American Sextet

by Warren Adler

  "Who is it?" she asked.

  She waited, fearing that it would be Clint.

  "Ann Chase," the voice answered.

  Her hand reached for the thumblock, hesitated, then turned it. She removed the chain lock and opened the door. Ann's form was silhouetted against the corridor's light. She couldn't see her face until she moved into the dim light of the apartment. Then it dawned on her. This was the enemy. Her rival. The image had been far more formidable then the reality. She was simply a rather vulnerable looking, frightened woman on the wrong side of forty.

  "I'm sorry," Ann said.

  "No. It's all right."

  She flicked the switch of a lamp, and the room was bathed in a soft yellow light. Often in its glare she had seen Clint's face. Is this the way it ended? she thought. A tacky little triangle.

  "I was up. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

  "That would be kind."

  Kind? Was Ann mocking her?

  She left her standing in the center of the room. Pouring out another cup of coffee, her hands shook. She spilled some in the saucer, but in handing the cup to Ann, her hand was quite steady. It was Ann's hand that trembled as the cup clattered in the saucer. She had to put it down on one of the end tables.

  "Please," Fiona said, pointing to the couch.

  Ann sat down, stiff-backed, her knees pressed primly together. She was somewhat shorter than Fiona, her hair blonde, trimmed short with a sweeping wave across her forehead. Her even features were carefully made up, her high rounded cheeks lightly rouged, her small eyes highlighted with mascara. Fiona was surprised at the details of her observation. She was inspecting the woman, comparing. She wore a blue suit with a white-bowed crisp shirtwaist. Fiona tightened her robe around her. Compared to Ann's clothes, it seemed tawdry. Worse, it still smelled of Clint. She wished she could shower, change, dress carefully. The disadvantage annoyed her.

  "I was waiting downstairs in my car for nearly an hour," Ann said, again reaching for the coffee cup, but the trembling inhibited her taking it.

  "I wasn't sleeping. You could have come up."

  "Maybe I needed the time to gather my courage," Ann said, folding her hands in her lap to keep them steady.

  "I could have used the time myself," Fiona said.

  "I'm sorry."

  The long wait, Fiona could see, had not done its work. How could it? If she had been here at five, she must have been up the entire night. It was a policeman's observation and it steadied her for the moment. She wanted to say something to put the woman at ease but she couldn't think of anything.

  "This isn't easy," the woman began. Fiona felt her searching look. So she, too, was comparing. Would she pass muster? Fiona wondered, feeling helpless under her gaze.

  "I know," Fiona said softly.

  "It started out very well," Ann said, her eyes looking downward, the words contrived, as if she had decided earlier that this was the way to begin. "We met in college. The University of Michigan. Clint was majoring in journalism. I wanted to be a sociologist. In those days, sociology seemed important. The sixties. Everything we did seemed important..." Her throat choked for a moment and she coughed it clear. "So it was good for a long time. We had two kids. He adores them. Real nice kids. Sometimes we wonder why we deserve them..."

  "Please..." Fiona interrupted, feeling the woman's embarrassment.

  "You get caught up in it," Ann continued. "This town. The striving is terrible. I grew up in Traverse City. Do you know it?" She didn't wait for an answer, nor did Fiona feel it appropriate to break her chain of thought. The words had to come as she had arranged them earlier. "We're all from somewhere else here. I know you're from New York. Brooklyn." So Clint told her that as well, told her everything. She was suddenly resentful, but she remained silent. The woman's pain was certainly more than hers. "It's the pressure. Ambition. It's the great American virtue, you know. But they don't tell you about the people that have to get hurt." She smiled, but it was without real warmth. "They don't tell you about the steamroller. Get in the way of that. Splat. So you're always thinking about how to get out of the way of the steamroller and you begin to rationalize. You tell yourself it's all public service, assign greater virtues, mouth platitudes about great goals. At the bottom of it, we're all scared."

  She seemed to be drifting now and Fiona was losing her.

  "We get dependent on other people. Most of us owe our livelihood, our future to a single individual, to a single man's ego. We're like satellites."

