by Shan, Darren
Faces darkened as I was ogled by incredulous diners. Angry women whispered to their partners, who shook their heads, sneered, then deliberately turned their backs on me. A couple of boys shouted, “Look at the nigger!” and were quickly shushed by their mothers, who then quietly applauded them.
Priscilla acted as if nothing were wrong and I went along with the game, smiling vacuously, idly examining the decor, pretending to be one of the gang, perfectly at home, unaware of the arctic atmosphere.
“We seem to be creating something of a scandal,” Priscilla said as we were handed wine menus by a silently outraged waiter.
“That’s what we came for, wasn’t it?”
“Why, Al,” she gasped, eyes widening innocently. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You wanted to see what would happen when you threw Nic’s little brown soldier to the lions.”
“Al! I never—”
“Stick it up your ass,” I said pleasantly. “Let’s talk about Nic.”
“You may leave if you wish,” she said, eyes downcast.
“And miss a great meal? I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She squinted at me, then nodded. “Tell me what you want to know.”
I asked about her friendship with Nic, how long they’d known each other, what sort of a life Nic had led, the men she’d dated, if she’d been in trouble lately.
They’d been best friends for years. Nic had led a full life. She’d lived fast and partied hard. There were lots of men, more than Priscilla had been able to keep up with. No trouble—everyone liked Nic.
“Is it possible one of her boyfriends grew jealous?” I asked.
“Maybe. She sometimes strung the poor dears along. I told her she shouldn’t, but Nic found it hard to let go of men. She was peculiar that way. But none of the boyfriends I knew would have done something like that.”
“Could you give me a few names?”
“I’d rather not,” she said plainly. “I told the police—I had to—but now my lips are sealed.” She leaned forward. “I thought you simply wanted to know more about Nic, because you were curious. But that isn’t it, is it?”
“I want to know who killed her.”
“We all want to know. But you plan to find out, right?” I made no reply but she read the answer in my face. “So you’re a detective too. A man of many talents.”
“I just want to make a few inquiries, help the cops if I can. A case like Nic’s is likely to slip between the cracks and never be solved. If I can uncover a suspect or some clues, I’ll pass them on to those in the know and maybe something will come of it.”
“Why not hire a real detective?”
A good question. I couldn’t tell Priscilla it was to appease The Cardinal, so I rubbed my fingers together and said, “Moola.”
“God, I know about that. So you’ve taken the task upon yourself. You’re either very brave or very stupid.”
“A bit of both. How about it, Priscilla? Will you give me a list of Nic’s old boyfriends?”
She shook her head. “I’m even less inclined to reveal their identities now that I know what you’re up to. I don’t like the idea of an amateur sleuth hounding my friends. No offense intended.”
“None taken.” Our drinks arrived, wine for Priscilla, a nonalcoholic cocktail for me. Mine had probably been spat in by every waiter in the building—twice by good old Martin—but I drank it anyway and made a show of enjoying it.
“How about a guy called Rudi Ziegler?” I asked, wiping around my lips with a napkin. “Know him?”
Priscilla hesitated, then, since I knew the name anyway, nodded. “A fortune-teller. Nic thought he was marvelous. She used to plead with me to accompany her to his séances or tarot readings or whatever it is he does.”
“You never went?”
“No. I don’t believe in such nonsense.”
“Nic did?”
“Absolutely. If it wasn’t Ziegler, it was Madam Ouspenkaya or Mister Merlin. Remember when Time ran an article about this city’s supernatural underbelly, how we have a higher proportion of mystics and crackpots than anywhere else?”
“I remember people talking about it, yeah.”
“They ran a list of names—hundreds—and Nic told me she knew practically seven out of every ten.”
“But Ziegler was special?” I asked hopefully.
She shrugged. “He was flavor of the month. She’d been hung up on others before him and there would have been others after.”
Priscilla was playing with her glass. Most of her fingers were adorned with rings, two or three to a finger. One on her left hand had a flat, round top, out of which jutted a diagram of the sun.
