be kids.”

  “Senator, I don’t care what games your son and his playmates have been involved in, as long as they haven’t been with Nguyen Thi Nhi, the dead woman. You haven’t been playing any games with her, have you, Junior?”

  Junior shook his head. “What in the world would I be doing with some Slant?”

  “So you deny being at the wake yesterday?”

  “That’s right. So that makes you either mistaken or a liar.”

  “Dickie . . .” his father began.

  “All right! I never met this Slant you’re talking about, or any Slant for that matter. Now get off our boat.”

  “Sure, I will,” Rosen said. “I must’ve been mistaken. Sorry to have bothered all of you.”

  “Why, that’s quite all right,” Dickerson replied. “Mistakes do happen.”

  “You see . . . guess I can tell you in the strictest confidence . . . Lester and I are worried about more than just the murder. The police autopsy revealed that the Nguyen woman suffered from some sort of venereal disease. I think they’re calling it yellow syphilis. It’s Asian in origin, takes longer to develop than other social diseases, is more resistant to medication like penicillin, and can be fatal. Seems it creeps up on the brain, paralyzing then destroying the nerve endings. I can see that Junior has all his wits about him—forgive me for being suspicious of a liaison between him and this woman. But after all, she was a known prostitute and, like you said, kids will be kids, and anyone having intimate contact with her within the past few months could’ve contracted the disease and unknowingly become a carrier, passing it on to innocent young women—well, like Lu Ann. There’s a possibility of a real epidemic right here in Musket Shoals. You appreciate the reason why I asked you to keep this information confidential. We don’t want to start a panic. I’m sure the proper medical authorities will think of something. I only hope they do in time for those poor souls who’ve already contracted the disease. I’m glad Junior’s not one of them.”

  Rosen had rambled on purpose while watching, from the corner of his eye, Junior growing paler by the second. Lu Ann had also blanched, moving toward him and saying, “J . . . Junior?” Ignoring her, he looked deeply where he had bitten the sandwich, as if his eyes could examine the bacteria in his saliva. “J . . . Junior!” she demanded, grabbing his arm. He pushed her away and ran downstairs, Lu Ann sobbing and hurrying after.

  “Anything wrong?” Rosen asked.

  Through his dark glasses Dickerson stared into the cabin.

  “Senator?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.”

  “It seems I’ve upset Junior.”

  “He doesn’t like being associated with those people, that’s all.”

  “Those people—you mean the Vietnamese in the Paddy?”

  Dickerson nodded curtly.

  “Why?”

  “You don’t understand, Mr. Rosen, but since these people arrived, there’ve been certain problems. I’m surprised Lester hasn’t told you. Yes, I’m very surprised.”

  Collinsby moved in his seat as if pricked by a needle.

  “What about you, Senator?” Rosen asked.

  “Me?”

  “What do you think about the Vietnamese? After all, they are in your district. I imagine many of them have the vote. Who knows—some day this could be a black and yellow district. In some parts of California already . . .”

  “I don’t mind telling you that I believe Americans should take care of America
ns first. We don’t have enough jobs as it is. Why go cutting the pie into even smaller pieces, so that a real American can’t even get a taste in his mouth?”

  “A lot of people around here seem to agree with you.”

  “That’s the point. I’m merely the representative of the people’s will, merely a reflection of their thoughts and feelings. Someone’s got to stand up for America. For God’s sake, Miami speaks more Spanish than English, and New York—that’s a foreign country. But Musket Shoals . . . families here go back to before the Revolution. We’ve been at the forefront of true Americanism ever since the first boatloads of foul smelling, bearded . . .” He stopped suddenly and looked away from Rosen. “I . . . I sometimes get a bit carried away. You know how we politicians love a soapbox.”

  Rosen sipped the last of his champagne.

  “Gentlemen,” Dickerson said rising, “if you’ve finished your business here . . .”

  “Of course, Senator,” Rosen replied, as he and Collinsby stood. “You’ve been most kind to receive us without an appointment.”

  “Quite all right. Sorry I couldn’t have been more help. Nor my son.”

