Dead on Your Feet

by Grant Michaels

  We went our ways, he to some important meeting and me back to Snips Salon. But once again I was stopped on my way out of the ballet studios, this time by Madame Rubinskaya.

  “I thought I see you watching class,” she said.

  “It was impressive,” I said. “Especially the men.”

  The old woman dismissed my comment with modest shrug.

  “The dancers, they can do better. But they are young, and it is springtime. They have other things on their mind.”

  “Do you know what happened between Scott Molloy and Alissa Kortland?”

  “Is a shame, no? Such beautiful young people and always fighting. They make too much tragedy. They don’t know how to enjoy their life.”

  “The police can’t help much with domestic squabbles.”

  “But he was hitting her.”

  “Is that true?” I said.

  The old woman shrugged again. “Alissa says it, but who knows? She likes to live in big drama.”

  “Madame Rubinskaya,” I ventured cautiously, “Do you know if Max Harkey kept a diary?”

  “Maxi had diary? Maybe.”

  “Did you ever see it?”

  After a lengthy pause, Madame Rubinskaya replied coolly, “I don’t recall.”

  “Then do you recall the musical score to The Phoenix?”

  “Why are you asking that to me?”

  “Because it’s missing.”

  “So?”

  “I thought you might have some idea where it was.”

  “You are thinking now I took it?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Bozhe! I thought you were fine young man, but I see you are rude.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but the only way to find things out is to ask, and sometimes the words come out wrong. May I ask you just one more question?”

  Wearied now, and huffing impatiently, Madame Rubinskaya said, “No. You are not very nice boy.”

  And having made her pronouncement, she walked off.

  I thought to myself, Just because you say it doesn’t make it so. So I quickly improvised a mantra to undo Madame Rubinskaya’s harsh verdict of me: I am a nice boy. I am a nice boy. I am a nice boy.

  But without the ruby slippers, nothing happened.

  One more time I headed for the doorway. I wanted out of that place, but I’d just about taken two steps when I saw Rafik and Toni di Natale entering the main lobby. They were jabbering and laughing together. Toni saw me first and pulled Rafik along with her.

  “There you are!” she said. “I love what you did with my hair. It absolutely glows in the sunlight.”

  Rafik grinned broadly. “You make her very beautiful.”

  He held her closely around the waist while she hung onto his shoulder.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Where are you all coming from?”

  Toni replied, “We just had the longest, most luxurious breakfast in the world at the Copley Palace. Have you ever tried it?”

  “Not yet,” I said in stark opposition to her effusiveness.

  “It’s marvelous. You simply must do it.”

  Rafik added, “We were talking about music, and the time was flying by. It was very productive.”

  The two of them radiated positive, creative energy. They were utterly pleased with each other and with the rest of the world, with all things bright and beautiful. And once again I was struck by the broad range of Rafik’s energy, and how I got to witness the other end of that spectrum, the polar opposite of what I was seeing now with Toni di Natale.

  “What brings you here?” she asked me.

  “Max Harkey’s murder,” I answered bluntly.

  “You’re working so hard on that,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll be the one who solves it. You’ll be the hero.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Hold that thought.”

  Rafik was still grinning when he pulled Toni closer to him and put his other hand on my arm.

  “We have rehearsal now,” he said. “I see you later.”

  “I’ll be at the shop,” I said.

  “Thank you again for my hair,” said Toni. “It’s too bad you can’t sign your work.”

  Rafik and I exchanged knowing glances.

  “Sometimes I do,” I said.

  They went off and I finally got to leave the studios of the Boston City Ballet. This time nobody stopped me. But then, who was left? I’d seen just about the whole cast that morning.