“Do you know anything about a brooch of Nic’s?” I asked, eyes on the ring. “There was a picture of the sun on it. She was wearing—”
“—It when she died,” Priscilla finished. “Yes. I heard. It was a present from Ziegler. I told Nick—her brother—about it when he called. And the police.”
“Think it means anything?”
“No. It was a worthless trinket. Apparently Ziegler hands out lots of similar jewelry to his clients.” She raised the hand with the sun ring and flashed it at me. “Nic got this from him too. She gave it to me because I said I liked it. I only started wearing it this morning. It reminds me of her.”
She lapsed into silence and twisted the ring a few times with the fingers of her other hand.
“Generosity was always one of Nic’s failings.” Her voice was close to breaking. “This ring’s a cheap bauble but she’d have given it to me even if it had been worth a king’s ransom.”
Another indignant waiter arrived to take our order. I’d meant to pick the most expensive dishes on the menu, but Priscilla’s sudden slide into sentiment had softened me. There was a cold edge to Priscilla Perdue—bringing me to the KKK had been a calculated act of provocation—but I had a feeling that she was warmer than she pretended. So I ordered a plain fish dish that wouldn’t leave her penniless.
We chatted about Nic some more. Priscilla had last seen her four days before the murder. Nic had been acting strangely all week, distant.
“You think she sensed what was coming?” I asked.
“Possibly. Or it may just have been one of her moods. She often fell into lengthy periods of sullen silence and went off by herself.”
“I know you don’t want to discuss her boyfriends,” I said, “but there’s one I was hoping to check on. A tall, bald, black man. Do you know if she was seeing anyone like that?”
“You mean the guy with the snakes.”
“Snakes?”
“I saw them together a couple of times. She never introduced us. Only laughed when I asked his name and said he was her snake-boy.”
“What’s the deal with the snakes? Did he own one?”
“He had two. Carried them with him everywhere.” She laughed at my confusion. “Not real snakes,” she explained. “Tattoos. On his cheeks.”
I froze.
“Are you all right?” Priscilla asked. “You look like you’ve swallowed a rotten egg.”
I counted to ten inside my head and when I spoke it was with only the vaguest hint of a stutter. “Nic was seeing a bald, black man with snakes tattooed on his face?”
“Yes.”
“Down his cheeks, one on either side, multicolored?”
She smiled uncertainly. “You know him?”
“I know of him.”
I placed my napkin on the table and stood. “I have to leave now.”
She got up as I stepped away from the table. “What’s going on, Al? Did I say something wrong?”
“No. I just have to go.”
“But the meal is on its way.”
“I’ve lost my appetite.”
“But… Al! ”
I was gone before she could say any more.
Outside I walked fast, away from the Ku Klux Klub and its exclusive band of patrons, ignoring the hisses, catcalls and slow handclaps that accompanied my departure
. I walked until my lungs pained me, then paused, doubled over, took several deep breaths, and walked some more. Finally I stopped by a deserted bus shelter and perched on one of the folding plastic chairs.
Black. Tall. Bald. Snakes tattooed on his cheeks. Only one man in the city answered that description—Paucar Wami. The city’s deadliest, most feared assassin. If Paucar Wami was involved, that was it for me. I didn’t care what The Cardinal threatened to do. I’d make an appointment, tell him what I knew, then hand in my resignation. I’d rather face the wrath of The Cardinal than the prospect of a showdown with Paucar Wami. Any day.
7
By the time I arrived home I was dying for a drink. Nights are the worst time for a reformed alcoholic, especially one living alone. The long hours of dark loneliness and need, the nocturnal thirst, memories of past, brighter, livelier nights when the bottle was your ally and the world was your friend.
I usually fought the craving with food. I’d tuck into a burger, Chinese or fried chicken, read a trashy novel and do my best to tune out the real world and its many liquid pitfalls. Tonight it was extra-important to divert my thoughts, and quickly, before fear pushed me over the edge of sobriety.
Pulling up to the curb outside my apartment, I hurried into the bagel shop. Ali was inside. I don’t think that was his real name but it’s what everyone called him.
