Dead on Your Feet

by Grant Michaels

  The phone was still ringing. I grabbed clumsily and dropped it, accidentally bumping Sugar Baby, who at some point during the night had deigned to settle on the empty pillow next to mine, Rafik’s place. From her cat sleep she sprang from the pillow, leaped over my head, landed on the Turkish carpet that covers my bedroom floor, and scampered away. I put the phone to my ear, but before I’d even said hello, I heard Rafik speaking excitedly with his heavy French accent.

  “Stani,” he said, “there is great trouble. Max Harkey is dead!”

  My first reaction was that Rafik was playing a prank to distract me and win back my affection. If so, it was one unworthy of his fertile imagination. Then again, perhaps it was that cultural difference between us that made his joke sound flat to me, some Francophone subtlety I still couldn’t appreciate. But I wondered—and Max Harkey be damned—What about us? Aren’t you sorry about last night? Have you forgotten how you hurt me?

  “Stani?” he said uncertainly, as though the phone might be out of order and the connection never properly made.

  “I’m here,” I replied coolly, thinking to myself, And so far you haven’t said the words I want to hear.

  “Stani, I find him like this. Is horrible!”

  “Where are you?”

  “At his apartment.”

  I set my blurry vision toward the alarm clock. There seemed to be only one hand, pointing downward. It was 6:30.

  “What are you doing there at this hour?”

  The line was quiet. After a few seconds of waiting for his answer, I felt the throbbing at the back of my head move forward to my temple. Then an unexpected wave of nausea washed over me, and I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. I envisioned every goddam glass of alcohol I’d had last night. They all swirled in a vortex in my mind’s eye, from the first martinis at my apartment, to the additional cocktails at Max Harkey’s, to the numerous glasses of wine with dinner, to the tumbler of liqueur afterwards. It all came back with nauseating clarity. Oh, to be unconscious! All I wanted was to put the phone down and go back to sleep. Maybe then all of last night’s mistakes—especially my boozy belligerence—would fade away back into a dream. Then I could wake up again later to a bright new world where everything was blue skies and songbirds. The idea was so appealing that I almost nodded off.

  “Stani?” said Rafik.

  I returned to the present, to the unpleasantness of why Rafik was at Max Harkey’s place at six-thirty in the morning. Somewhere I recalled Max Harkey saying that Rafik needed to be humbled. Had the challenge been met last night, only to culminate in the man’s death? I confronted Rafik directly.

  “Did you spend the night with him?” I said.

  “How you can ask such a thing?” he yelled. A tremor of pain rammed itself through my swollen brain. “Stani, his blood is everyplace.”

  The new tension in Rafik’s voice told me that perhaps he wasn’t kidding. I sat up in the bed. Sugar Baby must have sensed my alarm, because she jumped back up onto the bed and nestled against my thigh. I rested my forehead against my free hand.

  “Tell me what happened, Rafik.”

  “I tell you, he is dead.”

  If he was telling the truth, there was only one thing to do. I’d been in those exact circumstances myself, facing a corpse. Back then I thought I’d done the right thing by being responsible and calling the police, but then I always learn the hard way.

  “Rafik, if Max Harkey is really dead—”

  “He is, Stani. Believe me.”

  “Then you must do exactly what I say.”

  “But Stani—”

  “No buts, Rafik. Just listen and do. First, you wipe your fingerprints off everything you’ve touched in that place. Everything. Understand? And then you get out of there. Now! I’ll be waiting for you here.”

  “I cannot do that, Stani.”

  “Why not?”

  “The police are here,” said the master of selective omission. “They do not know I am calling you. They ask me many questions. Will you come? Please?”

  I paused, not quite sure what to do or say. My arrival at Max Harkey’s place might only complicate things, especially with the police there. The line was quiet while I deliberated. When Rafik spoke again, I heard a new timbre in his voice, wily modulation, cryptic but musical, a kind of aural snare distilled from a legacy of Middle Eastern genes and the myriad ruses employed by clever harem boys to spare themselves painful punishment or even castration.

