by Ron Levitsky
“Yeah, sure. One more thing . . .”
Collinsby grabbed his arm. “The ladies are coming back.”
Rosen persisted, “Do you know if there’s any connection between Van and Senator Dickerson’s son?”
“What? Why the hell would Van be messing with some big-shot politician’s kid?”
“You said it yourself a little while ago. Drugs.”
Top shifted uncomfortably in his chair, one hand balled into a fist and pressed against his lips.
The two women sat down, Lu declaring, “Looks good as new. Well, time for me to get back to work. Hope you all enjoy the rest of the evening.”
Trac said, “I didn’t mean for you to take your entire break cleaning my dress.”
“Never you mind. This way you have to stay a little longer and put up with me. Not much of an audience tonight. Got to keep what I can get.”
Flashing a smile Lu walked regally onto the platform and sat behind the piano. Her fingers meandered over the keyboard, coming together for a languid rendition of “Stormy Weather.” For a long time she moaned softly like a clarinet, as if alone in her room thinking about a lost love. Imperceptibly the words formed, growing from a whisper to a plaintive call and sending shivers down Rosen’s back. Trac’s hand was on the table, and he moved his close to cover hers but stopped. It was the natural thing to do—the music made it perfect—but he could not bring himself to do it, not in public. After all these years, he was still his father’s son.
When the song ended and Rosen moved his hands together in applause, he noticed that Top had left the table; looking around he couldn’t find the nightclub owner anywhere. Nothing to worry about, Rosen thought as he settled into Lu’s next song; if Top went away angry, he would only work harder to find Van. Something would have to break sooner or later, unless of course Basehart was guilty. Rosen didn’t really care about the case at that moment, only Lu’s song and how good Trac looked backlit by the blue-gray cloud that settled around her like twilight. He pressed two fingers against his eyes, for he felt drunk, senses unraveling as quickly as the notes in Lu’s song, words about to fall from his tongue he would be mortified to say to Trac any other time. Mercifully the song ended; Lu paused to wipe her neck and take a long drink of lemonade.
Taking a deep breath he asked Trac, “Are you hungry?”
“A little, but they don’t serve food here.”
“Why don’t we go back to the Paddy, and you can introduce me to some very ethnic restaurant.”
She smiled, and they rose to leave, Lu nodding good-bye.
“Anything we need to do tomorrow?” Collinsby asked. “I may be tied up in court all morning.”
“I’d like to see this Pelham who’s so reluctant to give Basehart an alibi. I’ll call your office tomorrow around lunchtime.”
Leaving the table Rosen followed Trac along the length of the bar. He opened the door for her, clearing his throat to breathe the cool clean evening breeze and, stepping outside, inhaled even more deeply while watching some constellation track slowly across the crystal blue night.
He was about to comment on the beauty of the night, but she spoke first. At least he thought she started to say something. Turning in her direction Rosen felt a fist crack against his jaw while two arms pinned his hands behind his back. As he straightened, trying to shake his head clear, another fist grazed his cheek, and he tasted the first trickling of blood. He wanted to fall down, but the man behind him was too strong, and so Rosen hung there while someone pummeled his face and body. In the soft fog that was his mind everything had slowed, and he was a boy again pretending to be Floyd Patterson, slapping at his big fluffy pillow with goose feathers puffing out of the pillowcase. Whiteness floating in little crescents before his eyes. He had to be quiet, or else his father would come into the bedroom demanding to know, “What is this nonsense!”
Bits of white fell more quickly before his face, as if the pillow had burst releasing thousands of feathers, while at the same time he felt himself sinking into bed. Although he was certain his eyes were closed, the whiteness kept falling, trickling into his mouth like melting snow and covering him warm as a blanket.
Chapter Nine – FRIDAY MORNING
Just when the pain was beginning to subside, someone flicked a switch on the machine that was the world and set it into motion, cranking him up an inch at a time until he balanced precariously on his feet. That same someone pulled him past dark tight faces, until he collapsed into a seat. The world moved again, and he drifted to the steady hum of what must have been an automobile.