“Hello, my friend,” he greeted me.
“Hi, Ali,” I smiled back.
“Dining at home tonight?” he asked.
“It’s cheap and the company’s good.”
He laughed. “You will not get fat this way, my friend. You need a new wife. A woman would fatten you up.”
“Then nag me about my love handles. I’d have to exercise to work the weight off. Then I’d be thin again.”
“There is wisdom in your words,” he chuckled, then turned to the bagels. “Salmon and cream cheese?”
“Four times over,” I said, licking my lips.
“Four?” he blinked.
“You said I needed fattening up.”
Ali stuck the wrapped bagels into the microwave and adjusted the setting.
“How is our friend The Cardinal today?” he asked as he handed over the bagels. According to him, The Cardinal used to go to a shop he ran uptown many years ago. I used to tell him I never saw The Cardinal but he didn’t believe me, so I’d taken to acting as if the two of us were best buddies.
“He’s fine. Asked after you the other day.”
“Did he?”
“Said you should come by some night, chat about old times.”
“I may just do that,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.
I shook the bag of bagels. “I’m off before these get cold. See you, Ali.”
“Soon, my friend.”
I unwrapped one of the bagels and chewed it as I made my way up the stairs. I’d finished it by the time I let myself in and the other three didn’t last much longer. I realized I needed more food, so I hurried back downstairs to the nearby 7-Eleven and loaded up on chocolate. I spent a few hours nibbling and trying to concentrate on a biography of Ian Fleming, the guy who invented James Bond. But it was hard. Thoughts of Paucar Wami were impossible to escape from. And if I managed to momentarily forget about him, my eyes would flick to the dark marble with the gold squiggles on the mantelpiece and the worry would flood back. The marble and Wami couldn’t be connected, but it now seemed to serve as some kind of omen and looking at it filled me with unease.
Priscilla rang close to midnight, a welcome distraction. She apologized for taking me to the Kool Kats Klub and suggested another rendezvous, this time at a place of my choosing. I said maybe. She urged me to think about it—she really wanted to see me again. Also, if I was serious about investigating Nic’s murder, she’d like to help, short of giving me the names of Nic’s old boyfriends. We discussed her some more, then she hung up.
I returned to the Fleming biography but couldn’t focus. My mind kept fixing on the image of Paucar Wami with Nic. I’d never met the notorious killer but I was able to picture him—tall, dark, sinister, arms wrapped around Nic in Room 812 of the Skylight, fingers working at her back, sucking the life from her pain-contorted lips.
I put the book to one side, undressed and readied myself for bed. But sleep was harder to slip into than the biography and I spent most of the night chasing it in vain. On the few occasions I dozed off, I slept fitfully and dreamed of long, undulating snakes with forked, flicking tongues.
I got up at six, ate a slow breakfast, then cycled to Party Central to book an audience with The Cardinal. I was told he wouldn’t be available until late evening, unless it was an emergency. I said I’d wait, then headed down to a cafeteria to brood about Nic and Paucar Wami.
I’d calmed down since the night before. Though my fear of Wami persisted, I couldn’t simply march into The Cardinal’s office and tell him I was through. The Cardinal had a quick temper. I’d have to be diplomatic. I’d tell him about Wami and state my reluctance to continue. Hopefully he’d show mercy and let me off the hook.
In the meantime I decided to set up an interview with Rudi Ziegler. That way I could face The Cardinal with proof that I hadn’t been sitting around idle.
I requested Ziegler’s file, expecting a slim volume like Nic’s, only for a thick ledger to arrive. I took it to a private reading room and pored over it. It was mostly lists of his clients and the details—where known—of what he’d been up to with them, how much he was milking them for. I skipped the bulk of it and focused on his background info.
Rudi Ziegler was his real name. Fifty-one, of Eastern European stock. A bachelor. No close family. No clashes with the law. Declared about ninety thousand annually but drew in the region of one-fifty to two hundred. Had a good reputation but wasn’t above ripping off wealthy old women. Went abroad every year for a month’s vacation. Didn’t own much in the way of property apart from a moderate villa on a Caribbean island. No business interests outside of his own.