  “Stani,” he said, “I am sorry for last night. I did not mean those things.” His words flowed like dark notes from a wood flute, and their exotic coloration left me defenseless. “I love you. I will stop my work. I will leave the ballet.”

  After our falling-out I’d hoped for a more dramatic reconciliation, a physical event where Rafik would arrive at my threshold repentant and contrite. Even at three o’clock in the morning he would beg forgiveness and let me show him just how much and how willingly I could forgive. But instead, Rafik was now inducing me to rescue him from a bad situation with the police, at the home of the very man with whom he might have had the ultimate confrontation, and who was now dead.

  “Okay, Rafik. Don’t quit your job yet. I’m on my way.”

  I hung up the phone and got out of bed. I turned on the shower, then decided that this situation precluded my usual morning ablutions. Instead I rinsed my face with cold water, put on some clean clothes, and was ready to leave within minutes. As I opened the door I noticed Sugar Baby’s wide bewildered eyes following me. “Yes, doll,” I said to her. “I am going without feeding you.”

  From my apartment to Max Harkey’s penthouse is a brisk fifteen-to twenty-minute walk. Finding a cab to take me there was going to take just as long, so I opted for Slavic locomotion. The sun hadn’t come up yet, and the air outside was misty and gray. The pavement felt damp and cold through the leather soles of my old loafers. The last dregs of last night’s excess still coursed through my veins, altering my perceptions and my steady stride. I urged my legs to move faster, figuring the exercise might burn off the alcoholic poison and the gnawing doubt in my blood.

  Despite my muddled thinking though, two facts were clear enough: Rafik needed me, and I wanted to help him. But this latest complication in the melodrama, Life with Rafik, was jangling my psyche. Before meeting him I had narrowly connected sex with love. Coupling was almost a spiritual act for me, a shared experience of two souls, elevated and sacred. But Rafik brought expanded dimension to the notion of elevated. His sturdy rig and his four smooth-moving limbs sang with the same true and natural ease as a born musician uses perfect pitch, except that Rafik’s kind of body-song relates more to the hunt than to poetry. When he slides his supple self through space, he stalks everything in his path, and when he connects with his prey, it’s pure figuration, like a magnesium ribbon that flares white-hot.

  Even after a year with Rafik the sex is so satisfying and surprising that I can’t imagine doing it with anyone else. But I still insist on being safe. It annoys Rafik, who trusts our blood tests and who vows he is and always will be sexual only with me. But just as the idea of monogamy is no proof of love, neither is unsafe sex. The condoms are a disputed point between us.

  The glamour and desirability of Max Harkey’s address, so glitteringly evident last night, were now obscured by numerous police cruisers and a medical-rescue van that had completely blocked the narrow pavement and sidewalk for the entire length of Appleton Mews. Flashers whirled and noisy engines idled, as if in readiness for imminent departure. Since Appleton Mews was a dead-end street, traffic wasn’t a concern, and at that early hour cars were even more unlikely. Still, a few police officers stood around ready to redirect anyone attempting to drive down the quiet street. At the far end of the Mews was the Appleton itself, usually refined and stately, now cordoned off by police markers. The gaudy neon ropes made the building look somewhat like a grande dame in disgrace.

  Parked in front of the Appleton was a car that I recognized immediate
ly, an old Alfa Romeo coup6 with the designation “Giulia Sprint Veloce.” I knew the classic sports car belonged to Detective Lieutenant Vito Branco of the Boston Police Department. Branco must have got a recent raise, because the Alfa’s dark green paint had been expertly reconditioned.

