“Sure, toots, anytime.” I’d spring for the movie, Liv, but literature? C’mon. . . .
“Teddy . . .” Forget the plot, El, and think about your moral dilemma.
There’s a moral dilemma in that plot?
“Teddy . . .” To part the black curtain hiding your past, you have to sacrifice everyone you love. You learn your secrets, but now you’re alone, solitary—are you finally, truly yourself? Tell me that’s not the stuff of literature.
“What, whatta you want?”
Miriam squirmed in my arms. “You’re holding me too tight, Teddy, it hurts!”
I hadn’t realized how hard I was gripping her hand and waist.
“Sorry, toots. Just can’t get enough’a you, hey?” The stuff dreams are made of, maybe, but literature? I don’t think so. And the thought of Liv’s delicious laugh that moment at the Lotus took me right back to the cry of her climax in my bed that night, a memory so sharp I felt a flutter in my stomach.
“I wanna drink, Teddy.”
“Sure, toots, whatever you want.” I let go of Miriam, she followed me to the crowded bar.
Get ahold of yourself! I thought. Needed a bit of amnesia myself, to shake Liv loose from my mind. But until a car came along and hit me, I had to make do with rye and beer chasers.
MIRIAM MATCHED ME DRINK FOR DRINK; WE NEVER MADE IT BACK TO the dance floor. I made a few half-hearted attempts to get her to talk about Silva and Skerrill, but she wanted to talk about beauty school, so I gave up. Fed her questions, kept her going. What’s da best beauty school in D.C. . . . yeah, uh-huh . . . Whatta dey teach youse gals. . . . yeah, uh-huh . . . I didn’t know how much longer she’d be of use, but best to keep her on a string for as long as I was Ted Barston. When I couldn’t think of anything else to ask about beauty school, I spun a woeful tale of Barston’s rough boyhood and frequent run-ins with the law. Miriam clucked and cooed like a mother hen, tenderly squeezing my forearm when I told her about my dope habit and how it had landed me in the brig. “Oh, Teddy, that’s just awful,” she kept saying. Around midnight, I wrapped my arm around her and took her home. She didn’t mind my grip now—hell, we both needed it to stay on our feet.
Don’t bed her, I told myself. But thoughts of a roll in the hay were awful tempting. Miriam was lusty, a real baller. Who would an A-1 lay hurt? Barston wouldn’t think twice, didn’t I have to keep in character? Wasn’t like I was being unfaithful to Liv, right? Being Barston brought certain obligations, forced me to do things that Ellis Voigt would never do. Besides, I wasn’t Liv’s only boyfriend, she must have had other lovers, though that didn’t make her a roundheel. The way she lived her life, it just didn’t follow the habits of other girls, like going steady or angling for the altar. If Liv had a good time with a date, if he was interesting—a poet, a painter, an actor—she probably went to bed with him. Didn’t make her sex-crazed, it was just another way to connect. At least, that’s how it felt with Liv and me.
But I knew, even through the alcohol haze, that thinking about Liv’s love life was an easy dodge. Miriam was falling in love with Barston, a man who actually didn’t exist. Even if he did, the Barston in her eyes was a much touched-up photograph. Where others saw crudeness, she saw toughness; what others called bluster, she embraced as charm. Could the same be said about the Liv of Voigt’s star-struck gaze? Was the girl of my dreams, with her barefoot late-night strolls and her South Pacific dream, for real just a quirky dilettante? Maybe Miriam and I, Ellis Voigt, had more in common than I’d realized. We’d both made the mistake of falling in love with our wishes, not real people. The difference, of course, was that I knew Miriam’s love would soon shatter, while I still had the opportunity to change so I could keep Liv. That’s why I was hesitating, as Barston, to take Miriam to bed. But a conscience was a luxury neither Barston nor Voigt could currently afford.
“S’all going to hell anyway!”
“Whassat?” Miriam slurred.
Jesus—I hadn’t realized I’d thought aloud. I spun Miriam into my arms, gave her a big, sloppy kiss to cover the mistake.
“Hey, the party’s still going!” she exclaimed as we swayed our way down her block.
“What’s dat?”
“My brother Kenny, he’s throwing a party.”