  What was she driving at, Fiona wondered.

  "He's not an evil man," Ann continued. "They overwork themselves. They get caught up, carried away. Their drives become distorted, magnified. They mean no harm. They have good instincts. It's the value system. We all know it's hypocritical. But it's the standard of the country."

  "What the devil are you talking about?" Fiona asked, unable to listen to her rambling any longer. Up to then, she had been patient and polite, thinking she was referring to Clint.

  "Senator Hurley," Ann said.

  "I thought you came about Clint."

  "I did."

  Fiona got up and looked out the window. The rising sun was hidden by a pall of dark clouds that hung low over the city, promising more rain.

  "I work for him," Ann said, her voice taking on an edge of panic. "Clint owes his appointment to him. Don't you understand? If the senator goes, we go."

  Fiona watched, observing Ann's agony. Some of her mascara had run.

  "It was only a silly little diversion. It didn't mean a thing to him. The girl was just a toy. Things like that have been going on forever. He meant no harm. He was used by that journalist, set up to be deliberately destroyed. It's just not fair." She covered her face with her hands and when she removed them her makeup was smeared even more. "You can't let that happen. Not to Clint."

  "Clint? Now it's Clint again?"

  "I'm sorry. You don't understand what it means. None of them can stand and fight it. It's too big, too involved. Too out of kilter with the prevailing standard ... and the girl was a whore, sleeping with six men. My God."

  Ann reached for the coffee and drank it quickly, ignoring her trembling.

  "And I'm a whore as well," Fiona said angrily. "Hell, I slept with a married man. Your man. That makes me a whore, doesn't it? But not him. Not dear old Clint. Or wonderful Senator Hurley and the rest of them. They're not whores."

  "Please," Ann said, her fingers running nervously through her hair. "I'm doing this badly. Don't you see what I'm getting at? You can do it. I know you can do it. Spare him. Spare the senator. Woman to woman, I'm begging you..."

  "Woman to woman?"

  "And I'm prepared to give you Clint. He loves you. He wants you. I know he does. It was false pride on my part. I know it was partly my fault. Please, Fiona. I know you love him. You can do it. You can save him. And have Clint."

  So it had come full circle, back to her.

  "You'd do that?"

  "Yes," Ann said firmly. "Things move fast. He would just hang on. Then it would pass. If the tapes remain secret, who would know. You can do it, Fiona. Please."

  "The senator? He knows you're here?"

  Ann nodded, watching her. She hesitated, then stood up, coming close to Fiona. In the clear light, Fiona could see her imperfections, the masked blemishes, the pleading helpless look in her eyes. "If you need more ... I'm not the perfect innocent that Clint thinks..."

  "The senator?"

  "It was only a game. I went along. Accepted the rewards." She bowed her head. "I'm also a whore," she whispered. When she looked at Fiona again, she was sobbing. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Fiona took a tissue from the pocket of her robe and gave it to her. "Can you..." she began.

  Fiona took her in her arms. The woman clung to her.

  "I'm so sorry, Fiona."

  "So am I."

  "I'm frightened."

  "Who isn't?"

  When she calmed, Fiona released her. "It's not the end of the world, Ann," Fiona sai
d. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. And wouldn't. I think it's time to start fresh. You and Clint. Maybe it was a game for me as well."

  "He said you loved him..." Ann said, struggling to regain her dignity.

  "What's that got to do with the price of peanuts?" Fiona said. "He's yours."

  Before Dorothy, she might have been tempted. Not now.

  "You're lucky, Ann," Fiona said.

  "Lucky?"

  "You have Clint--and your sons."

  After Ann left, Fiona took a long, hot bubble bath, resting her head against the porcelain rim of the tub, her eyes closed. The telephone rang, but she ignored it. The soft warmth soothed her, but she still didn't feel cleansed. She sighed. It was impossible to exorcise the early years, eternities in hell, the holy spirits, heaven, saints, the will of God, and, of course, the sins of the flesh. What exactly were the sins of the flesh? she asked herself, opening her eyes to the misty steam, the disappearing bubbles, revealing her nakedness again beneath the slick water's surface. What was the real guilt here? They had no right to convict those men, to be both judge and jury. It was wrong. Immoral. They were merely police, not society's avengers.

