“Jack, have you been following me?”
Wacky-Jacky’s eyes swirled a bit in their sockets. He wasn’t winking at me today. “Jess a li’l, Boshton. No harm, honesht.”
“Why?”
“Thought I could help ya.”
“Help me with what?”
“Help ya find the killer.”
“You help me?” I broke up laughing, but it was my nerves and the liquor, not anything funny.
“Aw, shit!” he said. Then I watched him trying to organize his thoughts, as though he wanted to explain something. Perhaps the beer was sobering him down. After a few false starts, he said, “Got to thinkin’ about what ya did,” he said, “travelin’ three thousand miles, askin’ about Roger. And ya hardly knew the guy.”
“I told you we went to college together.”
Wacky-Jacky weighed my words and shrugged. “Yeah. Well, I come back here to do the same for my old climbin’ buddy. Gonna find out who killed him and git the guy.”
“You’re too late, Jack.”
“Huh?”
“The guy who killed Roger is dead. The cops found him this morning.”
“Jeezus! Don’t say!” Wacky-Jacky took another long slug, then banged the bottle on the counter. “Hell! Now what?”
I drank more gin, and the bartender brought another beer for Wacky-Jacky. He guzzled some, then said, “Wonder if Rog came here for somethin’ else, I mean besides climbin’ in New Hampshire. Wonder if it’s connected with all that trouble with them surveyors.”
“You know about the surveyors, Jack?”
His opaque eyes were glazed but still clever. “Oh, sure. Rog told me everything.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that when I was in Yosemite?”
“Didn’t think of it,” he said, and belched again, as if to add credence to his words. “Can’t think of everything, y’know!”
The gin was dissipating the nervous palpitations Branco had recently caused me. It was also loosening my tongue and my defenses. “Jack,” I said quietly, “do you know who hired those surveyors?”
He shook his head dopily no.
“Well, I do.”
“Ya do?” He tried to face me directly, but his eyes wandered randomly over my face, and even into the big room behind.
I nodded like a wise judge. “I want to get into their files. I went to the police, but they won’t help me.”
“Nah, Boshton. Ya don’t want the police for that kinda thing. Why not get the stuff yaself?”
“How can I, unless I break into the place?”
Wacky-Jacky blew out a big breath. Perhaps it was to disguise another belch. Then he muffled his voice and said, “Might be able to help ya on this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Got a li’l experience in this kinda stuff. You know, climbin’ and all.” His body teetered on the stool, and his speech was even fuzzier than before, but his brain was still working somewhere in that sloshy, liquor-ridden skull. “I can git into places ordinary folks can’t.”
I took a mouthful of cold gin, then swallowed it. “What did you have in mind?” I was trying to act cool, but my head was spinning.
Wacky-Jacky grinned slyly. “Go git the stuff ourselves, tonight.”
Within five minutes we’d plotted the whole escapade, on a bunch of paper napkins. But escapade is exactly what I figured it was—a caprice, an inebriated exercising of wits, not to be considered seriously. We imagined how we’d climb up the side of the Choate Group building and get in through one of the skylights. In our fantastic plan, everything was conveniently unconnected to the alarm system. The whole scheme looked good scrawled on paper napkins, but I had no intention of enacting it. Not until Wacky-Jacky put out his big paw of a hand and said, “Is it a deal, partner?”
A long moment passed where we looked into each other’s blurry eyes. Was he crazy? Was he serious? Could I trust this man? Of course not! I barely knew him. I’d only climbed once with him, and that was bizarre enough. On the other hand, Branco seemed to be waiting for some deus ex machina to descend and solve the case, incurring nary a split nail. Leave it to me to meet an ethical cop who played by the rules. So what choice did I have?
“Any port in a storm,” I muttered under my breath.
“Huh?” said Wacky-Jacky, his hand still stretching toward me and wavering in the air.
So what if the guy had been charged with manslaughter? Most people have some kind of demon in their past. I put out my hand and we shook. “It’s a deal!” I said.
We arranged to meet in Harvard Square that night. Then I got up and wobbled proudly out of Denial, feeling like a real man, euphoric that I was finally taking control of my life, even if it was as a criminal.
The world looks brighter, thinking seems clearer, and actions appear braver with gin in the blood.
19
THE END OF THE ROPE
I SNAPPED MYSELF INTO SOBRIETY for the short drive back to the shop. I didn’t want to get hauled in for drunk driving, especially after my last sweet words with Branco.
Nicole pounced on me as soon as I walked in.
“It’s after four! Where the bloody hell have you been?”
“Practicing my veronicas with Lieutenant Branco.”
“I smell liquor and smoke.”
“It was business, honest.” (Had I said bizznish?)
“You’ve been out drinking while everyone around here has been working!” She shook her head impatiently. “At least Ramon was here to help. He covered most of your afternoon appointments, except the ones who walked out because only you understand how to do their hair.”
“Blessed are they who can feel my fingerprints on their scalp.”
Nicole didn’t even smile. “You’ve really scrambled their brains if they believe that.”
“Some people still have a sense of allegiance.”
“Heed your own words, Stanley.”
“Nikki, don’t be sore. I’m finally on to something. I know why Roger Fayerbrock came to Boston.” I paused dramatically, but it had no effect on Nicole.
“Stanley, I don’t have time for this.” She tried to walk away, but I stopped her.
“Nikki, listen, this is it! Roger Fayerbrock was in Boston specifically to see someone at the Choate Group. His meeting Calvin was not the lucky coincidence Calvin made it out to be.”
“Stanley,” she said, with sparks of annoyance in her bright eyes, “you have customers waiting. We’ll discuss this later.”