And so he was. A man with a hat over his face was sound asleep on the porch, a couple was necking beside him. The front door was open, the parlor crowded. Cigarette smoke drifted like fog over a dozen conversations. Miriam and I pressed our way into the dining room. Overfull ashtrays and empty bottles littered a table that had been pushed against the wall. A drunken man carrying a case of beer swayed into the room. “Reinforcements have arrived!” he shouted. We took two beers, I popped the bottle tops with a church key lying on the table. I didn’t need any more alcohol, but the cold beer went down quickly—despite the cool evening and several open windows, the house was sweltering.
“C’mon, I want you to meet Kenny,” Miriam said.
“Who?”
“Kenny, my brother, silly—’member?”
“Oh yeah, good ol’ Kenny, sure.”
She took me by the hand and tugged me through the house, stopping friends to ask after Kenny. Several shrugs, a headshake, then a sober-looking joe with slicked-back hair and a crooked nose eyed us over before leaning close to say something in Miriam’s ear. I caught “business” and “later”—no matter, Miriam didn’t listen.
“He’s upstairs,” she told me, making for the stairs. I lurched along, like an oversized rag doll attached to a little girl’s hand. Neither of us turned around when the man shouted, “Hey, what did I just say?”
We found Kenny in a large, brightly lit room, a study or office of sorts: battered wooden desk, scattered chairs, end tables, a sofa. The door was shut, but Miriam flung the door open after knocking and calling out, “Hey, Kenny, it’s me!”
Four heads turned to stare. All men, quiet, sober, as tense as cats on a crossed path. Watching us, not moving but coiled. I wasn’t so drunk that I missed one of the four slip his hand inside his jacket and shift his weight slightly.
“Hey, Mirs, you just getting here?” the man behind the desk asked. Smiling, but an edge to his voice. Mid-twenties, brown-blond hair grazing his collar. Acne scars dappled his cheeks, but that only added to his rakish looks: sharp jawline, bright blue eyes, an aquiline nose.
“We were out to the Rainbow,” Miriam announced.
“Who’s we?” Looking at me, no smile.
“Ted Barston,” I said firmly, stepping forward to shake his hand. “You must be Kenny.”
He didn’t stand, didn’t extend his hand. “Why don’t you wait downstairs for me, huh, Mirs?” Looking right past me.
“Well, okay, whatever you say, Kenny, I just wanted you to meet Teddy here, you know, the fella I been telling you—”
“Sure, Mirs, we’ll have a nice long chat, but not now.” These last four words fell like stones on the floor. “Wade’ll go with you.”
A nod from Kenny brought one of the other men to his feet. He was skinny and ugly, with a patchwork face: weak chin but a broad nose, beady eyes but bulbous eyelids. He wanted to look like a gangster, but, like his face, his clothes clashed. Jacket didn’t match his pants, tie was off. The points of his unbuttoned collar splayed out, which made him look even thinner. But he moved quickly, and I didn’t like the way he looked at me as he put his arm around Miriam’s waist to lead her out. Whatcha gonna do about it, pal? his expression challenged me. I didn’t give a fig who pawed Miriam, but I didn’t need trouble, not now, when I was so plastered. Wade looked familiar, but I didn’t place him until we were downstairs—he was the guy who’d been sitting by himself in a chair the night I bedded Miriam.
“Go get us some beers, Mirs,” Wade said, laughing at his lame rhyme.
“Don’t call me ‘Mirs’—you’re not my brother,” she shot back.
“Then go get us some beers, Miriam.”
I felt like I was on a playground. Miriam stomped
off, Wade eyed me over.
“What’s your name, Mac?”
“You heard me upstairs,” I said evenly.
“Don’t matter. Mirs goes through so many guys, we don’t bother with their names.”
I ignored that crack and lit up. The situation was easy to read. Wade had once made a pass at Miriam, she’d spurned him, he couldn’t push it because she was Kenny’s foster sister. So he stroked his manhood by sniping at her dates. I vaguely wondered what kind of “business” Kenny was conducting upstairs. Didn’t matter—what he was up to had nothing to do with my investigation. One more beer, outta here, I thought. At the Rainbow, I’d imagined what another roll in the hay with Miriam might be like, and the booze had only whetted my desire. But I had to be up bright and early. If only I’d listened to myself instead of getting cute.
Instead of beers, Miriam came back with a fifth of rye and three glasses. She poured generous belts, we toasted uneasily.
