American Sextet

by Warren Adler

  "You son of a bitch."

  A male voice in a hoarse whisper, like an obscene phone caller, sibilated in his ear.

  "Who is this?"

  "Your old FDA buddy," the voice said.

  "Arthur."

  "Not now," Arthur said, his voice scratchy and harsh. "Meet me."

  Jason looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. He thought of Dorothy.

  "I can't."

  "Yes, you can."

  He felt disoriented. The booze, the tension, the aggravation had unnerved him. There was no mistaking Arthur's desperation.

  "Where?"

  In the long pause, his mind cleared. Government officials were paranoid about telephones.

  "The back parking lot at the Key Bridge Marriott."

  Jason knew the place, a high rise motel at the Roslyn end of the Key Bridge.

  "A half hour," Arthur said before hanging up.

  He immediately dialed Dorothy's number and got a busy signal. He tried again. It was still busy. He tried a number of times before he went out. Maybe she had taken the phone off the hook. No sense flogging himself with fantasies.

  As he drove, he listened to heavy rock music, nostalgia for him now, a symbol of another time and place. He had believed in the sweetness of his aspirations, the goodness of his motives. The truth was his holy grail. How delicious it had been to ferret out the liars at the FDA, to prick their bloated bureaucratic egos and watch the slime seep out. He was a journalist, goddammit, a noble heroic soldier in pursuit of truth. Even now. He'd make them see how far they had drifted away from the meaningful, the relevant. He smiled. It had been the operative word of his time. Everything had to be relevant. Suddenly a Beatles number floated into his consciousness. "I Wanna Hold Your Hand." Remembering it, his eyes watered and tears spilled down his cheeks. He could barely see the entrance to the parking lot when he reached it.

  He drove the car slowly through the crowded lot to the rear of the hotel. He circled it a few times until he spotted headlights flashing on and off near the rim of the lot. Parking his car, he got out and headed toward the other car. As he approached, the door opened and he slid in beside a distraught-looking Arthur Fellows.

  The man stared straight ahead into the darkness. He wore a tieless dress shirt and his jacket lay rumpled between them on the front seat. A fetid smell seemed to emanate from him, something more pungent than simple body odor.

  "You're a scroungy cocksucker," Arthur said, his voice tremulous. A shaking hand wiped away a patch of sweat over his upper lip. Confused by the outburst, Jason said nothing.

  "She called me."

  "Who?"

  "Who? Queen Elizabeth, you asshole."

  Suddenly Arthur turned to him, his face distorted with fear and anger. He made a gargling sound, like a death rattle, then opened the car door and stepped out. Jason followed him to the tree line beyond the lot. Arthur lit a cigarette and coughed.

  "Thought you gave that up," Jason said. He couldn't bear to ask the obvious.

  "Should have stayed with cigarettes. Given up other things."

  He coughed again and spat a ball of phlegm on the ground. "She called me," he said, turning toward Jason. "She told me that you set us up."

  "Come on, Arthur. She doesn't talk like that."

  "She said you were going to tell everybody about me and her. That that was your idea all along."

  "She said that?"

  No, Jason protested in his heart. Not Dorothy.

  "You know what she wanted me to do?" He shook his head and made croaking sounds, half-laughing, half-crying. "Take her in. You know. Into my house. Can you believe it? Take that cunt into my house. She said she'd do anything. Be a maid. Anything. I couldn't believe it."

  "So what did you say?"

  "What do you mean what did I say? Then she told me what was happening, what you were planning to do. At first I said no. Couldn't be." Jason felt Arthur's eyes boring into him.

  "Then I began to think about it. Shit. The bastard is really going to do it. You lousy prick. You've been manufacturing stories all along. You're going to put me away. At first I said to myself, she's crazy. This cunt is crazy. I'm the counselor to the fucking President of the United States. You're just a goddamned pimp reporter. You can't destroy me." He pounded a finger into Jason's chest. "And you're not going to do anything either, buster. Because I'm not going to let you.

  "Is that what you told her?"

  Arthur flipped the half-smoked cigarette on the ground and smashed it with his heel.

  "I told her that if she ever opened her mouth, I'd get her."

  "Get her? What does that mean?"