What he saw he knew he couldn’t have seen but saw nevertheless. Moses climbed down from Mt. Sinai with the Ten Commandments, as the children of Israel lifted their voices in prayer to Baal, the false god. Moses’s brow knit angrily and his eyes flashed, eyes that became those of Rosen’s father. Eyes, those terrible eyes, glowering at the worshipper closest to Baal; the worshipper was Rosen.
“Nate, Nate?” a voice was drumming.
He looked in its direction, saw only a blur, yet moved toward it and away from the heat of his father’s eyes. The air clung cold to his face like wet taffy, but finally he felt himself being lowered until lying in something soft and moss warm. Layers of darkness folded him into a cocoon. Only the distant sound of angry voices and persistent flashes of light, specks that burned through his eyelids and stayed with him through the night, not fading until he opened his eyes to the morning.
Rosen found himself in bed—not his, for the ceiling was painted a different color and the heavy aroma of incense permeated his pillow. When he tried rising to his elbows, the pain rolled over him in waves, so that he was forced to lie back very still. In the previous instant, however, Rosen had seen enough to realize he must have slept in the murdered woman’s room.
He pushed his shoulders back against the silken pillow and found he was alone. Three joss sticks were smoking from the floor near the bed, and a blanket lay draped carelessly across the chair as if someone had slept there. Rosen waited for the aching to subside—he found that as long as he lay still and breathed shallowly, there was no pain—then began to reconstruct what had happened. He had gone to the nightclub with Trac, talked to Collinsby and Top o’ the Evenin’, listened to Lu’s music. Then . . . in the parking lot . . . someone kept hitting him, again and again. After that everything grew murky, no matter how hard he tried to remember.
Only the murmur of angry voices and hot bright sparks still flashed somewhere inside his memory. His eyelids fluttered closed; for a long time Rosen listened to his own breathing and traced the sparks shooting out through the blackness, one after another arcing only to fall gracefully away beyond his vision.
The door clicked open. He turned his head slightly and saw Trac enter with a white paper bag. She hadn’t changed clothes from the previous night.
“Good, you’re awake,” she said. “I have some breakfast for you. Coffee and an English muffin. I thought you’d better eat light after what happened.” She drew the chair close to the bed and sat, putting his food on the night table beside him. Deep lines were etched under her eyes. “How do you feel?”
Opening his mouth to reply, he felt as if his lips had been sewn together with chicken wire. He reached over for the coffee, took a few sips, and tried again. “Did you . . . catch the number of the train that used me for its track?”
“Glad you still have your sense of humor. I was very worried last night. Guess it’s really only bumps and bruises, but still . . .” She reached down and came up with a damp cloth, with which she dabbed his face.
He asked, “This your room?”
“My sister’s. We used to share it when we were children, even slept in the same bed. This is where she was . . . where she died. I’m staying here while I’m in town. My father’s shop is part of the building, but you know that. That’s where I first saw you.” She tried to smile.
He touched his face; it felt unfamiliar. “Let me have your compact mirror.”
Trac hesitated but, seeing Rosen extend a hand, reached into her purse and gave him the compact.
He looked at himself a long time, then returned the mirror. “Trick or treat.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Can’t be. I’m not dead.”
“No, really, once the swelling goes down. The cut on your lip—I put a cold compress on it last night, and the bleeding stopped right away. As for the bruises on your body, nothing seems to be broken. I mean . . . you’d feel it, wouldn’t you?”
“All I can do is feel it.” He shifted and risked a deep breath, which grabbed at his ribs but gradually loosened. The next few breaths came a bit easier. “Guess you’re right. You . . . you didn’t have a doctor come by last night? You didn’t call the police?”
Trac wet the cloth and returned it to his forehead, soothing the aching around his eyes. Her face was close enough so that Rosen could feel her breath warm and moist against his neck, the fine curve of her mouth almost touching his cheek, and despite all the pain he felt a deeper stirring. His left hand, hanging over the side of the bed, brushed against her leg, which moved slightly as Trac placed the compress on his swollen cheek. Her skin was silken as the sheets and made Rosen almost forget the pain. Almost, but not quite.
