Edited to Death

by Linda Lee Peterson

  He brightened. “You will?”

  “Yeah, for about twenty four hours. So we’ll make this a quick break.”

  Puck sighed. “Okay, what’s up?”

  “I want to know about drugs,” I said. “I think Quentin had access to stuff, and I’d like to know where and when and why.”

  Puck looked annoyed. “Oh, you would, would you? Who issued you a badge, little lady?”

  “Come on, Puck. I think you know something.”

  Puck carefully examined the toes of his black, reptile-skin boots. He held his foot up for me to check out. “Think these heels seem like I’m trying too hard to look tall?”

  “Yeah, I do,” I said briskly. “I think they point out once again how insecure all you boys under six feet are, and I don’t think you’re fooling anyone, and I know you’re…” I looked him up and down, “no more than five feet ten, and if you can’t fool a middle-aged, out-of-circulation old bat like me, you’re sure not gonna fool those little girls with uncorrected twenty-twenty vision at the clubs.”

  Puck looked genuinely wounded. “Holy shit, you don’t have to be so brutal.”

  “Hey, I’ve just spent a delightful hour with the curvaceous and, as I believe you boys say, ‘eminently fuckable’ Stare from Hot Licks, so I’m not in the mood to coddle anybody’s ego. Mine’s pretty much headed out of town for the winter.”

  Puck’s expression brightened. “God, Stare. Mmmm. Isn’t she a piece of work? Plus, she studied at the Sorbonne or something. In all my fantasies, she’s talking dirty to me in French.”

  “In the pluperfect tense,” I muttered.

  Puck wasn’t listening. He continued, “Man, I couldn’t believe old Quent actually reeled her in. She needed somebody much, much younger.”

  “Yeah, well, I think she goes for tall ones,” I said. “Save your energy.”

  Puck launched himself out of the office chair and began straightening up the piles of paper. “Okay, Maggie, make it quick. Now that you’ve dropped by to ruin my ego and my day, I do have to get back to my story.”

  “Well,” I began, “before we were distracted by this delightful interlude dismantling each other’s self-esteem, I believe I asked you about drugs.”

  He continued straightening, and muttered over his shoulder. “And I believe I asked you what business it was of yours?”

  “Come on, I’m not just being nosy. Look at me.” He turned around. I held up my right hand in Brownie pledge position. “I’m going to call Inspector Moon right away, I promise, but I think Quentin was into something peculiar, and maybe if we—if the cops—figure it out, they can wrap up this murder investigation. And we’ll all be a lot happier.”

  Puck regarded me and then sank back into his desk chair, a wad of files leaking papers on his lap. “You mean you’ll be a lot happier.”

  “Oh, you really want to have some murderer wandering around San Francisco? Maybe whoever it is will systematically knock off the entire staff of Small Town.”

  Puck snorted. “Bullshit, Maggie. This is turning into your little obsession. What’s the matter? The cops coming after you—or old Mikey, the wronged husband?”

  I winced.

  “Gotcha,” he said.

  “Humor me,” I said.

  “Okay, but I don’t know much, and I’m not all that hot to talk to the cops.”

  “That’s fine,” I said eagerly, “you can be my source. I don’t think I have to reveal you.”

  Puck looked disgusted. “What you know about first amendment law could fit into the brain cells of—I don’t know—a roadie.”

  “Okay, okay. This isn’t my kind of journalism, as we all know. But you might as well tell me, and I can summarize for the cops.”

  “Summarize? What are you, the recording secretary of the PT-fuckin-A around here?” Puck shook his head. “Maggie, you drive me just a little bit nuts, even if you are my boss.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was making it worse, and I figured Puck was still young enough to fall for the same psychology I used on Zach and Josh—and Inspector Moon had used on me. Shut up and wait, and eventually they’ll tell you what’s on their minds.

  It worked. Puck felt around in back of him for a mug, picked it up, sipped, shuddered, and said, “So here goes. You just can’t hang around at the clubs without running into drugs of some kind. I assume you know that?”

  I nodded, trying to look non-judgmental.

  “I mean, in the eighties, all those gay clubs had lots of drugs, amyl nitrate poppers and everything else.”