  As a journalist, he was used to threats. They goaded him. His reaction, always, was to stonewall, get tougher.

  "You know what it means," Arthur hissed. "And..." Again, he pounded his finger into Jason's chest. "That goes for you, too."

  "I'm creaking in my boots."

  He stepped backwards to avoid the persistent finger.

  "You said it was safe stuff. Now I find out it was you setting me up." His voice softened. "I can't believe you would do this, Jason. Not you. We were friends. Asshole buddies. And now you're planning to destroy my life. My kids. My family." He gagged suddenly, doubled over and vomited. When he straightened up again, he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.

  "Haven't you got any pity?"

  "Pity?" Jason thought of Dorothy. She really believed those men cared. She really believed it. He was more angry with himself for not seeing this coming. Now she'd know he was right.

  "You're not going to get away with this, Martin. Nobody's going to buy it. It's blackmail. Webster won't be party to that. Besides, I'll deny it." He moved closer and Jason could smell his sour breath. "We won't let you get away with it."

  "Who's we?" Jason said, contemptuously. "You and O'Haire? Remember who fixed him up. If she called you, she called him."

  "My God. So that's why he's trying to get me." He leaned against a tree for support.

  "He was another one of the regulars," Jason said, watching Arthur's face contort in pain.

  "One of the what?"

  "Regulars." He paused. "She had six."

  "Six!" The knowledge seemed to slowly seep into his comprehension. "You've really lost your mind. Do you really think you're going to destroy six guys with this? Who are the rest?"

  Jason told him. He watched him clinically, as the shock registered on his face. He wondered if he should make this scene part of the book. Hell, it added a whole new dimension. Fear. Pathos.

  "You think they're going to let you do this? No editor will buy it. There's a criminal intent here--you engineered it. Entrapment. That's what it is. These men have families. Shit. They're powerful. A lot more than you think you are." His body sagged, but he couldn't stop. "What's the big crime that any of us committed? We went out and got laid. What's the big deal?" He began to laugh. It was forced, hysterical. "We'll deny it. To a man. It's our word against that stupid little bitch's. And yours. There won't be any sympathy for you. You're a fucking monster. That's what you are." He shoved himself away from the tree and brought himself up, ramrod straight. "I don't know what I'm doing here even discussing it with you. You haven't got a chance in hell to pull this off. Hell, this is America. I'm personally not going to let you get away with this. I've got more clout than you. You're just a flunkie. You want to see muscle? I'll show you muscle. Hell, if she called all those guys and told them about you ... then goddammit ... you better head for the hills."

  He was winded, spent. Jason watched with indifference as he struggled for control. Soon he would learn that the mighty only think they can get away with anything. Arthur started back to his car, stopped, shook his head and came back to confront him again.

  "I'm the big asshole here, right? It's for money. Of course, it's for money. You're looking for money from us. Right? What kind of a figure do you put on it? Six guys. Ten thou apiece. Or more. I'm not going to pay shit. That's actionable. You forget, Jason ol
d salt, I'm a lawyer."

  "That's why I'm not worrying about you, Arthur. You'll make out. You always do."

  The rain, which had abated, started again. Arthur continued to glare at him, unsure of how to proceed. Jason shook his head, thinking again of Dorothy. She had really believed they were her friends. Now she surely would come crawling back, her innocence betrayed once again. Now she would understand that she had one friend, one dear loving friend. Nothing would stand in the way of what she had to do now. Nothing.

  The rain began to sweep over the lot in slanting sheets, soaking them.

  "You're both going to pay for this," Arthur said. "Pay dearly. Her word against mine."

  "I got it all on tapes, Arthur," Jason said. "The room had a live bug."

  Again, he staggered back, leaning against a tree.

  "Bullshit. It won't stand up."

  "Stand up where? She told me everything. All those little backbiting things you said about your colleagues. Yeah, Arthur. That, too. It's more than just a dirty little sex scandal. It's got everything, including foreign intrigue. We got it all. And she's going to back it up."

  "The hell she is. She hates your guts. She didn't want any part of it."

  "That's when she thought you were all her buddies."