  They shook hands. Rosen said, “Well, you know what they say, ‘sometimes from the mouths of babes.’ Good-bye.”

  He turned and walked down the ramp onto the dock. Looking over his shoulder he saw Collinsby shrug then hobble down the walkway, taking long limping strides until he disappeared beyond the clubhouse into the parking lot. Rosen kept his own pace slow, enjoying the sun and the long shadows cast across his path by the series of boats; he flickered through them like a silent movie. He had not uncovered the truth yet, but that would come. Besides, as the great rabbis had said about the Torah, one does not study to know but to learn.

  Collinsby already had the motor running, hands gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white.

  “Turn off the engine,” Rosen said, folding his arms and leaning back in the seat.

  Collinsby let the motor idle. “Why? Haven’t we embarrassed ourselves enough with the Senator? You don’t know what an important man he is. I have to live in this town.”

  “Dickerson’s a liar, and I’d guess that Junior’s a lot worse. I think they know something. Shut off the engine for a couple of minutes.”

  Reluctantly Collinsby did as requested. “Now what?”

  “Just a couple minutes. Indulge me, please.”

  “I don’t understand a thing you’re doing. I don’t know what kind of game . . .”

  “Well, what do you know. I was wrong. It didn’t take a couple minutes after all. Look.”

  He nodded toward the other end of the parking lot where Junior was hurrying. The young man now wore a pullover and a pair of clip-clopping sandals almost sliding off as he ran. He started his car before closing the door, laying a track of rubber through the lot and onto the road, forcing an oncoming Continental to one side.

  “Let’s go!” Rosen shouted, buckling his seat belt.

  “Huh?”

  “As they say in the movies, follow that car. C’mon, Lester, this is your chance to lay your foot on the pedal.”

  Collinsby accelerated quickly, weaving smartly through the parked cars, until he too forced the Continental back to the shoulder of the road and, fishtailing for a moment, straightened and sped after the quarry. He was driving fast but seemed to be holding back.

  “C’mon, Lester, you’re sleepwalking.”

  Collinsby swallowed hard. “I . . . thought you didn’t like me going so fast.” He shook his head and, holding the wheel steady with one hand, used his other to take out a handkerchief and mop his face.

  Rosen said, “I’ve seen those Smoky and the Bandit movies. I know how you Southerners can drive. Of course, if Junior’s too much for you.”

  Putting his hand on the gearshift, Collinsby gave a nervous laugh. “Junior . . . heck.” His hand went down on the shift, and the car lunged forward, screaming as it flew like a kamikaze and almost splattered Rosen’s brain against the headrest. “This fast enough?” Collinsby asked, but Rosen couldn’t peel his lips from his teeth to reply.

  In less than a minute they reached the highway, Collinsby slowing just enough to execute a perfect hairpin turn, and in another two minutes they saw Junior’s car about a half mile ahead. It was all Rosen could do to get his colleague to maintain a discreet distance. Junior drove impatiently, leaning on the horn and passing other vehicles every chance he could. Collinsby kept up with no problem, gliding around cars and trucks, while spinning the wheel with one hand.

  “Lester, I’ve got to hand it to you. You’re a real ace.”

  He laughed. “Heck, you should see me Sundays on the dirt track.”

  Junior had to slow down as he reached town, and Collinsby altered his speed accordingly. The two attorneys passed the courthouse, drove another two blocks and stopped, seeing Junior ahead of them waiting for someone to pull out of a parking space. Rosen looked across the street and grinned.

  “I’ll get out here. Be back in a few minutes.”

  “Where you going?”

  He nodded across the street.

  “The Gregson Medical Building? Why?”

  “Just calling on a sick friend!” Rosen shouted, running across the street and into the building.

  There was a pharmacy to his left, the kind displaying eighteenth-century apothecary equipment and charging twenty-first-century prices. The lobby’s carpet was plush burgundy, neatly brushed, and led past groups of Georgian chairs to the silver doors of an elevator, above which hung the symbol of medicine, a snake curled around a staff. It was there Rosen waited, just to the right of the elevator button. He did not have long to wait.