  Also parked out front was Big Red, in exactly the same place it had been last night. Had Rafik spent the night? The motorcycle caused neither tingles nor tears at that moment. I approached the Appleton’s main entrance, where three more police officers were guarding the doorway under the great marble arch. I explained to them that I had a friend in the building and that I wanted permission to enter. I didn’t exactly grovel, but past experience has taught me that politeness doesn’t hurt when courting the police. One cop checked my identification and agreed to escort me up to Max Harkey’s apartment. We went inside and entered the small wood-paneled elevator. As we ascended, the cop and I remained awkwardly silent, but we studied each other furtively. He looked like a walking display for all the accoutrements of authority: gun and holster, blackjack, handcuffs, squawk box, lug-soled boots, wide leather belt with heavy chrome buckle. Though he held his face in a tense scowl, his eyes kept shifting toward me, then darting quickly away, as if he was studying the panel of oiled maple in front of him. But I knew he was sizing me up, and for all my reasonable masculinity, I might as well have been hauling a sandwich board that read “GAY MAN INSIDE.” That’s probably what was unnerving the poor guy. But then, my sexuality seems to unhinge only the most fervently macho men.

  The elevator door slid open onto the small vestibule that connected directly to Max Harkey’s apartment A funereal gray light caused me to look up. and I saw that the ceiling was skylit, which I hadn’t noticed last night The security door to the main foyer of the penthouse was wide open, and the cop led me in. In this very place last night had transpired a social gathering the rules of which I hadn’t quite grasped, but nonetheless had managed to violate. This morning the cops were using their own set of peculiar rules, the ones that create pandemonium of any situation.

  When I entered the sprawling penthouse, the first thing I saw was Max Harkey slumped at his big grand piano. He appeared almost to be playing the instrument, expressing himself in a deep and moving passage, his head lowered to the keys as if to coax the instrument’s very soul to speak. Except that Max Harkey was dead. The Persian carpet at his feet was saturated with a huge dark stain, which I knew was blood.

  Then appeared the brawny form of Detective Lieutenant Vito Branco. He didn’t notice me as he approached Max Harkey’s body and crouched down to examine it closely. His back was to me and he blocked my view of the dead man. but I caught a microsecond glimpse of a huge glistening wound, still red and alive, around Max Harkey’s groin. From where I stood, it looked as though he had been castrated. I had to turn my head away and bite my lip hard, then take some deep breaths to quell the nausea. It wouldn’t do to vomit here, in front of the cops. In a few moments the cold sweat subsided and I could turn my attention back to the body. Lieutenant Branco was still intent on the corpse, with what appeared to be more than a clinical interest. Was he as disturbed by the wounds as I was? Though Branco was younger than Max Harkey. perhaps he recognized the similarities between them. The victim was a man about the same build as Branco, six feet plus, with the same broad shoulders and sturdy loins. He even had the same strong jaw and cheekbones, same sculpted nostrils and lips. From my meeting last night, I hadn’t guessed that Max Harkey still possessed such a muscular body. Branco was now gazing at the victim’s legs, blood-drenched and fully exposed by the gaping silk bathrobe that lay open below his waist. The limbs were obviously strong, yet elegant, almost regal. Oddly, I was saddened by the bloodiness. I wondered about Branco’s powerful legs, how much bulkier his muscles probably were, and how his skin was most likely tough and hairy, not smooth like Max Harkey’s. When the lieutenant changed position, I got a good look at Max Harkey’s body. With great relief I saw that everything in his crotch was still intact. So what had held Branco’s attention? Had he been compelled by machismo to make a comparison? Was there cause for envy? The lieutenant quickly moved his gaze away from the lifeless organs, and I wondered if I’d imagined the entire vignette, especially since sex is always on my mind, stimulating—electrocuting—my cerebral cortex to invent perversions where none exist.

  I moved closer to the piano. Except for all the blood, Max Harkey’s legs could have been sculpted from pale gray-blue marble. Then I saw the wounds close up—one clean deep puncture on the inner face of each thigh, directly into the femoral arteries. Max Harkey had been bled to death.

  Branco rose quickly and steadied himself on the nearby piano. He closed his eyes as if to recover from his examination. Was it just the sudden rise to his feet? Or did Branco have a weakness? Did certain kinds of killings bother him more than others? Had anyone but me noticed his lingering interest over the dead man’s legs? It wouldn’t do to seem so interested in the exposed nakedness of an attractive male body, no matter how dead it was. With a scowl Branco forced his eyes open, and still he didn’t see me. But I was getting reacquainted with all the dark masculine features that this cop shared with my lover, and then the million subtleties that distinguish the two handsome men. Branco’s face twisted into a frown, and he stifled a belch. He seemed to be having a rough morning.