“What’s Kenny doing upstairs?” Miriam challenged Wade.
“Bizness. Which is none’a your bizness.”
“He told me he was done dealing.”
“Dealing what?” I asked without thinking, though the answer was obvious. This neighborhood was a choice spot to score dope, chockfull of two-bit hustlers and dealers like Kenny who worked on consignment for a local crime boss.
Before she could answer, Wade said menacingly, “You better shut your trap, sister.”
I took a step toward him. “You better watch your mouth, brother.” I didn’t want a fight, but Ted Barston wasn’t the kind of guy who’d let his gal get pushed around by a punk.
“Yeah, what if I don’t?” he smirked. “What’re you gonna do about it?”
I didn’t answer, just stared him down. He didn’t back off. Little guy with a big mouth—I had to expect him to fight dirty. Sensing the tension, people around us had stopped talking.
“Why don’t you go back upstairs, Wade,” Miriam interrupted our staring contest.
“Cuz Kenny told me to watch you two till he’s done talking bizness, Mirs.”
“Leave Ted alone,” she shot back.
Goddammit, I thought. No man wants his gal to stick up for him, ever.
“Man, you’re some kinda cream puff, aren’t you?” Wade taunted.
Just walk away. Barston would’ve already decked Wade by now, but Voigt couldn’t afford a distraction, he had a lot to do. Then Wade noticed the track marks I’d simulated on my forearms.
“Well, whattya know, Miriam’s on her high horse about what her brother does, but it looks like her loverboy’s itching for a hypo him—”
I lowered my shoulder and charged him, using my weight and height to plow him right through a clot of stunned partygoers, driving him against the wall as I gripped his right wrist. Women squealed, beer bottles fell, a man’s hand flailed at my arm. Wrenching Wade’s arm around his back, I pinned him and began pounding his face against the wall. His forehead thudded, the cartilage in his nose crackled, blood smeared the plaster; a tooth bounced off my shoe. I remember screaming obscenities, I remember one, three, and then more hands finally gaining purchase on my shoulders and pulling me off Wade, who toppled unconscious to the floor.
“Hold him, hold him,” someone shouted, but no one tried hard to stop me when I wrenched free and made for the door. A woman stared in horror and scuttled away, as if fleeing a snarling dog. I heard a thunder of steps on the stairs—Kenny’s boys, coming to see what the commotion was. I raced out the door and went straight to the back yard, where I crouched behind an overgrown shrub. They’d expect me to flee down the street, which gave me a chance to go down the alley and zigzag my way out of the neighborhood. I checked the urge to run, moving slowly, quietly, climbing fences and jumping gates until I got to Virginia Avenue, where I waved down a hack. My hands were still shaky when I collapsed on my cot at the Jefferson Club.
CHAPTER 23
I HAD ONLY THREE HOURS TO SLEEP, BUT I WOKE UP ALERT, TENSE, wired. I’d tried to ignore that punk Wade, but when he noticed my faked hypo marks, I’d no choice but to give him a beating. Kenny and his crew were drug dealers, they knew what dope fiends looked like for real—I couldn’t take a chance on one of them questioning my cover. But I should’ve just decked Wade with a one-two punch to his weak chin. I’d lost it but good, never been so enraged in my life, and calling it Barston’s animal instinct didn’t excuse my loss of control. Couldn’t afford fury, not while I was undercover, might make an even bigger mistake. Also couldn’t shake the image of the blood smear Wade’s pulped face had left on the wall, or the gut-twisting sound his broken nose had made as I continued to pound his head. No doubt about it, he was in the hospital. Kenny wouldn’t call the cops, but Miriam would tell him where I worked. Wade was just a minion, he was expendable, but I’d given Kenny a big Bronx cheer by taking apart one of his boys in his home—he’d want revenge. An awful lot of people had witnessed the scene, word would spread on the street, Kenny had to come after me.