  Junior clip-clopped his way into the lobby, pushing an old man aside. He was looking down at the carpet and didn’t see Rosen until three quarters of the way to the elevator. Stopping suddenly he edged toward the stairs. The lawyer followed him, both men walking through the doorway almost simultaneously.

  “Wait a minute,” Rosen said, taking the other man by the arm.

  “Leave me alone!” Junior twisted away and fell across the stairs.

  Rosen sat on top of the other man. “Hi, Junior. Long time no see.”

  Junior tried to pull away but only succeeded in scooting down two stairs and scraping his back. He flayed at Rosen, who pinned Dickerson’s fists against the steps.

  “You’re a real pushover, kid,” Rosen said, “but I guess that’s because of the yellow syphilis working on your system, slowly rotting it away.”

  Junior strained against the lawyer’s grip. “Leave me alone, you son-of-a-bitch!”

  “Sapping your strength, digging into all those little capillaries, filling them with poison. Having trouble seeing—I understand that goes first.”

  “Damn you!” Junior screamed, tears rolling down his eyes.

  “Then it starts loosening your teeth and hair, until they all fall out. But that doesn’t matter, because your brain’ll be too far gone for you to notice anything. You just sort of dribble between splitting headaches, until your whole body oozes into a puddle of slime.”

  Junior shook uncontrollably, his reddening face soaked with sweat and tears, but his cries were silent, reverberating somewhere deep inside.

  Loosening his grip Rosen sat beside the other man. “What’s the matter—was it something I said? You were with Nguyen Thi Nhi. Hey!”

  Junior gradually blinked, looked around, and finally sat up. He drew an arm across his eyes, wiping away the sweat, and let his breath shudder hollowly. “I . . .” His voice cracked, but he swallowed and asked, “I’m gonna die, ain’t I?”

  “Let’s talk about more pleasant things, like your relationship with the Vietnamese woman.”

  “Whore.”

  “So you slept with her. Did the two of you do drugs together?”

  Junior looked away.

  “What about some of your other hobbies. Know anything about rigging bombs—little ones that blow up store windows and
scare people?”

  Crinkling his eyebrows, Junior said, “Leave me alone and let me . . .” He began to shake again but dragged himself to his feet. “Just leave me alone!” Clutching the railing, Junior began pulling himself up the stairs. “Just leave me alone,” he kept mumbling under his breath.

  Rosen allowed him to climb a few steps before saying, “I made it all up.” The other man continued up the stairs. “Didn’t you hear me? It was all a gag. There’s no such thing as the yellow syphilis—at least I don’t think there is. You’re O.K.”

  Junior slowed to a halt, like an old man who must predetermine every move, turned, and brought a hand through his hair. “Huh?”

  “You’re O.K. I just wanted to find out if you really knew the Nguyen woman. You should’ve told me in the first place, but then maybe you enjoyed this. Look how rough you like to play with your girlfriend. You like getting the other end of it for a change?”

  Rosen didn’t wait for a reply but walked back down the stairs, his footsteps clicking loudly in the silence. It wasn’t until he reentered the lobby that he heard Junior’s savage obscenities, cut short by the closing exit door, hum around the door edges like the buzzing of an angry mosquito.

  Chapter Eight – THURSDAY EVENING

  The Paddy was a different world at night. Rosen’s eyes widened as he drove down the main street leading to the tailor shop. Lights looped between buildings like endless strings of pearls, rouge-colored neon signs winked at passersby, and the street pulsated to the beat of a dozen rock tunes. Passing alleyways, Rosen glimpsed women in short skirts lounging on porch steps while beckoning men; some called to him. Small family restaurants alternated with pizza and hamburger joints, making the neighborhood neither American nor Vietnamese but a parody of both.

  Reaching the Nguyens’ intersection he turned, the automobile gasping fitfully, and parked close to the tailor shop. Before he could shut off the motor, Trac stepped through the doorway and glided into the car. She was as changed as the neighborhood, no longer in her mourning garb or even the traditional ao-dai, but in a gray knit dress. She wore a touch of lipstick and blush, which made her appear older and even more serious. He had been right about one thing; she did have beautiful legs.