Biceps Of Death

by David Stukas

  Monette, always interested in crime stories, volunteered the likely outcome. “The gun doesn’t fire and you run out of there like a scared rabbit?”

  “No, we made love then and there, on the garbage cans.”

  Michael had done it again.

  “Michael, are you sure he didn’t pistol-whip you, because you’re talking like a person who suffered a serious head injury,” I offered.

  “No, no, he was a guy I was dating and he told me he’d always wanted to play a hit man. So we worked out this fantasy of his ahead of time, he was the hit man and I was the innocent, vulnerable victim. It was scary and hot at the same time!”

  “Michael, how is being stalked and almost assassinated hot?”

  “It’s all that power! Plus, it’s the thrill of playing someone you don’t get to be in normal, everyday life. That’s the fantasy. Who wants to have vanilla sex all the time, the same ol’ in-and-out all the time?”

  Both Monette and I raised our hands.

  “See, that’s why you two haven’t had sex in so long. You’re too limited.”

  Thinking that he had taught us a valuable lesson, Michael got up from the chair and left the room.

  “You know, Monette, I see his point. If I had just let that guy with the ski mask attack me at your place, I could’ve had the greatest orgasm of my life.”

  The rest of the night was fairly uneventful. There were no goons chasing me, no masked assailants lurking at windows, and no ransacked apartments to clean up. I puzzled over this whole affair that I was involved in. Life is like a huge wave sometimes. You see it coming, but you stand on the beach frozen in fear, knowing that you’re going to get hit and carried wherever the wave wants to take you—there’s nothing you can do about it but wait until the wave has lost its power, then swim back to shore. Fighting it won’t do any good—it will just tire you out. And as I remember my father saying to me as I waded into the ocean for the first time when I was nine, “The best swimmers are always the ones to drown.” Thanks, Dad. To this very day, I won’t go very far into the ocean.

  The next morning, Monette and I had our list, ready to contact our first blackmailee at lunch: John Bekkman.

  I did a little research on John Bekkman and what I came up with was fascinating. He was the quintessential renaissance man. He did what he wanted when he wanted. While that may at first sound like Michael Stark, they were worlds apart. You would never catch Michael kayaking on the East River at five-thirty in the morning. Michael wouldn’t dare to backpack across the Himalayas, let alone fly over them. (“Nothing to do there!” I could hear Michael saying.) And you would never see Michael giving away several grand masterworks of art to the Metropolitan Museum—or giving anything away, except for the occasional dose of crabs.

  John Bekkman was the man I wanted to be. Correction, the man I was supposed to be. I always felt that I was switched at birth and was actually born to a wealthy family that spent its time reading obscure books in equally obscure languages, traveling to exotic countries that were barely on the map, and engaging in sports that had changed little since the ninth century. But some lunkhead nurse returned me to the wrong crib in the hospital nursery and I was taken home by a hopelessly middle-class family to a middle-class city and lived a middle-class life. And here I was, in John Bekkman’s apartment on Fifth Avenue, staring right in the face of what I could have been. I could have had sandy blond hair (okay, I could still dye it from my teddy bear brown), an athletic body that looked like it was always thin, wear simple but chic clothing, wear driving moccasins with no socks, and live on Fifth Avenue with a knockout view of Central Park and be surrounded by an impeccable collection of art. It was like Steve McQueen had come to life as the character of Thomas Crown in my all-time favorite movie, The Thomas Crown Affair. I doubted that John Bekkman was a high-caliber bank robbery mastermind like Thomas Crown was, but you had to wonder where his money came from. Was it possible to inherit this much money? Monette, never one to be impressed by signs of wealth, was clearly wowed and she said so.

  “Nice place you have here,” she commented.

  “Thank you, Ms. O’Reilley.”

  “Yes, in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a personal collection like this before,” Monette gushed again. “I’ll bet that when you have too much art, you rotate them around just to keep things interesting.”

  “Something like that,” Bekkman answered coyly.