  The bath water grew tepid and she rose quickly, feeling suddenly dizzy, slightly nauseous. Standing before the misty mirror, seeing the outlines of her vague form, she moved to wipe away the moisture. Then she hesitated, afraid to confront herself. What would she see?

  Wiping away the mist, she saw that it was still only herself. Nothing had changed. There was Fiona. But was it frightened, vulnerable little Fiona? Or evil, mischievous, selfish little Fiona who had maliciously, capriciously, removed a single domino from the pile and watched as the structure collapsed? She had to be punished, she decided. She could not get off scot free. She had no right to be society's avenging angel. Nor could she be silent in the face of the eggplant's corruption. She had to resign from the police.

  Before she had rubbed herself completely dry, the telephone rang again. It was persistent and relentless, as if the caller knew she was there. Finally, she answered it.

  "Have you heard?" Cates said with excitement. She muttered a vague response.

  "On the radio. Justice Strauss resigned, citing ill health." He chuckled. "And Congressman O'Haire. He's announced he's not running again."

  Her knees felt rubbery and she sat down, acknowledging the news with a faint response. Cates continued, his agitation rising.

  "But the big one is this: are you ready?" He paused. "The Czech ambassador has defected. The ambassador. It was the ambassador. Can you believe it, Fiona? We did it." Nothing more? she wondered. Fellows would resign quietly, as would the general. The military had its own form of professional suicide. And Hurley? He had little choice now. She felt chilled to the bone, although the telephone sweated in her palms.

  "I have a confession, Fiona."

  "Confession?"

  "I rousted him. The son of a bitch. I told him what we had. It's obvious. Whatever it was, he was in it." He waited now for some complimentary response. When it didn't come, he went on, but his voice carried a hint of disappointment. "We did it, Fi. You and me."

  But where is the crime, she wanted to say again? They had no right.

  "And you know what? The suspension has been lifted. The eggplant called. He said he called you, too, but you were out."

  "Did he say anything else?" She held her breath.

  "Like you said. It just blew over. But a lot faster than expected. He said it's all fixed, if we just shut up. And since there's obviously no evidence that makes any sense, what the hell? It's over. But we got the bastards."

  "And Martin?" She was operating by rote now.

  "I think he's had it. All he needed was one hard push. They tried to fuck us over, Fi."

  When she didn't respond, he said, "Well? What do you think?"

  "I think it's..." She wrestled with herself. "Great. Just great."

  He was disappointed.

  "I thought you'd be ecstatic. I thought you liked poetic justice." After a long pause, he bucked himself up. "One other thing. The captain wants us to be at this Catholic chapel on Michigan Avenue, the one near the cemetery. At four."

  The request puzzled her.

  "Apparently somebody's funeral," he said, detecting her confusion. "He said it's orders."

  "Orders?"

  So it was business as usual. It wasn't uncommon for homicide officers to attend the funeral of a victim.

  "A murder victim?"

  "I hope so. Maybe he's putting us on real work for a change."

  She debated whether or not to go. She was going to resign anyway. Yes, she decided, I'll be there. She would do it by the book. But quietly. No fanfare. No parties at the F.O.P. A simple, professional death, like the rest.

  "I'll pick you up in a couple of hours," Cates said.

  "No," she said abruptly. "I'll go myself."

  Again, there was a long pause.

  "I thought you'd be pleased," he said before hanging up.

  She timed herself to arrive precisely at four. Oddly, there were no mourners. Cates, the eggplant and Dr. Benton sat in the front row. Organ music drowned the appropriate dirges. On the dais in front of them was a large, expensive looking coffin with four gold handles. As she came forward, her high heels made tapping sounds on the stone floor and the three turned to look at her, then turned away. She genuflected and slid into the pew beside Dr. Benton, who patted her arm.

  "Dorothy," he whispered.

  "Dorothy?"