  Branco spoke sharply to his sergeant. “Get him in a bag.”

  The sergeant replied, “Med-ex hasn’t made his report yet, sir.”

  Branco snapped, “Then just get the damn bag ready!”

  The sergeant wilted slightly at Branco’s order, then he said, pointing to me, “What about him, Lieutenant?”

  Branco turned toward me and stared for a long disbelieving moment before he said, “What are you doing here?”

  “My friend called me.”

  “You tangled up in this?”

  “No, but—”

  Branco barked another question to his sergeant. “Where are the witnesses?”

  Witnesses? Who else was present? And where was Rafik?

  The sergeant answered Branco by jerking his head sharply toward the kitchen. Branco turned away from me and with a heavy tread went toward the swinging door that led to the penthouse kitchen. He paused at the swinging door and turned back to us. He pointed to me and said to his sergeant, “Hold him downstairs.” Then he pushed the door open. A blaze of morning sun should have burst from the kitchen, but instead the drab monochrome of a drizzly March morning seeped out.

  In spite of Branco’s order to eject me from the premises, I asked the sergeant if I could see Rafik. The sergeant looked through me and said, “You heard the man.” There was no sense in resisting the inevitable, so I let myself be led out from Max Harkey’s apartment and back downstairs to be held outside at Branco’s leisure. On my way out the front door I noticed that the latch had been jimmied. The officers out there eyed me with suspicion, hoping perhaps that I might do something that would galvanize them to action, to behave like cops. I went and stood near Big Red, as if the motorcycle and I might comfort each other while waiting for Branco. Fine droplets had condensed from the misty air onto the bike’s lacquered metal parts and heavy chrome fittings. In the dim morning light Big Red emitted a kind of sanctified glow that enveloped me with its protective aura. How many times had I held onto Rafik’s body while riding behind him on that motorcycle, on those fantastic and romantic trips to nowhere? Big Red was like family.

  Suddenly the cops’ radios squawked loudly, and jolted the three of them to alertness. The faggot and the motorcycle were small potatoes now that they’d got a call from the boss upstairs. A few minutes later two officers came out from the building, and along with them came a big surprise: Between them they were holding Toni di Natale, who was handcuffed. Lieutenant Branco followed behind. Toni di Natale looked confused and disheveled, as though she had been taken unawares. I noticed that she was wearing the same outfit she’d worn last night. She glanced toward me. Our eyes met, the
n she lowered her head guiltily. I wondered why. Had she killed Max Harkey? Had she had sex with Rafik? Perhaps both? But that vision of her—the confident woman now vulnerable and submissive to the brute force of two big men—well, it struck a chord in me, and I found myself feeling sorry for her.

  The cops jammed the young woman into the back seat of a cruiser and drove off Branco approached me where I was standing near Big Red.

  “This your bike?” he said with an approving look.

  “My lover’s.”

  Grunt, went the cop.

  I said, “I’d like to know how he is.”

  Branco replied, “You want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

  “Rafik called me.”

  Branco clenched his jaw muscles and compressed his lips, obliterating their sensuous fullness. His brow wrinkled. “So you’re an accessory?”

  “I create beauty, Lieutenant. I am not an accessory.”

  Branco pulled the corners of his mouth back into the hint of a smile, though his eyes maintained their steely blue-gray hardness. “Still the smart-ass, eh, Kraychik?”

  “Whenever provoked, Lieutenant.”

  Then a strange thing happened. The lieutenant’s face softened somewhat, and he looked directly into my eyes, as though for a moment he wanted to portray a person and not a cop. “How are you and your friend getting along?” he said.

  I stalled. What did Branco care about my personal life? He was a straight cop and I was a gay hairdresser. What did it matter in his realm of the Moral Majority how I was muddling through my life? Or was he just looking for evidence?