I hoped Kenny wouldn’t blame Miriam for what had happened. Sure hoped she wouldn’t let on that she’d fallen for Barston. She could just tell Kenny that she’d just met Barston, they’d only been on a few dates—maybe that’d save her. Kenny was her foster brother, but she’d talked about him like a blood relation, and a real brother wouldn’t let Wade’s friends avenge his beating by roughing up Miriam. I hoped. I’d done her dirty by thrashing Wade, but in a way I was relieved. Last night’s booze had besotted my thinking. I didn’t need Miriam anymore, didn’t have to string her along any longer. As a source, she’d given me all she could about Skerrill and Silva’s relationship. For sure, I owed her an easy let-down when Barston broke up with her. Maybe I’d take her out to a fancy dinner, to the Pall Mall Room at the Raleigh or Harvey’s on Connecticut. I could get some cash from my lock box at Riggs, tell Miriam to get all dolled up, even spring for her to get her hair set and buy some new makeup.
But Miriam had to wait until everything shook out at H & H. Had to focus on the investigation, had to think through my throbbing headache, the pain in my right hand. Despite the hangover, a realization: trying to follow Skerrill’s cold, cold tracks was useless. Silva, Greene, and Himmel were too smart to leave traces of his subversion. What I must do instead, I saw, was collect the remaining pieces of Himmel’s puzzle. I didn’t know how they fitted together, but I sensed that the Bermuda Special, the diagram I’d copied from Nagel, and the secret millions pouring into secret Army labs in New Mexico and Tennessee were all part of that puzzle. With Skerrill dead, Himmel was hustling to finish his mission. I was the Johnny on the spot, the only man who could find out if the Reds were about to put everything together. I still needed to figure out who had wanted Skerrill dead, but the puzzle, the big prize, had to come first. Once I had it, Paslett would let me break cover, let me quit H & H. I would molt Barston’s scabrous skin and become Lieutenant j.g. Ellis Voigt, U.S.N., once again.
These realizations cheered me, but I still felt and looked like hell. Bloodshot eyes and dark circles, the persistent headache. I needed to ice my hand, sore from gripping Wade’s head so tightly, but there was no time—I had to get to H & H.
SILVA GLARED AT ME WHEN I ENTERED. SHE WAS BEHIND THE counter, no sign of Miriam.
“You look like something the cat dragged in. What will our clients think, seeing our delivery boy in such a sorry state?”
That I need a drink? Best to keep that thought to myself. I consoled myself by imagining her reaction if she knew I’d been through her underwear drawer the day before.
“Greene got da manifest ready?”
“He’ll be up in a minute. Your appearance wouldn’t have anything to do with Miriam calling in sick today, would it?”
“Miriam’s sick? Dat’s too bad. I oughta pick up some chicken soup for her after my deliveries.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
“No, I don’t know why Miriam’s sick. Maybe we got da same bug, me and Miriam.”
<
br /> The glare got colder. “Nice try, Barston. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the little winks and nods you two exchange. If I find out she called out because she was with you last night, you can rest assured this will be your last day of employment here.”
“How many ways you want me ta say it already—I don’t know why Miriam’s sick. Why don’t you ask her and quit hasslin’ me?”
She didn’t back down, not a bit. “You were supposed to bring in your Navy discharge, Ted, where is it?”
“Ask Mister Himmel—I gave it ta him.”
Greene scurried up, interrupting the standoff. “Everything all right, Nadine?” he asked.
She didn’t even look at him or reply, just kept staring me down. For an instant, I wondered if she’d noticed something amiss at her flat and suspected me. No way, no way, I told myself. You’re Ted Barston, you’re steamed because your boss is a ball-buster, play it out. So I didn’t break my gaze, either.
Greene didn’t like being an ignored spectator. “Nadine, what’s going on here? Is Barston giving you—”
“Nothing’s going on, Philip: Ted and I were just discussing his need to be more presentable.”
He eyed me over, wrinkling his brow in disgust and stealing a look at Silva to see if she’d noticed. She hadn’t.
What a toadie, I thought.
“Dat my list for da day?” I reached for the clipboard in Greene’s hand, but he pulled it away.
“Yes, yes, this is your manifest, but I need to tell you the following before you . . .”
He droned on. Mrs. McClellan had complained about improperly mounted clippings, there was a note of apology in her package, etc., etc. Silva turned on her heels and strode to Himmel’s office, no doubt to see the discharge certificate and then to insist I be fired. I was certain Himmel wouldn’t say yes. There had to be more packages he was waiting on, the diagram from Nagel couldn’t be the last one.
The Dead Don't Bleed: A Novel Page 18
