American Sextet

by Warren Adler

He lay his head on the table and began to sob. The eggplant stood up, lit a cigarette, breathed deeply, and paced the room. Martin's shoulders shook with agonized sobs. Fiona sat there, stunned, and Dr. Benton's complexion seemed to turn olive green.

  Finally the eggplant walked back to the table and poked a finger in the man's shaking back.

  "You fucking lying little bastard. Covering up for those cock-suckers. You think anyone will believe your turd shit? Whitelivered honky liar." He wasn't acting this time. This was genuine anger, white hot, right from his gut. "Covering up for those bastards."

  The man raised his pained eyes.

  "Covering up for those bastards?" Jason repeated it between choked sobs. "She was murdered?" he said, trying to wipe his face with his sleeve.

  "Fuckin' A," the eggplant sneered.

  "Who?"

  "Why the fuck do you think we're here?" He sucked in the smoke so deeply that half the cigarette in his mouth turned to quick ash. "You tell it, baby," he said, the smoke curling into the man's face. He began to cough again. Then he gagged and seemed to fight down the urge to heave.

  "Not one's worth protecting," the eggplant said quietly. He was calm now.

  They waited for the man to recover. Dr. Benton brought him coffee but the man was trembling too much to lift the cup and Dr. Benton had to literally spoon some into him. He breathed deeply, trying to recover himself.

  "Which one do you think?" the eggplant said.

  He turned his face toward Fiona, squinting in confusion, spent now. Instinct, she thought. The things he always accuses me of. Pure instinct. But there is no evidence of a crime. None at all, unless he was holding something back and she doubted that. When the smoke cleared, she suspected, he would be in bigger trouble than all of them.

  "I want it all," the eggplant said. "All of it."

  "I..." The eggplant inexplicably grabbed the man's shoulder and pressed it. Was it a gesture of manly affection? Were they allies now? The confessor and the confessed. She knew what that meant in a religious way.

  "It's all down," Martin mumbled. "I can't speak it. Hear it for yourself. I have tapes."

  My God, she thought, comprehending none of it.

  They were speeding through the streets again, Martin between them on the front seat saying nothing, trancelike, periodically dissolving into deep sobs.

  As they walked up the steps to his apartment, they heard the telephone ring. It stopped when they went in.

  "There," Martin said, opening a drawer. Fiona noted the packed bags. The apartment was neater than when she had first seen it, obviously battened down for a long stay away.

  "I was going to Switzerland. To write a book." His voice caught in his throat.

  He opened the envelopes and put the tapes into six neat piles. She noted the names on the piles of tapes. Hurley. Senator Charles Hurley. The sudden revelation rooted her to the floor.

  Martin got his tape recorder and brought out a bottle of Scotch and three glasses. He had begun to recover now, his relief palpable. The unburdening had been therapeutic, a reaction she had seen many times after a confession.

  "Hear it in sequence," Martin said, placing the first of the tapes in the recorder. Before he could switch it on, the telephone rang.

  "Not now," the eggplant said, looking at the high pile of tapes. The phone rang persistently, and they tried to ignore it as they sipped their Scotch.

  "You know who that is?" the eggplant asked.

  "Yes. He'll call again.

  When it stopped, the eggplant took the instrument, opened it and muffled the ringing device. Then they began to listen to the tapes.

  The effect on Fiona was awesome, appalling, beyond belief. To hear that voice, girlish, innocent, despite the bizarre circumstances being related, was as if a ghost had joined them. Fiona had to look around the room to see if Dorothy was present, dreading the possibility of seeing her resurrected. She felt chilled, as if a ghost had touched her. The eggplant's hooded eyes could not hide its effect on him as well. Strange sounds emitted from him, groans, sighs. Dorothy's voice sounded eerie, as if it were emanating from some intangible source. They listened throughout the morning and on into the afternoon.

  Martin sat quietly, offering the tapes selectively, so they could get the full picture. It would take days, perhaps weeks, to hear them all. It crossed her mind that perhaps they were faked, preconceived scenarios, but it soon became evident that it wasn't possible.