  I set out for Snips. As I was passing through Copley Square I saw the Copley Palace and felt an strange urge in my body, a kind of undulation that began in my belly, then ran up to my head, and then down to my feet before settling again in my gut. Perhaps it was just hunger, a subliminal suggestion from the breakfast enjoyed by Rafik and Toni di Natale. But no, it wasn’t breakfast or lunch that I craved. I stopped and looked at the massive structure of the hotel, so new and clean and austere next to the classical architecture around it. I stared at the modern building and let my eyes wander all the way up to the top, to the penthouse, where Rico was probably having a cup of coffee at that moment. And that strange, sensuous wave moved through my body again, and then I realized what it was. I wanted something that I hadn’t identified before, and it was indeed a desire that Rafik had triggered, especially by the way he behaved with Toni di Natale. What I wanted was some lite sex. And I knew just where to get it.

  15

  Change Partners and Dance

  THE CONCIERGE AT THE COPLEY PALACE recognized me from yesterday, but that didn’t help at all. Neither his formality nor my attempt at propriety could counter the rush of lecherous energy I was feeling, and when I asked to see Rico, the man shook his head gravely.

  “Young Mr. Rico is no longer employed by this establishment.”

  Strange, I thought, when just minutes ago Marshall Zander had been so cordial and hospitable about the expensive lunch Rico and I had shared, yet he had not mentioned Rico’s departure.

  The concierge continued, “Mr. Zander is not in, either, though as I recall, yesterday you specifically wished not to see him.”

  “Yes,” I said with hesitation. “That is correct.” Gonads agog over Rico, I’d carelessly assumed that Marshall Zander was still at the ballet studios, heedless that he might have returned home himself in the few intervening minutes. That would have been cute: me showing up all moist and hot for the houseboy, only to be greeted at the door by the lard-ass master of the manse.

  “Is there any message?” interrupted the concierge.

  “Do you know what happened?”

  He raised his nose haughtily and spoke in clipped syllables.

  “There was an unpleasant incident which I am not at liberty to divulge. However, the locks on Mr. Zander’s suite are being changed presently, and at great expense.”

  “So what, if it’s for the emperor?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Doll, your haute drag doesn’t cut it. Come back to earth.”

  I left the hotel troubled by the idea that Rico would steal anything from Marshall Zander. Sure, he was cute and charming and sexy, but I had a feeling he’d hustle with more class than a petty thief. The real question was, Did Rico leave or was he fired?

  I walked one block along St. James Street to Berkeley Street. I’d make one more stop before reporting for duty at Snips. After this strange news of Rico’s disappearance I wanted to consult with boss cop Branco. Luckily, the lieutenant was in. When I entered his office he was engrossed in a pile of papers on his desk. He whistled softly as he studied the documents—a peppy little tune, Italian I think. It was not typical of Branco to make music. After the polite formalities of greeting, I told him about my concern over Rico’s sudden disappearance.

  Branco remarked, “The coincidence is amazing, Stan. Either you’ve got a nose for this kind of thing, or else you’re involved deeper in this situation than you admit.”

  “What happened?” I said.

  “We got a report from Traffic Division this morning. Your young friend
was on his motor scooter. Ran a red light. Bad accident.”

  “How bad?” I said with a shaky voice.

  “I’m afraid he’s gone.”

  I felt the blow, of all places, between my shoulder blades. Then, like a dull blade, it jagged and ripped its way diagonally through my chest toward my stomach. When I regained my focus, I was cold and sweaty.

  “My tesão,” I said quietly.

  “I’m sorry,” said Branco.

  I had to fight the pressure of tears and a tightness that was growing throughout my body. Everything in me wanted to wail. But not here, I told myself. Not in front of the cop.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he said.

  And the sudden, unexpected warmth in his voice opened a tiny hatchway in my resistance, and against my will I felt some quiet tears slipping out. The surge of intense emotion both startled and annoyed me. When I knew I could speak without blubbering, I asked Branco what had happened.

  “The driver of the car claims the scooter came out of nowhere. He was really shook up about it, too—confessed everything was his fault and submitted to us without resistance, even offered to go straight to jail.”