  “I just mentioned that because I noticed that you changed the color of your walls since you had Cody Walker in here for your sexual fantasies,” Monette stated cheerfully.

  I watched John’s reaction and thought I detected a minuscule shudder run through his body, but it was hard to tell. He was so cool about it, so in control, that I wasn’t sure. Of course, being hit with an ice breaker like Monette’s reference to his sexual fantasies could rattle just about anyone.

  “I change the wall colors because I rotate my paintings in and out of storage. I can’t put my Kandinsky on the same pastel wall where my Cassatt just hung. That’s why the wall is red now.”

  Monette pushed on. “Yes, well, lovely. Could we ask a few questions about Cody Walker and Eric Bogert?”

  John folded his hands and shifted himself into a more comfortable sitting position. He seemed to expect that we were going to read him a story.

  “Ask all the questions you want,” was his reply.

  “How did you first develop your relationship with Cody Walker?” Monette queried.

  “Relationship? Cody was just a sex partner, Ms. O’Reilley. I met him through the gym.”

  “Is this Club M?” she pried further.

  “Yes.”

  I chimed in. “I’m a member, but I don’t remember seeing your face there.”

  “I dropped my membership there a long time ago, but I kept my sexual rendezvous with Cody for some time ... that is, until his partner, Eric, approached me and tried to extort money out of me.”

  “Did he succeed, Mr. Bekkman?” Monette asked.

  “Yes, yes he did—to the tune of fifty thousand dollars.”

  I almost choked on my own saliva. Even Monette was surprised.

  “Wow,” Monette commented once she had digested Bekkman’s response. “No wonder Eric had a expensive car.”

  “And what kind of car did Eric buy with my money?”

  “From what I hear, a Hummer.”

  “Good car,” Bekkman responded.

  Monette raised her eyebrows.

  “Oh, so you have one too?”

  “I’ve had one since long before they were popular. I use it to get me to places where an ordinary four-wheel drive won’t take me.”

  “I see,” Monette said. “Mr. Bekkman, can I ask you why you paid the money to Eric when you seem to be independently wealthy? I mean, you have no employer or a business of your own to worry about being tinged by scandal.”

  “True, but I have something you can’t put a price tag on: my image. I am known the world over as an adventurer, and outdoorsman extraordinaire. That image means more to me than any amount of money, which I have plenty of. Notoriety is the only currency that means anything to me.”

  Monette nodded as if John’s answers made perfect sense—and to me, it did too. There are some things in this world more important than money. Offhand, though, there wasn’t anything I could think of at that moment.

  “So you had these fantasy scenes with Cody, but Eric was the one who asked you for money to prevent the release of the pictures?”

  “Yes,”

  “Did Cody know about this blackmail arrangement?”

  “I don’t know. I stopped seeing him after Eric demanded the money.”

  “Interesting,” Monette said. “Mr. Bekkman ... John, where were you on the nights when Cody and Eric were killed?”

  “I told Detective McMillan already. I was in the Sierras backpacking with three of my buddies ... days away from any town. He checked out my alibi and gave me the green light.”

 
; Monette turned to me and asked me if I had any questions. I nodded my head. Just one, I remarked.

  “Mr. Bekkman, are you single?”

  My question provoked a great, riotous laugh, not at me, but at the question. It was funny seeing Bekkman laugh so hard when normally he seemed to be in control of his emotions. Not repressed, but in control. There was a profound difference. I guess you had to keep a level head when you faced the things John did: bears, crocodiles, raging rapids, blinding snowstorms, and the odd glacier.

  John looked me straight in the eye and returned my serve. “Are you, Mr. Wilsop?”

  “Semiattached.”

  “Like a garage, huh?”

  I liked this guy’s sense of humor. Of course, I had no sooner said what I did than I got hit by a thunderbolt of guilt. I felt that I had betrayed Marc all the way back to Palm Springs.

  “I guess that’s all, Mr. Bekkman,” Monette finished.

  As John was showing us out of the apartment, he said one last thing.