“You didn’t call the police?”
Returning the cloth to the bowl, Trac shifted back in the chair. “No. Top o’ the Evenin’ didn’t think it was a good idea. He said calling the police would be bad for business—that you’d understand. He and Mr. Collinsby checked you over and said nothing was broken, that they’d both seen a lot worse. Besides . . . if the police had come, it would’ve meant more trouble for my parents. More questions, more innuendos about my sister, my brother. I’m sorry, Nate, I couldn’t put them through any more of that.”
Narrowing his eyes Rosen sipped his coffee. “Why?”
“I just told you. My parents . . .”
“No, I mean why would this involve your family? It was just a simple mugging, wasn’t it?”
She swallowed hard but didn’t reply.
“They were after my wallet—no, it’s still in my back pocket. They were just some muggers, weren’t they?”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Did they bother you?”
“No, my screams must’ve scared them. That and people starting to come out from the nightclub. They ran, then I heard a car drive away.”
“You got a good look at them?” He took the English muffin from the bag, bit into it gingerly, and took a few more sips of coffee. “You were saying?”
“I . . . it was dark.”
“How many were there?”
“Three, I think.”
“You think?”
“I told you, it was dark.”
“Sure. After all, I was there too.” Rosen finished one half of the muffin. “You didn’t recognize them?”
Trac glared at him.
“Were they black or white?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t!” she snapped. “Another cross-examination, counselor? Don’t you ever take a break from your precious case? Some people beat you half to death—you’re lucky Top and Collinsby heard me screaming—and instead of counting your blessings, you’re snapping at the first person who comes along.”
Rosen drank the rest of his coffee then shook his head slowly. “I wasn’t snapping at you, just asking some questions. Isn’t it natural for a guy to be curious about the goons who tried to bash his brains in?”
She rubbed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night. Guess I’m a little on edge. I . . . let me try to remember.” She paused, knitting her eyebrows. “There were . . . three men. They took turns, two holding you while the other did the hitting. It was horrible.” She shuddered, knuckles turning white as her hands tightened into fists.
“Were they black or white?” Rosen asked.
“They were black. In fact one of them—he was short and very stocky—looked familiar, but I don’t know where I would’ve seen him before.”
“Maybe Top o’ the Evenin’s club. You said you used to go there.”
“That’s it. He used to clean the place and help the bartender, Big Ben. I remember because he’s short and heavy, while the bartender’s so tall and muscular. At least I think so. How did you know?”
Rosen shook his head slowly. “I didn’t. It’s just one of the many possible answers that fits the questions. If Top o’ the Evenin’ is responsible for your sister’s death, it’s only natural he’d want Basehart to take the fall. That means knocking me out of commission, which they almost did. What did Collinsby do, after finding me unconscious?”
“He looked you over with Top then helped you get into the car. He wanted to take you to the hospital, but Top persuaded him not to. Now I understand why.”
“Would you be willing to go to the police?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m not positive the man I saw was the same one who worked for Top. I mean, I couldn’t swear to it under oath. And the publicity—my family.”
“Sure. Your family.” He settled back in bed, moving around the pain as best he could. “What time is it?”
She checked her watch. “Only a few minutes after nine. Mr. Collinsby promised he’d stop by later this morning to check on you. He was very worried last night.”
“Look, I’m a little tired. Maybe I should try to get some more rest. You wouldn’t mind if I . . .”
“No, of course not. You’re certain you’re all right?”
He nodded.
“Good. I have some errands to run this morning. I’ll just be gone a few hours. I’ll bring back something for lunch. Is there anything else I can do to make you more comfortable?”
He shook his head.
“Well, then, I’ll see you in a few hours.”