  Branco stifled a small but inappropriate laugh. He’d probably have liked the whole world to be that submissive.

  He continued, “Ordinarily we let a thing like this go through the regular channels, but since the young man was directly involved with the Max Harkey case, I’ve put Homicide on it. The lab is examining the scooter for any sign of foul play. The brakes might have been rigged to fail.”

  Branco’s suspicions recalled an old movie with a similar setup. So who in this drama was the most like Lana Turner?

  “Where’s … Rico … now?” I asked. I’d started my question strongly, but my courage faded into a whispery croak.

  “In the morgue. I can arrange it, but I don’t suggest you see him. He’s pretty banged up.”

  “No,” I said feebly. “You know best.”

  “By the way, I just released Scott Molloy. Alissa Kortland’s charges are insufficient to book him.” Branco added angrily, “Damn kids.”

  “Do you think he could have killed Rico?”

  “The two of them have very neat and complete alibis in each other, even if they are at odds right now.”

  “Then what about Marshall Zander?” I said.

  “Mr. Moneybags?” said the cop.

  “Rico lived with him. He’d have the perfect opportunity to rig the scooter.”

  “He doesn’t impress me as being very mechanical,” said Branco, adding a little grunt. “And what’s his motive?”

  “What’s anyone’s motive? Rico must have known something.

  “If it was murder.”

  “Of course it was, Lieutenant! So we know it’s got to be someone who understands motor scooters.”

  “Or motorcycles,” said the cop. Then he added smugly, “Since you’re so sure.”

  I felt my cheeks flush angrily.

  “I was with Rafik all night,” I said. “He couldn’t have done it.

  “What about this morning?”

  I balked. Rafik had left the apartment early for his urgent meeting, which turned out to be a clandestine breakfast with Toni di Natale at the Copley Palace. Had he taken a few moments to make a fatal adjustment on Rico’s scooter?

  “Lieutenant, Rafik didn’t rig that scooter.”

  “Does he know how you felt about Rico?”

  “Even if he did—”

  “It’s okay, Stan.” Branco halted me with his big raised hand. “I’m not going to book him. Your alibis will hold for now.” Branco looked directly at me, and then I saw a smile creep across his strong mouth. “Besides,” he said, now opening the smile to a glorious broad grin, “someday I might be in the same boat, with my date being my only alibi.”

  Was Branco relating the concept of a date to himself?

  “You’d have to be a suspect first, Lieutenant.”

  He shrugged slightly. “Do you suspect me?” he said.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Stan Kraychik. Do you suspect me?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of anything.”

  “What are you talking about, Lieutenant? What should I suspect you of?”

  “I’m asking you,” he said.

  Now this was a switch I could not fathom.

  Branco grinned victoriously and said, “You’re afraid to be honest with me, aren’t you?”

  I wondered, Why this sudden urge for intimacy?

  “Lieutenant, I think you’re pushing the bounds of the cop-civilian dichotomy.”

  Branco replied, “And I think you’re using big words.”

  What did he want to hear me say?

  “I’m late for work, Lieutenant. Can I use you as my alibi?”

  “Sure. Give my regards to Nicole.”

  So it was “Nicole” now, no more “Miss Albright.”

  He went on, “I’m really sorry about last night. I hope she’s all right today.”

  “What happened?”

  Branco faltered a bit as he tried to explain. “Nothing too serious. Just a stupid mistake I could have prevented.”

  So even bigshot cops occasionally blundered.

  I said, “Shall I bear sad tidings from Lieutenant Branco? Or from Vito?”

  “Either way she’ll know,” he replied.

  “Either way,” I repeated.

  Back at the salon, Nicole was occupied with a client at her manicure table. As I passed by I was astonished to hear Nicole softly humming a tune while she worked. She paused in the music just long enough to greet me with an exaggerated smile.

  “How nice of you to drop in today, Stanley.”

  Then, without missing a single stroke of the emery board, she resumed her humming.