  Occasionally, they heard the muffled sounds of the telephone's ring, but they ignored it and sipped the Scotch slowly. It had little effect. By midafternoon they hadn't stirred. Martin rose from his chair only to change the tapes, sometimes hiding his eyes and sobbing uncontrollably when something in Dorothy's voice struck him. For hours, not a word passed between them. Only once, late in the afternoon, Martin spoke, after the muffled telephone persisted for nearly five minutes.

  "He knows I've got tickets on SwissAir tonight at ten."

  The eggplant looked at his watch and turned his eyes to the tape recorder again. Listening had, by then, become an addiction to both of them. Dorothy's awesome innocence had set the stage for the public destruction of six men. When she heard Dorothy talking about Senator Hurley, Fiona's stomach tightened. His dancing nude for the benefit of this strange but powerful woman astounded her. This was the man whom both Clint and his wife feared. It was impossible, after all, to live totally without guile.

  Her mind whirled with questions. The problem now was to absorb all this information. It stunned her, made her giddy. It both revolted and fascinated. At times, she would look at the eggplant, whose skin shone like a cue ball. What they were hearing was beyond their experience. Perhaps beyond their comprehension. She wondered if even the logic of Martin's explanation could be understood. So why did she die? She shivered and took a deep sip of the Scotch.

  It started to grow dark, but no one reached for the lights and the telephone rang again. The eggplant stirred, sighed and reached for another cigarette. The mound of butts had grown and when he crumpled the empty pack, he searched the pile, found a useable butt and lit it, inhaling deeply.

  "Answer it," the eggplant ordered.

  Martin stood up, wobbly, glass in hand. Apparently, he was the only one of the three on whom the liquor had any effect. He reached for the instrument and suddenly the eggplant jumped up and stayed his hand. When he had placed himself beside Martin, he nodded. Fiona noted that his shirt was bathed in perspiration. Martin picked up the phone and the eggplant positioned himself so that he could also hear.

  "Where the hell were you?" Arthur screamed.

  Martin cleared his throat and grunted. He was beyond caring now. He glanced at the eggplant and shrugged.

  "I tried all day," Arthur Fellows screamed hysterically. "They have nothing. Absolutely nothing. No evidence of anything. That's straight from the mayor."

  "What?"

  Martin's reasoning was sluggish. In the quiet of the room, Arthur's voice carried as far as Fiona's ears.

  "They have nothing." He was screaming into the phone. "Don't you understand? It's over. Over. And the cops who leaned on Tate and you are suspended."

  The eggplant pinched Martin's arm, who reacted with a grunt.

  "You bring the tapes to Dulles," Arthur said, "I'll meet you."

  Martin started to speak. But it was too late. The eggplant had already broken the connection.

  Martin looked inexplicably at the mouthpiece, then at the two of them.

  She had never before seen such hatred in the eggplant's eyes.

  XX

  The eggplant's car sped along the Dulles Access Highway. They had repacked the tapes in the envelopes and he had thrown them into the trunk of his car.

  After his conversation with Fellows, Martin had collapsed on the couch like a cast-off puppet, his expression empty, his eyes glazed. As they gathered the tapes, they ignored him. And each other. They seemed to be sharing some mutual embarrassment, like being forced to stand naked in a room tog
ether.

  At first, she thought they would be heading back to headquarters. Then it became apparent that he was on his way to Dulles Airport. She wanted to question that course of action, but held her silence, knowing she was following him into an uncharted wasteland.

  Occasionally she glanced at him. He didn't acknowledge her sudden attention, his eyes flickering in the glare of oncoming headlights. Yet she knew that a volcano was seething beside her. A question had nagged at her all day as they listened to the tapes, but somehow she couldn't find the courage to ask it: Who'll punish them?

  He was answering it now. "I will," he was saying. His silence could not disguise it.

  In the distance, she saw the blaze of light over the trees and soon the white cantilevered marvel of the main airport building, looking like a lit-up cake.

  She knew she couldn't stop him now. Hell, she hadn't been able to stop herself. She felt a little like Cates must have felt in the beginning not knowing why, but going along. Maybe Dorothy had found her way into the eggplant's gut as well. Face it squarely, she told herself. She agreed with what he was doing. She was going along because she believed in it.