  “And alcohol,” I offered brightly.

  “Yeah, yeah, alcohol, the social drug of choice,” agreed Puck. “Now, it’s much different. There’s a whole lot of health obsession going on, especially among us aging boomers.”

  I looked at him. “Okay, maybe not this aging boomer. But the kids,” he shook his head. “Jesus, they’re dumb. They’re still willing to do anything, try anything, eat anything.”

  A picture of Josh and Zach swam into my head, their undiscriminating little palates constantly starved for gummy worms, Big Macs, and every other forbidden treasure.

  “I know what you mean,” I said.

  Puck grimaced. “You think you do,” he said. “Just wait ’til the little monsters are teenagers.”

  “I can wait,” I said grimly. “Go on.”

  “Yeah, so, well, it’s a lot pickier out there now, except for the kids. But, you know, I think musicians always feel like they’re some kind of God Almighty privileged princes. They can blow what they want, some of ’em even think they can shoot what they want.” Needles, I thought. Just put AIDS on an express train.

  Puck made a face at me. “Don’t give me one of those prissy Mom looks. I know you and old Mikey smoke a little yourselves now and then.”

  I sighed. “We do. Courtesy of Quentin and left over from our youth. But no more.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. We’ve been talking about it anyway. I want to be able to tell the ‘little monsters,’ as you so charmingly call them, that we don’t do drugs.”

  “You don’t lie to the little buggers?”

  “Sure, we do. Regularly. About Santa Claus, and about what happens if you don’t get enough vitamin C, and about how toys deactivate if you don’t write thank-you notes to Gramma right away. But I’d just as soon not lie about this.”

  Inwardly, I felt a pang of regret saying goodbye to those sweet, nostalgic evenings, making love on just a little dope. But hey, what’s a mom to do? Just another parental sacrifice. You start by giving up your vices, and first thing you know, you’re really dull and respectable.

  “Okay, enough about my child-rearing practices. So, what’s the real story on Quentin and drugs?”

  He laced his fingers behind his neck, leaned back, and regarded me warily.

  “Well, I don’t know much. But here it is: Quentin always had access to pretty good stuff. He never did coke, not even when people were walking around with those silly spoons around their necks fifteen years ago. But he always had pretty good grass and hash.”

  “And he didn’t sell?”

  Puck looked horrified. “Geez. No, absolutely not. Just, you know, late at night, if we were out at clubs, or at a friend’s, as long as Claire-the-Witch-Woman wasn’t along, he’d haul stuff out, and he was always very free with it. Like there was plenty more where that came from.”

  “And you don’t know where it did come from?”

  He shook his head. “No, not really. Quentin had a, how you say, wide acquaintance. And for an old guy, you know, he was pretty hip. So I guess those random young friends of his kept him supplied.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it, sister. Not much to tell. Now, what are you going to do with this paltry little sum of info?”

  I didn’t know. I said so. The intercom buzzed on Puck’s desk and we both jumped. Gertie’s voice said, “Puck? Is Maggie in there with you?”

  Puck grinned at me. “She is, but s
he’s just leaving.”

  I shot a rubber band at him. “We’re just talking about drugs we’ve known and loved, Gertie. Do you need me?”

  The intercom rasped again. “Aren’t you two just adorable? Well, Maggie, that nice police officer is here again. He’s standing right next to my desk.”

  I felt my cheeks turn hot. Swell, caught being a wise-mouth again with Inspector Moon. I couldn’t begin to imagine what he thought about my moral fibre. Well, actually, I could begin to imagine, and it wasn’t very pleasant.

  Puck was trying to control his delight, and without much success. “Hey, Mags,” he called after me, as I headed for the hall, “wasn’t it much less embarrassing when you were just a cute little housewife?”

  “Back to work, big guy. You’re on deadline,” I said over my shoulder. I turned back. “On second thought, wait right here!”

  In a few minutes, I was back, Moon in tow. “Sit down, sit down,” I said. “Don’t mind that clutter. We’ve got news.”

  I perched myself on Puck’s least disgusting chair and said, “We’ve been asking around a little bit and we have some information.”