  “I guess that money I paid to Eric was all for naught. Now you have the pictures. I suppose I have to pay you next?”

  Monette turned to him and said, “As long as you give us the answers we’re looking for, the pictures will remain with us safely at Robert’s apartment. No charge.”

  “Thanks,” Bekkman replied.

  Bekkman smiled and closed the door gently behind us.

  As we were waiting for the elevator, I spilled my guts to Monette.

  “Why do I feel so sorry for a guy who’s got more money than anyone could possibly use?”

  “Strange ... I feel the same way, probably because he was the victim of an unscrupulous blackmailer. It doesn’t matter that he has scads of money, because money doesn’t seem to mean much to him. He’s afraid of losing a reputation that means a lot to him. He’s right, you can’t put a price tag on that.”

  “Speaking of price tags, did you see the view from his apartment?”

  “Right over the Metropolitan Museum and into the park.”

  “Monette, I’d kill for a view like that.”

  “Perhaps you’re not the only person who thinks so, Robert.”

  8

  Riding Miss Daisy

  The next day at lunch, we pounced on Chet Ponyweather, a man with an address on upper Madison Avenue and an affinity for wearing a fox-hunting getup and having a riding crop used on his bare posterior. Getting in to see Chet at his office in Midtown was easy. I merely told his secretary that I wished to discuss the matter of his personal trainer and some portraits I had done of him in his apartment. The secretary, clueless as to what was really going on, commented how nice it was to see Mr. Ponyweather finally getting some portraits of himself done so that his wife and children could enjoy them. How much goes on right under our noses without us ever realizing what’s happening?

  Monette and I were ushered into his office, which was decorated, naturally, in high-WASP. It looked more like a gentlemen’s club than an office. From what I could tell, the firm that Chet apparently headed had something to do with shipping.

  Chet had all the markings of a bona fide WASP. The wiry red-blondish hair was combed to the right (never the left, mind you) with generous dabs of some hair mousse designed so that heterosexual men could look presentable without appearing too gay—the perfect cover for the closeted husband. The two blue eyes that sat deep down in his windblown face like pools of stagnant water at the bottom of a very wrinkled well said it all. They suggested years and years of exposure to the elements—on sailing boats, watching polo matches, and gardening with his wife on the extensive grounds of their country home in Litchfield, Connecticut. Everything about Chet seemed tightly controlled. From the gold, signature cufflinks (probably from Brooks Brothers) to the starched white shirts and the shoes that were probably polished daily (including the bottom soles—I noticed as he sat across from us), Chet was a man whose life was circumscribed by generations of rigid social structure and manners that promised severe punishment if broken. No wonder Chet liked to get his butt beat—it was just a sadistic metaphor of his everyday life. But despite the thick, insurmountable walls that separated Chet from the unanointed, unprivileged masses yearning to get inside, you could sense it wouldn’t take much to make those walls come a-tumblin’ down. The profuse sweat that appeared out of nowhere on Chet’s regal forehead and on either side of his WASPy, upturned, and diminutive nose said that this was one scared rabbit.

  “So,” Chet started off, “you said on the phone that you have some pictures of me?”

  “Yes,” Monette answered. “Taken by Cody, your personal trainer.”

  “Cody Walker? Good God,” Chet sputtered. “Messy business, that.”

  (The guy even talked in a syntax that no one spoke anymore.)

  “Yes, we just wanted to ask you a few questions, Mr. Ponyweather,” Monette stated.

  Chet looked like he was about to burst into tears at any moment, had it not been for the fact that a man in his social position couldn’t cry, especially in front of proletarians like Monette and me.

  “Okay, okay, Mr. Wilsop and Miss O’Reilley, how much do you want for the pictures?”

  Monette shot me a glance that, no matter how fleeting it was, told volumes. It said, “This could be it, our ticket to early retirement, the end of money worries, substandard apartments, and the beginning of long, Caribbean vacations.” At the same time, however, it also said, “We can’t—it wouldn’t be right. It’s not a moral issue, really. It’s more the fear of getting caught.”