  He swung the car into the winding embarkation road, pulling up to the curb. She followed him blindly, a spectator. The eggplant's bulky figure moved into the building. The hooded eyes were alert now. Predatory.

  The large glass-walled building was filled with overseas travelers standing patiently in ticket lines for the evening flights. He strode toward the SwissAir counter, surveyed the crowd, then moved to a deserted area at the end of the bank. Reaching over the counter, he picked up a telephone. His physical actions were surprisingly economical. He knew exactly what he was doing.

  "This is Captain Greene, MPD. Would you page..." He looked briefly at Fiona, flashing a tight thin smile. "A Mr. Fellows."

  A voice crackled over the speaker as his eyes searched the crowd near the SwissAir counter. A man who had been leaning against a window wall moved suddenly, hesitated, looked about him, then furtively approached a counter and picked up the phone. The eggplant moved with the stealth and speed of a leopard. He was next to him in a moment. Fiona followed close behind.

  The man was slack-jawed, his eyes burning with fear as they searched for escape. The eggplant flashed his shield. Without a word, he placed his big hand under Fellows's arm, leading him forward. Fellows tried to resist, looked into the eggplant's determined face, then yielded. They moved through the detection counter to a deserted part of the airport. A plane took off in the distance.

  "What is it?" Fellows asked. His skin had mottled with anxiety. The eggplant watched, calmly assessing him.

  "Arthur Fellows?" the eggplant said softly.

  The man nodded.

  "What is it?" Fellows asked again. The deliberate suspense was cruel work. She half expected him to read Fellows his rights. But it wasn't an arrest. Again she asked: Where is the crime?

  "We know everything," the eggplant said.

  Fellows swallowed, desperately trying to gather the shreds of his courage.

  "Know what?"

  The eggplant emitted a croaking, derisive sound. He's enjoying this, Fiona thought, like holding a butterfly's wings. Fellows turned to her, pleading. She shrugged helplessly, watching the man's dignity disintegrate.

  "You have nothing," Fellows said bravely. "I'm the counsel to the President." She sensed the explosion coming, the spew of lava.

  "Fuck you. Fuck the President," the eggplant said.

  Like battering rams, the curses seemed to push Fellows back against a window wall. Fiona watched, stunned, unable to react. He can't do this, she thought, yet found herself unable to shake the sense of alliance with the eggplant's actions.

  "If I've done something, charge me," Fellows said, challenging him.

  "Turd," the eggplant said. He looked toward Fiona. "Like the dogs do."

  Fellows turned dead white. She thought he was going to faint. The eggplant chuckled. "We heard all about it," he said calmly.

  "It's no crime," Fellows mumbled, searching Fiona's face. "Besides, you have nothing." Fellows sat on the ledge of the window wall. "The mayor confirmed it. Nothing."

  The eggplant watched, lifted his finger, almost touched the man's nose.

  "You're dead in the water, man. And you got three things to do." He continued to hold his finger taut, like the muzzle of a gun.

  "You can't," Fellows protested. "I can bust you."

  "Three things," the eggplant said, ignoring him. "First, you're gonna call the mayor. You're gonna say it was all a mistake. Dig?"

  He seemed to be throwing Fellows a bit of flotsam to hold on to. Fiona felt strangely relieved. "You know what you're gonna tell him?"

  Fellows said nothing, lowering his eyes. The eggplant was relishing it.

  "Then you're gonna fucking resign."

  "Resign?"

  "As of immediately."

  Fellows's face collapsed into his skull.

  "You can't do that. I'm the counsel to the President."

  "You were," the eggplant hissed.

  "Martin! He was the one. He set us up. What about him?"

  What little residual fight was left in the man evaporated. He looked toward both of them with tired eyes. Fiona braced herself. He had said three things. What more was there to extract? Surely, it was over now.

  "Now there is the matter of the others," the eggplant said, his words flat and clear. Fellows's body began to tremble.

  "The others?"

  She could see there was no stopping him now.

  "All of them. I want them all to resign. Every last son of a bitch."

  "You can't make me do that."