  “What do you mean ‘we’, white woman?” Puck asked innocently. “Not me, Inspector. It’s all Nancy Drew here.” He shot me a vile look. “In fact, I believe I distinctly said I didn’t want to chat with the cops.”

  Inspector Moon crossed his legs. “Oh, I’m quite sure of that. And I’ll have a little talk with Miss Drew. But why don’t you two tell me what you’ve come up with before I begin my daily formal lecture about not meddling in police affairs.”

  I scowled at Puck, and then, between the two of us, we brought Moon up to date on what we’d found out. He listened carefully, made a few notes in his book, and said nothing until we’d finished.

  “That’s it?” he asked.

  “That’s it? I think it’s a lot. Look,” I said, warming to my task, “here’s the deal. Why and how could Quentin afford to be so generous with dope?”

  Moon looked doubtful. “Well, I don’t know. I saw his home; he certainly appeared to be prosperous.”

  I waved impatiently. “Nuh-uh. This place pays dirt. He had some money from Claire, but not enough to be Mr. Big with musicians. We think—” out of the corner of my eye, I saw Puck raise a warning hand.

  “Correction, I think Quentin was getting dope, maybe as a gift from someone.”

  “Any ideas about who that someone might be?” asked Moon.

  And here my grand theory began fraying at its imaginative little edges.

  “I don’t know,” I confessed. “I mean, it could be anyone over at the club, but that doesn’t make sense, because that’s where he was handing it out.”

  “Anyone here at the magazine?” asked Moon.

  I looked at Puck. “I don’t think so. We may look hip, but most of the people here are too old to be doing much of the drug thing. I mean, there’s the clerical staff, and God knows those bike messengers who charge in here have got to be involved with drugs, or they couldn’t stand their jobs—or ride their bikes the way they do.”

  “You could ask Gertie,” I offered helpfully. “She’s been here the longest. She knows everybody and everything.”

  Moon stood. “Good idea. Now Maggie, I’d really like a word with you. In private.”

  “In private?” protested Puck. “Aren’t you going to give her one of those ‘stay out of police business’ lectures? I’d love to listen.”

  “I’m sure you would,” I said frostily, pointedly looking at my watch. “Well, I have a very few minutes right now, Inspector. If you’d care to join me in my office.”

  He followed me down the hall, while I mentally rehearsed all the reasons it was dangerous, blah blah blah, inappropriate, blah blah blah, and unwelcome, blah blah blah for me to be “investigating.”

  Boy, was I on the money. He went right into the mini-lecture, while I listened with a polite, good-girl-getting-lectured-by-the-headmaster look on my face. There was a big finish.

  “Maggie, I know you’re not taking me seriously. And I want you to. I don’t mind—wait, let me correct that, I welcome your ideas, your suggestions, your information. Frankly, we’re run through all the obvious possibilities and we haven’t come up with much.”

  “Like no fingerprints on the walking stick?” I asked eagerly.

  “Like no fingerprints on the walking stick,” he said. “But let me assure you, we’ve gone beyond the obvious.”

  “Wiped clean,” I said.

  Moon looked exasperated. “May I continue? I do appreciate your ideas and your help. But I cannot emphasize strongly enough that you cannot, you must not, run around the city acting like a detective.”

  I nodded. “I know, I know.”

  He stood to go and gave me a hard look. “I know your type. I used to run into girls just like you when I was a high school counselor. Too smart for your own good, and quick to confuse obstinacy with strength of character.”

  I smiled sweetly. “Here’s a deal: I’ll stop detecting if you stop asking dumb questions about Michael and his temper.”

  He put his hand on the door knob. “No deal. If you ask a lot of dumb questions in a murder investigation, smart ones sneak in there after awhile. And since you’re so busy worrying about your family, let me remind you that you’re a mother. I don’t want to have to explain to your children that something happened to you because you didn’t listen to me.”

  “That,” I said, “is a low, low blow.”

  For the first moment that afternoon, he smiled. “I know. Isn’t it? I love mothers; they’re so easy to manipulate.”