  He stood in the rain, looking at Jason for a long moment. You won't find pity here, Jason thought. Too bad for him. He wasn't a man to inspire pity. Not that it would do him any good anyway. It was too late for that. Jason turned and walked toward his car. By now Dorothy would be back at their Capitol Hill apartment. Perhaps she was worried about him. He'd let her stew.

  He heard the angry roar of a car, the screech of tires. Turning he saw it hurtle toward him, barreling down on him at an accelerating speed. He started to run, tripping on the slippery asphalt. Still the car came, a relentless lethal weapon now. He threw himself on the ground between two cars. Arthur's car missed him by inches, crashing against the fender of one of the cars, then pulling back and speeding out of the lot.

  Squinting into the rain, Jason got up slowly. A new dimension had been added to the scenario. Desperate men did desperate things. Until now, the possibility had been a vague one, but he realized that Dorothy, too, was now in danger. Physical danger. He was sure of it. He got into his car and headed swiftly for Capitol Hill.

  XV

  The eggplant arrived at Dr. Benton's house in an ominous mood. Brushing past them, he grunted a perfunctory greeting and helped himself to a shot of brandy. His black complexion seemed grayish, a sure sign of his inner turmoil. Taking off his jacket, he showed dark sweatlines under his armpits. He did not look at Fiona at first, not until he had finished one drink from a brandy snifter and poured himself another.

  "I can leave if you like," Dr. Benton said. Despite his calm wisdom, he could be obsequious in the face of authority.

  "No. You stay," the eggplant roared, turning bloodshot eyes on Fiona. He took another deep swallow and refocused on her.

  "Might as well. He's your rabbi."

  It was a police term. Everyone in the office knew that Fiona and Dr. Benton had forged a special friendship, one of the department's many odd couples. They all knew, too, that Dr. Benton was no boat-rocker and could be trusted with anyone's secret. Except the secrets of the dead. What she suspected, too, was that the eggplant needed a reliable witness.

  "All they send me is assholes. Used to be a time when they'd send me real cops. Now it's deadheads and..." She could see him struggling to hold back the hated word. "Feeemales. This time the mayor's in it." Fiona looked at Dr. Benton, who shrugged, not comprehending. A new law had given the mayor absolute power over the police, one more thorn in the eggplant's battered hide.

  "It was bad enough that we can't get a handle on this crazy who's wasting little girls." His bloodshot eyes narrowed as he looked at Fiona. "Black teenage girls. That's bad enough."

  "No leads at all, Luther?" Dr. Benton asked. It was a particular concern of his. He had done the autopsies on the victims, a terrible chore for him. "I can't take the youngsters," he had often said. "Why do they kill the children?"

  "That would be bad enough," the eggplant said, lighting a cigarette. He was already working on creating a little mound in an ashtray.

  "It'll kill you, Luther," Dr. Benton said.

  "One way or another," he said, "if this one..." He pointed to Fiona "...doesn't do it first." He waved a nicotine-stained finger at her nose. "This time I think you've bought it, mama." He turned to Dr. Benton. "I'm going to do her in for insubordination, malfeasance, harassment. The book. And I'm through eatin' myself up alive over it. White woman or not. She's gone too far."

  They let him talk. He was all wound up in his bitterness and Fiona braced herself. She had sensed it was coming anyway.

  "He was mad as hell, the mayor. I had to stand there in the big nigger's office listenin' to him rant and rave about appropriations, about his career, about honky power. You name it. I got both barrels. And I stood there holdin' my Johnson like a dummy wonderin' what the hell he was gettin' at. Then he started to talk about some jumper. Oh shit." His face glistened with oily sweat. "What jumper? What the fuck has he got to do with a jumper? Here I'm tryin' to find some crazy killer and he's layin' this jumper on me." He looked at Fiona. "You know what jumper? Your goddamned jumper. The same one. The one you said smelled funny. Well it sure as hell does smell funny. Only it's me that smells. I didn't know what the bastard was talkin' about." He stopped, took a deep drag on his cigarette and poured himself another brandy. "Your jumper, mama. I'm sure you told the good rabbi here all about your jumper."

  Dr. Benton nodded. Fiona wanted to interrupt, but thought it wiser to remain quiet until he burned up more venom. By confronting O'Haire, hadn't she begged for this?