  "Yes, I can." He spat the words, mocking him. Enough, Fiona screamed within herself, the guilt rising.

  "All of them. Do you understand me?"

  In her heart, she wanted to intervene. We don't dispense justice. The words tumbled in her head, but she couldn't find her voice. Wasn't he dispensing her justice as well? Briefly, he turned toward her and she wondered if he was seeking validation. Was there something he knew that she had missed? Or was his pain deeper than hers, the product of a thousand lifetimes in a black skin? Without thinking, she nodded consent.

  "We didn't kill her," Fellows gasped.

  "Didn't you?" the eggplant said slowly. "She died for you, my friend. A sweet Jesus lady."

  It came to her like the distant trill of a black spiritual rising from the agony of stifled pain. Was he avenging a race as she had sought to avenge her gender? Everyone seemed to cry out from the depths of their own terror.

  "You do it, man," the eggplant said softly.

  He walked off and Fiona followed again. Then he stopped and strode back to the broken man.

  "The money."

  Fellows shrugged and looked at the dispatch case that lay flat on the floor. Picking it up, he walked off again. This time Fiona caught up with him.

  "Not that," she said. "You can't do that."

  "I can do anything I fucking well please," he said.

  For money? Her mind screamed in protest. All this for money?

  Her stomach turned. So he was just another greedy little bastard.

  That night she couldn't sleep, twisting and turning until her sheet became a shroud around her. Unwinding herself, she got up, removed her sweat-matted pajamas and sat naked by the window, watching dawn cast its amber light over the city.

  The eggplant had dropped her off at her apartment, grunting a perfunctory goodbye. Not a word had passed between them. It was the bottled up response that was keeping her up now, the jumble of confused thoughts. And the guilt. Hadn't she put the match to the first batch of dry tinder?

  It was always her secret pride that although her job forced her to step down to the source of human degradation, when she stepped out of it at the end of the day she was as clean as when she had entered. There were times when it had taken longer for her to rid herself of the stench, but the self-cleansing talent always performed and,
miraculously, she always became clean and whole again. Now she wasn't sure the stench would ever go away.

  For one glorious moment, the eggplant, her nemesis, the very epitome of cowardice and chicanery, had emerged from the swamp of his own self-pity and egocentricity and had become ... she groped for the term ... a man. She shuddered at the thought. Would this experience forever inhibit her view of men? Males. What she had observed of them in the last week had been a catalogue of infamy. She ticked off their sins on her fingers.

  Hypocritical. Vain. Deceptive. Ambitious. Frightened. Violent. Lecherous. Manipulative. Cowardly. Undisciplined. Cruel. Needing more digits, she curled her toes, then stopped. It was too depressing. Better her mother's world, she told herself, like a horse with blinders, trained only to run around the accepted track. Perhaps it had been a mistake to intrude on their world. Evolution had simply conditioned them differently. Her sex was meant for other work. Home and hearth and children.

  She felt chilled and got up to put on her robe. But in the hanging closet mirror, she paused and observed her naked form in the soft light. She cupped her breasts in her hands, squeezing their fullness, affirming her body's difference. Her hands roamed downward over her hips, rounded by nature, the skin smooth, softer than theirs. Her eyes lingered over the dark-haired triangle, the harbinger of their sexual difference, which stirred their blood mysteriously. The curse of Eve, she thought, an image plumbed from somewhere in the depths of her Catholic childhood. The eggplant had called Dorothy the sweet Jesus lady and she had thought then, as if by rote, that maybe Dorothy did die for their sins. If Christ was a man, then where, indeed, was the daughter of God? Were they unlike Mary, doomed to sin because man had defiled them? She trembled. Religion was created for men by men. Stop it, Fiona, she begged herself. Yet, it was against nature to irrevocably hate them.

  She put on her robe and went into the kitchen, happy to tinker with life's more mundane duties, She made herself a cup of coffee and began to let the real world back into her mind. If she was to walk among them, she had better learn their ways, she told herself firmly. Or get the hell out.

  The sound of the buzzer interrupted her thoughts. She looked at the clock. It was 6 A.M. on the minute, as if her caller had waited for that exact hour.