  20

  The Sot and the Witch-Woman

  As planned (and negotiated with Michael), we met Alf and Claire for dinner at one of those well-reviewed new restaurants that manage to combine deafening noise, outrageous prices, and a patronizing staff under one roof. It was, as usual, packed.

  We entered the front door and walked down the kind of badly canted, difficult-to-navigate ramp that made a girl grateful to be wearing flats. Michael surveyed the room and snorted. There was not a warm or welcoming surface in the place. High ceilings, triple-washed in glazed colors, hard aluminum chairs, metallic tables with edges just right for impaling unwary diners. There was an open kitchen, and within it was a heavily sweating staff, all visible, all wearing the kind of microphone headgear Beyoncé wears in concert.

  Michael put his mouth close to my ear,

  “Do you think they’re involved in hostage negotiations, simultaneous translations at the UN, or just opening for Metallica?”

  I gave him the “you promised you’d behave” spousal look. He gave me a smile of complete noncommitment.

  “Remember, I’m a murder suspect; I have very little motivation to behave.”

  “You are not,” I hissed.

  “Okay, I’m a wife-beater.”

  “Not that either. And stop joking.”

  I had confided Inspector Moon’s queries to Michael. Instead of getting angry, he seemed to find it amusing, when he wasn’t using that information to make me feel even more awful than I already did.

  Across the room, I saw Uncle Alf settled in one of the booths at the perimeter. He waved, I waved back, and, avoiding the “I’m cool and you’re so, so not” host, we began winding our way to their table.

  Uncle Alf had a little lineup of glasses in front of his plate, Claire was toying with a martini and snapping her lighter open and closed. Uncle Alf’s greeting was hearty; Claire flicked her eyes up and down me, suppressed a sigh, and turned to Michael.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Fiori,” she said, “I know we’ve met. You’re the do-good tax lawyer.” Michael took her outstretched hand and leaned close. “I am, Mrs. Hart,” he said, “it pays so much better than doing evil. But then,” he paused and grinned, “perhaps you know that.”

  “Michael,” I whimpered, “please.…”

  We slid into the booth. Unlike the chairs at the tables in the center of the room, the booths
actually had upholstery. But it was woven from metallic thread and was both itchy to touch and inadequately padded to offer any protection against the brutal stainless steel seat.

  Michael smiled and gestured at the room. “Well, isn’t this uncomfortable?”

  “Beg pardon?” Uncle Alf said, gesturing at the waiter.

  “He said, ‘isn’t this cozy?’” I interpreted, and gave Michael a gentle nudge under the table.

  Painful small talk, a review of the almost incomprehensible menu, and our first course followed.

  Uncle Alf, with a few Scotch rocks in him, had reached that happy glazed state he found so reassuring. He lifted his glass and said, “I propose a toast.”

  The table fell silent. Michael and I warily lifted our glasses. Claire looked bored and raised her martini a centimeter off the table’s surface.

  “To Maggie,” said Uncle Alf. “She’s doing a helluva job over at the magazine. Keeping the place running, keeping the natives un-restless. Good show, Maggie.”

  I mumbled my thanks, we all sipped, and returned to our highly decorated plates. Michael began unrolling a piece of endive that had been coaxed into an unnatural shape. Information, I thought to myself, that’s all I can possibly salvage from this evening.

  “So tell me, Claire,” I said, “all about Skunkworks. I hear you’re on the board. And, of course,” I smiled at her, “Quentin mentioned to me that the Cock of the Walk opening was a benefit for your group.”

  Claire regarded me with a flicker of interest. “I didn’t know you kept up with such things.”

  “Such things?” I asked. “You mean, AIDS groups? Actually, I do try to keep up.”

  Claire speared a white asparagus and nibbled the end. She said, “Oh, I meant boards and things like that. I didn’t think that kind of news actually drifted across the Bay to Oakland.”

  “Yes, we’ve got our little crystal set tuned to High Society-Free America,” said Michael.

  “Well,” I persisted, “the Skunkworks isn’t exactly the Symphony or the Opera, is it?”

  “No, it’s not,” Claire said tartly. “But I’m very proud of what we do.”

  “Wonderful work, wonderful work,” mumbled Alf, draining his third or fourth drink.