  Fortunately or not, reason—and fear of jail time—prevailed.

  I spoke up, ending the uncomfortable silence. “Mr. Ponyweather, we’re not here to blackmail you by asking for money. We’re here to ask you some questions.”

  “Are you with the police?” he asked.

  “No, but we are involved in this matter—and we do have possession of the CD with the pictures of you on it. Robert has them safely stored at his apartment.”

  “So you’re associated with Eric, are you?”

  His inflection on the word associated made even me feel slimy.

  “No, no we’re not,” I answered.

  “Then why aren’t you trying to blackmail me like Eric?”

  Monette’s face lit up like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. “Eric was blackmailing you?”

  “Yes,” he replied in low voice designed not to carry any farther than our ears.

  “Mr. Ponyweather, we know you’re a member of Club M. When did you begin training with Mr. Bogert?”

  Chet looked perplexed. “I’ve never trained with Eric. My personal trainer was Cody Walker.”

  Confirmations for our theory about Eric doing the blackmailing and Cody unaware of it were flying left and right. Monette spoke first.

  “You made these pictures with Cody, correct?”

  “That’s correct,” Chet said promptly.

  “So how did Eric get his hands on them?”

  Chet blew his nose, stifling back a sudden case of the sniffles. “That, Miss O’Reilley, is something that I’d like to know. I suppose that Cody was working with Eric in this messy business.”

  It was my turn to ask a question. “Mr. Ponyweather, did Cody ever approach you asking for money in exchange for the pictures he had taken of you?”

  “No, just Eric.”

  Chet sat quietly in his chair, the leather squeaking occasionally as Chet shifted his weight ever so slightly. What struck me about Chet at this point was no matter how comfortable his surroundings seemed (and believe me, they did look comfortable—even sumptuous), Chet never seemed to be at ease. This state, I felt, wasn’t brought about by the recent events facing Chet. I think his whole life was uncomfortable, ill at ease. Having been raised Catholic, I knew intimately how he felt.

  Chet took a different tack. “So you say you have possession of these pictures?”

  “Yes, yes we do,” Monette answered for the both of us.

  “For the love of God,
please don’t release those pictures—it will ruin me, my marriage, my family.”

  “We’re holding on to them for now, Mr. Ponyweather,” Monette said, carefully choosing her words. She didn’t want to give too much away right now. “I need to ask two more questions.”

  “Go ahead, you hold all the cards,” Chet conceded.

  “How did Eric let you know he wanted money in exchange for the pictures of you and Cody?”

  “Why, my dear, he came up to me in the locker room and just plain told me.”

  “He never sent you a letter?”

  “No letter. Just brazenly walked right up to me and told me. Oh, he did give me a manila envelope and told me to open it.”

  “And what was in the envelope?” Monette queried further.

  “A picture of me and Cody, printed out on paper. He said he wanted there to be no mistake that he had all the pictures of the two of us. ‘Just an example of what I got on you,’ he said. And your second question?”

  “Where were you on the night of Cody’s murder and Eric’s?”

  “When Cody was killed, I was having dinner with a business partner at the Four Seasons. The night of Eric’s murder, I went out for a walk.”

  “A walk?” I asked.

  “Yes, unfortunately.”

  “Unfortunately?” I inquired.

  “Yes, not the kind of thing that gives you a perfect alibi, considering that Eric’s apartment was only a few blocks from mine.”

  “Interesting,” was Monette’s only comment. “Mr. Ponyweather, I think those are all the questions we have right now. Thank you for your time.”

  I got up and followed Monette out of the office and into the reception area. The receptionist smiled grandly at the two of us.

  “I hope that you capture the true spirit of Mr. Ponyweather in your portrait!” she gushed as if her life revolved around her restrained boss, which it probably did.

  “I think someone else already beat us to it,” Monette told the perky woman—the double entendre sailing clear over her head.