  Now one thing I do know about Nicole after all our years together is that she never sings. Ever. It’s an activity unknown in her life. Yet here she was humming a frisky little tune, a dancy number I seemed to recognize. Italian, I think. Had she heard it on Branco’s tape player? And what had they been doing? Celebrating the fertility and abundance of springtime?

  “Vito sends kisses,” I said.

  “That’s nice, darling,” Nicole answered, and continued with her work.

  “I’ll be in my office,” I said, as though I owned the place.

  But all I heard from her manicure table was the sound of holiday merriment.

  Half an hour later Nicole came by my office, holding out her empty Rosenthal coffee mug like a high-class beggar. I filled it with steaming fresh brew. When I was about to add the usual dollop of heavy cream, Nicole stopped me.

  “Just plain.”

  “Watching the waistline?” I asked.

  “No. I simply don’t want cream today. Is that a crime?”

  “No, doll.” I handed her the hot mug. “Do you say no to Branco’s cream too?”

  Nicole glared at me.

  “In your coffee, doll. Did I touch a nerve?”

  “Sometimes you are so crude.”

  “Nikki, it’s obvious that you and Branco are having a fling. I don’t know why you try to hide it.”

  “It is not a fling, Stanley.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “We are developing a very cordial relationship. You barely know the man, yet you’re ready to accuse him, and now me, of the same coarseness that you seem to crave so much.”

  “Whoa, doll. I’m not accusing.”

  “Then perhaps I should have said ‘ridicule,’ since that’s what you really do. You ridicule people. For your information, Stanley, yes, Vito and I were together again. And I think it’s wonderful. He’s a perfect gentleman. There’s a refinement about him that you’ll never know because you always focus on the crotch end of your life.”

  “Straight men do that too.”

  “Don’t hold that against him now.”

  “Doll, a penis is a penis.”

  “How deluded you are!”

  “Excu
se me. Branco’s is a holy object.”

  “You are hateful.”

  “And you’re acting superior when it’s just a case of—”

  At that instant I noticed a nasty bruise on the underside of Nicole’s forearm.

  “What’s that, doll?”

  She self-consciously pulled the sleeve of her blouse down to try to cover it.

  “Nikki,” I said. “Did he hurt you?”

  Nicole was speechless.

  I was speechless.

  Had Branco been rough with her? Was it accidental? Or was it a secret part of being a “perfect gentleman”? How dare he hurt her? The games I played with Rafik were different, done in the name of love. Nicole didn’t like that stuff. Or did she? Maybe it took the likes of Vito Branco to awaken that aspect of her desire. Well, well.

  As if to halt my imaginings, Nicole said, “Vito has a very small kitchen, and one of the doors over the counter doesn’t close properly, and I was reaching up—”

  “You don’t have to explain Nikki.”

  “I know I don’t!”

  “Just so long as it’s your choice, and not just his.”

  “You don’t understand anything, Stanley. You see only what you want.”

  Just then Rafik appeared in the open doorway to my office. He was out of breath, as though he’d sprinted there across town.

  “I have good news!” he exclaimed.

  “We could use some of that,” said Nicole and I in unison.

  Rafik spoke excitedly, like a child who has just won a big prize. “Max has left to me his magnificent piano.”

  “That’s wonderful,” said Nicole.

  “It is,” I added, knowing how much Rafik respected the musical side of Max Harkey’s creativity. It was the perfect legacy from one artist to another.

  “But,” continued Rafik, “I have no place to put it. It is very big.”

  “I know,” said I.

  “Oh,” said Nicole.

  “So,” said Rafik. “Now we must get an apartment together, Stani. It will be so beautiful. I always dream of a grand piano in our house. And now we have the one of Max Harkey.”

  Nicole said to me, “I think he loves you.”

  “First person plural always gives it away, doll.”

  Nicole got up. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she said, and took her coffee out of the office with her. I closed the door.