They exchanged glances, and he wondered if she would touch him—squeeze his arm perhaps, but she merely shut the door very quietly. He closed his eyes, feeling the silken pillowcase caress his cheek, and imagined her walking through the alley into the busy street, watched her long legs swishing the skirt whose material was soft as the silk he lay against. His nostrils filled with the incense of the room, and his forehead began to grow moist.
Angrily he shifted to his side, away from the joss sticks, when the stabbing pain from his rib cage hurled him back. He breathed shallowly for a few minutes until the aching subsided. “Not too bad,” he thought. He had been beaten up worse, just needed to take it easy. A few days, that was all, and he’d be himself again.
Sleep was what he needed, but sleep did not come. It wasn’t his injuries; he lay perfectly still so that he felt nothing. That damn incense, that was it, coloring the image behind his eyelids flaming red, the color of a lover’s bouquet. The color, he suddenly realized, of Trac’s lips. He opened his eyes to the morning sun, hoping to wash away the brilliant color, but it remained.
Pushing back the pillow, Rosen carefully sat up to survey the room. For the first time he noticed the poster of John Lennon and Yoko Ono above the bed. Why would Trac’s sister have put that picture on her wall; was it a symbol of her own life, East meets West? The whole thing—the poster, the drugs she took, the smoldering incense—was straight from the Sixties, as was the Paddy, something seen on the evening news with Walter Cronkite. A time when all Americans wanted to “help” the Vietnamese. Now twenty years later, Nguyen Thi Nhi was murdered in a town where everyone called her a “Slant whore.”
The phone rang. He lifted the receiver and settled back against his pillow. “Yes?”
“Hello, Nate?” It was Collinsby.
“Morning.”
“Glad to hear that you’re still among the living! How you feeling?”
“Like I was dropped from an airplane and forgot the parachute.”
Collinsby laughed. “Now you know what it’s like being hit by a couple of linebackers. You just have to shake it off. You’
ll be O.K.”
“I was kind of out of it at the time, so I don’t remember, but did you call the police?”
A long pause before he answered. “I was going to, but Top said no—it’d be an excuse for the police to close him down. Anyway, it was a simple mugging, and we scared them off before they got your wallet. No real harm done.”
“No, they just turned my face into hamburger meat.”
“Top’s kind of kinfolk. I’m sorry, Nate.”
“Sure. Did you see who did it?”
“No. It was dark, and they had a car waiting. Sorry.”
“Trac thought she recognized one of the men who beat me up. Thinks he might have been working for Top around the club.”
Another pause. “She certain?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t make much sense, but I’ll check with Top. Don’t let it bother you, ’cause we’ve got something more important to worry about. Jimmy Wilkes called this morning to say the preliminary hearing will be sometime in the middle of next week.”
“That soon?”
“Things move pretty fast around here. Besides, I imagine he’s gotten a lot of pressure to get this over with. Nice of him to call me personally. We need to talk about what we’re gonna do. I think Jimmy might still be willing to cut some kind of deal. How about if I see you this afternoon about four?”
“All right. Lester, you don’t think my getting beat up has anything to do with the case?”
“No, why would it? Look, should I meet you where you are now or at your hotel?”
“The hotel. I’ll be leaving here in a few hours.”
“See you later. You take it easy. Bye.”
Rosen hung up. No longer did he smell the incense. It had finally burned out, but in its place he inhaled something as distinct—the stale odor of tobacco. Surprising he hadn’t noticed it before, despite the incense. On the floor below a chair in the far corner, he saw an ashtray filled with cigarette butts.
Slowly swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Rosen took a deep breath and stood. He walked in minced steps and sat in the chair, groaning as his thighs slapped against the cushion. He picked up the ashtray and counted six cigarette butts; they were labeled “Bushnell,” the kind nicknamed “coffin nails” because they had no filters, and each had been crushed about two thirds of the way down, long before it was necessary. There were no lipstick marks on any of the butts, yet Trac was wearing a shade of ruby-red. He wondered if the ashtray’s contents were old, from the deceased Nhi or one of her clients, but the odor was too strong. No, they had been smoked last night by someone else who had been in this room, someone Trac had neglected to mention.