He specialized in Incan guides. From what I could gather, every medium has a spirit guide who helps put him in contact with the dear departed. Usually it’s an Indian or a little girl, but Ziegler preferred Incas. And—this caught my attention—the Incas used to worship the sun.
I scribbled swiftly. “Incas—sun worshippers—Nic’s brooch—Priscilla’s ring—carving on Nic’s back—connection??? ”
I was hoping there’d be dirt on him—clients who had mysteriously vanished, contacts of his who’d met with nasty ends—but I couldn’t find any. If The Cardinal didn’t yank me off the case I’d return to this file, but the day was wearing on and I wanted to be back in time for my big meeting. I returned the file, then called Ziegler—an answering machine. His cell phone cut directly to voice mail. I pondered my next move. I could wait and call again, or I could head over and try catching him at home.
I was in no mood for waiting, so I tucked Ziegler’s address away in a pocket, fetched my bike and went searching.
Rudi Ziegler lived above a butcher’s shop in a run-down part of the city. I parked out front and chained my back wheel to a fire hydrant. The lower hall door was open, so I entered. The smell of blood tracked me up the stairs like a dog. I found his door and knocked.
A sleepy Ziegler answered. He was overweight, flesh hanging off him like warm wax. Quivering gray lips, red spiderwebs for eyes, purple, vein-shot cheeks. There was a half-empty bottle of vodka in his hand. He was dressed in a shabby robe and moth-eaten slippers. Hard to believe this wreck of a man drew a couple of hundred grand a year.
“May I help you?” he asked in an oddly lyrical voice. I took another look at him, surprised the throat had survived the ravages of drink when all else hadn’t.
“Rudi Ziegler?”
“None other. Come in, please.” I followed him in and he shut the door. “Do you drink?” he asked, offering me a swig. I shook my head. “Wise man. Demons dwell within.” He blew his nose into a satin handkerchief and studied me. “You’re
here about Nicola, aren’t you?”
I twitched. “How did you know?”
“I have my ways,” he said, lowering his face so that it darkened and split into a wizardish smile. “She came to me in a vision last night and said I could expect a stranger to call and ask intrusive questions. She told me not to cooperate.” I stared, edgy, until his laughter took the spine-tingling sting out of the moment.
“A joke,” he sighed. “The dead don’t talk to me, despite what my business card says. I’ve just had so many people here this last week, first detectives, then the police, that I’ve grown accustomed to their inquisitive appearance. Besides, my clients don’t turn up uninvited.”
“What detectives?” I asked curiously.
“They didn’t leave names. Nor did they tell me what they wanted. It was only when I heard about her death that I figured it out.”
They must have been The Cardinal’s men, the ones who put the file on Nic together.
“May I ask some questions, Mr. Ziegler?”
“By all means. Follow, dear boy, follow.” He led the way through to a large room that served as his work chamber. The walls were covered with billowing curtains and the scent of incense hung heavily in the air. A large table dominated the center of the room. Clothes and bric-a-brac were scattered untidily everywhere I looked. A huge sun medallion was pinned to the ceiling.
When we were seated I told him who I was, explained how I wasn’t a detective, just a concerned friend. He said it didn’t matter, he’d talk to me anyway. I started off by asking about his profession. “Is this where you work?”
“It is.” He cast an eye over the room. “Though it’s usually not in such a state. Nicola’s death left its mark.” He shook the bottle of vodka. “You wouldn’t see this out so early on a normal day.”
“Can you tell me more about what you do? Do you tell fortunes, locate missing people, speak with the dead?”
“A bit of everything. I’m a dabbler.” He stood and tidied some magazines away. “I provide whatever my clients wish. If they want their fortune read, I put the crystal ball or tarot to good use. If they want to speak to the dead, I oblige—I’m quite good at throwing my voice. If they want to see the dead, I do that too. Mirrors and smoke. Projected images.”