  She was stunned. The eggplant and Cates stared straight ahead as a young priest walked to the pulpit and began the Requiem Mass. The voice of a small, unseen choir began to sing.

  As the ritual progressed, her fury increased. How dare he? Paying for this out of the money he had stolen. An obvious salve to his conscience. She glanced at the eggplant's impassive profile, the lips tight, the hooded eyes glazed and indifferent. Yet, despite the anger growing in her, she found herself responding to the spirit of the Mass, imagining the bruised, much abused body laid out in the dark coffin, once more being subjected to men's need of her, men's hypocrisy.

  The service was quickly over and the men rose. They stepped to the dais, each grabbing one of the gold handles. Dr. Benton motioned her forward and she moved to join them. Despite the years away from the Church, she found it too powerful to resist and made the sign of the cross, as she had done a thousand times before.

  Lifting the coffin she felt the pull of its weight and needed two arms to keep it balanced. She moved ahead cautiously as they followed the priest down the center aisle. It had finally begun to rain and the childish image of God crying, which was her mother's early explanation of rain, jumped into her mind. She felt sick and powerless and ashamed.

  They hefted the coffin into the hearse and the driver closed the door before he jumped into the driver's seat. The hearse drove slowly toward the adjacent cemetery.

  "It's not far," Dr. Benton said, motioning them into his car. The eggplant got in beside him and Cates and Fiona got into the back seat.

  "Somebody apparently cared enough," Cates said. "At least she didn't have to get burned."

  When there was no response, he shrugged and brooded silently. In the rearview mirror, she suddenly saw the eggplant's eyes. She wondered if behind their stoic emptiness, he was smiling.

  After a short drive they arrived at the opened grave. Cemetery workers quickly placed the coffin on a mechanical device and lowered it into the gaping hole. The priest said a prayer and sprinkled holy water into the grave. Fiona crossed herself. One of the cemetery workers yawned.

  Dr. Benton was the first to grab a handful of dirt and throw it into the grave. It made a hollow drumbeat on the coffin's lid. Cates did the same. Then both men turned and started back to the car, leaving the eggplant and Fiona alone. She watched him staring into the grave as the cemetery workers, shovels poised, waited for them to leave.

  "Make you feel good?" Fiona whispered bitterly.

  "What the he
ll." He shrugged, still staring into the grave.

  "I suppose she deserved a good send-off. She worked hard for it." The indignation began to seep out of her. She bent down and grabbed a handful of dirt.

  "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," he said, watching her carefully.

  "Self-righteous son of a bitch."

  She tossed the dirt into the grave, started to walk away, then came back. "You think I'm blind. The money, the tapes. What you did to those men ... I can't live with that. I'm getting out."

  "They were all guilty," he said.

  "Of what?"

  "Murder."

  "That's a legal definition. We had nothing. You just got even. That's all." She paused, the anger building. "A nigger's revenge."

  She waited for him to react. It was the ultimate insult and she knew it. She saw the flash of anger, the knee jerk reaction, then the fight for control.

  "Men like that..." he said calmly. "They make us all niggers."

  His answer confused her. He was playing with her now, as he had played with the men. Wanting to get it over with quickly, she opened her purse and pulled out her badge in its black leather case. But before she could fling it into the grave, he wisked it out of her hand.

  "She's got enough in there now," he said quietly.

  "Enough?"

  He smiled. "The tapes."

  He tossed the leather badge case back into her purse and snapped it shut.

  "Only the dead get buried," he said, throwing a handful of dirt into the grave and striding off to join the others.

  The workmen dipped their shovels into the mound and began to shovel it onto the coffin. She watched them for a moment, listening to the eerie drumbeat of the falling earth, then turned and walked back to the car.

  In a lifetime, Fiona supposed, it happened at least once to everyone. The sense of life seemed suspended, without forward movement. Feeling vanquished, judgment disappeared, the senses closed. The mind floated in a vacuum.

  Déjà vu, she heard Cates say as he looked upward at the high arches of the Ellington Bridge, its concrete skin a burnished orange in the early morning light.