  "I checked your reports, too. That was after. Just to make sure." He turned toward Dr. Benton. "You did a toxic and smears. Right? This is one persuasive little bitch. And what did you find?"

  "Evidence of intercourse..." Dr. Benton began.

  "Since when is fucking a crime? Evidence of intercourse," he mimicked. "I had to stand there while the fat-assed mayor dressed me down for her stickin' her nose where it shouldn't be. You can't manufacture a criminal from the air. Some dumb honky broad snuffs out her own lights, which is her privilege, and the great detective here..." He upended his drink in one gulp. "Intuition, right? That's where it is. Intuition. Pretty little white ladies don't throw themselves over a bridge after they get laid. The hell they don't. And it's none of your damned business. Like I told her. Leave it alone. Leave it alone."

  "Maybe I overreacted," Fiona said quietly. Dr. Benton watched her, comforting her with his eyes. You're in trouble, Fiona, she told herself. And the eggplant knew it.

  "I had enough on my plate without this," the eggplant said. "There's just so much one human bein' can take." He was wallowing in self-pity now, a typical ploy of his.

  "I didn't mean to..."

  "Didn't mean shit," he shouted, banging his fist on the table, scattering the cigarette butts.

  "Easy, Luther," Dr. Benton said in in his soft voice.

  How was it possible to explain anything to this raving maniac? She could never tell him about Clint. He would ridicule it, trivialize it. In this state, Fiona knew, nothing could placate him.

  "Murder. So it was murder, was it? There's not a shred of evidence. Not a shred. Did you see anything, smell anything?"

  Dr. Benton looked at him helplessly.

  "And you." He glared at Fiona. "Any evidence of a crime? Not one iota." He got up and lumbered across the room, then poured himself another drink.

  "I've suspended Cates pending an inquiry," he said. "And you, too, FitzGerald."

  "Isn't that harsh, Luther?" Dr. Benton asked.

  The eggplant came back to the couch and banged his glass down on the table. Fiona's stomach tightened, the lump of fear expanding. Suspension. Inquiry. So he was finally testing the power of the double minority.

  "I had no choice,
" he said, quieting.

  "And if you did?" Fiona asked, her voice breaking.

  "Maybe I would. Maybe I wouldn't." He glared at her.

  "Typical."

  "Easy, Fi," Dr. Benton warned.

  "You think I got it easy," the eggplant said. "To some of you, I'm a joke. The eggplant. You think I don't know that? Sometimes I can't tell who's worse." He looked up at the ceiling. "You. Or the damned killers. I don't know who gives me more shit."

  "Well, you sure as hell pass it along," Fiona said, drawing courage from her welling anger. "You're like the guy who comes home from work and kicks the dog. Only some of us are the dogs."

  "Fiona," Dr. Benton interrupted sharply.

  "Let the bitch talk," the eggplant mumbled, pouring another drink. "My department doesn't respect me. Least of all her. The token white princess. Well, this time she's gone and bought it. The laugh is, that it wasn't me who did it."

  "Not you?" she asked, momentarily confused.

  "Mayor's orders. Not that I wouldn't have done it myself, but he's the boss. I told you. I had no choice. He had me there with my pants down."

  "I hadn't realized ... So I really did get to that bastard O'Haire."

  "Who?" the eggplant asked.

  "O'Haire. The majority whip of the house. You mean his name didn't come up? That's the one I leaned on."

  They exchanged looks of confusion. The eggplant shook his head like a dog rising from a long sleep and stood up. He began pacing the room.

  "Why exactly was I suspended then?" Fiona asked, watching him. "I have a right to know. And Timothy Cates. That's a real bad rap for him. It wasn't even his fault. I..." she hesitated, glancing briefly at Dr. Benton, "I pussy-whipped him."

  "I told you. He took it out of my hands."

  He turned to Dr. Benton.

  "Maybe I am an asshole," he said. "But one thing I do is defend my own people. If they screw up, it's me that gets the poker."

  "Well, you didn't defend us," Fiona muttered.

  He stopped pacing and glared at her. "Even I got limits, FitzGerald. What do you know about it anyway?"