Customers! Here I was on the verge of solving a murder, and about to commit a crime myself just to do it, and Nicole was worried about customers. I knew she wouldn’t hear me out now, so I resigned myself to the mundane matter of work. Just to goad her a bit, though, I responded like a flunky. “Yes, Ma’am!”
I found Ramon working at my station, so I had to use the vacant one at the back of the shop. It’s farthest from the windows facing Newbury Street, and it’s poorly lit and drab back there. I felt like a schoolboy who’d been sent to stand in the corner for being naughty. Through it all I managed to work on two customers, but my performance was far below its usual excellence. I was so preoccupied with the adventure awaiting me that night with Wacky-Jacky that I misjudged my chemicals, not to mention the specific London “dry” chemical that was still running through my veins. As a result, the color job was a tad brassy, and the perm came out too soft. I promised both customers that I’d adjust the work within a week, at no charge.
After the shop closed, I joined Nicole in the back room. I couldn’t handle any more alcohol, but I was still ready for another session at the Albright Smoking Academy. Tonight Nicole pushed a light blue box of English cigarettes toward me.
“Have you changed brands?” I asked.
“No, Stanley. Those are for you, your very own pack. Consider it a rite of passage.”
“Why? I smoke so few?”
“Yes, darling, but you waste so many of mine. It’s painful.” She drew a rose-colored cigarette from her gol
d case and lit it. I watched her and envied the pleasure she got from that moment. Smoking was no pedestrian habit with Nicole. In fact, another of her smoker’s axioms: Never smoke while standing or walking, indoors or out.
“Now, Stanley,” she said, “you may pour us both a drink, and then explain briefly what caused you to be so late this afternoon.”
I had the disquieting sensation that I was in the witness box. I poured the drinks, then sat at the table.
Nicole eyed the clear mineral water bubbling in my plastic cup and said, “No gin tonight?”
I shook my head.
“Well, Stanley, I see you have some sense left in you.”
Not for long, I thought.
She took a sip of cognac and said, “Now, tell Mother whats been happening.”
I began to speak, then realized I was too tired to explain anything. I simply didn’t have the energy or the desire to talk about the case anymore. I just shook my head. “Never mind. It’s not worth the bother.”
Nicole said, “Stanley, please tell me. Something is obviously on your mind. You know it’s better to talk about these things than to hold them in.”
I knew she was right, but I was tired. The sudden languor was probably an aftereffect of the afternoon cocktail session with Jack, along with the emotional outburst with Branco. I sipped some bubbly water, shrugged, and began.
“It started with some letters Yudi brought with him.”
“So he’s showed up finally? That’s a relief!”
“No he hasn’t, Nikki. I went through his luggage and found the letters there.” I reddened with shame, but Nicole continued smoking with pleasure and listened for more. What I’d considered a heinous crime didn’t seem to phase her at all. “The letters were Roger’s, and I read them. They named the Choate Group and Vivian Brickley as the parties who’d hired a group of surveyors out in Yosemite.”
“Stanley, what does this have to do with anything?”
“That means the answer is at the Choate Group.”
“But you’ve already been there countless times.”
“Yes, but now I know what to look for. Now I have a plan.” I lowered my eyes, unsure of how to tell her about the scheme to break into the Choate Group offices. “Except you might not approve.”
“You haven’t asked my approval for much else recently. Why start now? You can do whatever you like. Perhaps you should even consider changing careers, become a professional investigator.”
“Nikki! How could I leave the shop?”
“You’ve succeeded very well this past week.”
I suddenly realized she was serious.
She went on, “You seem to have forgotten, Stanley, that Snips is a full-time business. Perhaps it’s time for you to consider a sabbatical.”
“Oh, Nicole!” I wailed. “Not you, too! Its hard enough with Branco bucking me, but I can’t go through with it tonight if you’re against me.”
Nicole sighed and tapped her nails on the table. “Stanley, I can’t—Oh, never mind! Just tell me what you’re planning to do.”
“I’m afraid it’s drastic.” I struggled to light one of the new cigarettes she had given to me. To my surprise, it was easier to smoke then her own brand. “Tonight,” I said, surrounding myself with a cloud of uninhaled smoke, “I’m going to break into the offices of the Choate Group.”
Nicole said nothing but listened intently, as though I hadn’t delivered the punch line yet.
I continued, “I know the answer is somewhere in that place, but Branco won’t help me get into their files.”
She still didn’t respond.
“Nikki, did you understand me?”
She inhaled deeply, then released the smoke from her nostrils in a slow, curling cloud. “I understood perfectly, Stanley, and I realize that you’re upset and exhausted. But I also know you can’t be serious.”
“I am serious.”
“Then you’ve lost your rational mind.”
“That’s probably true.”
She sipped more cognac. “Stanley, you’ve been somewhat foolish up till now. Passionate, but foolish. But Stanley, really, this is criminal!”
“It’s the only way, Nikki. Once I’ve got the evidence I need, I know Branco will cooperate. If I can prove there’s something at the Choate Group—show it to him—I know he’ll go after them.”
“No, Stanley.”
“There’s no choice.”
“There is a choice. You can get back to your own work and leave the crime business to the police.”
“Nicole, two people have been killed and two others have vanished. The police have done next to nothing. They said they suspected me, but they didn’t book me. They held Calvin on a pathetic drug charge and released him on bail. He’s dead, and now they’re after Aaron Harvey and Yudi. Can’t you see what’s happening? They’re just spinning wheels and exercising their rule books while the case fades into oblivion without an answer … all because the original victim, Roger Fayerbrock, was gay. If I don’t do something about it right now, a killer will get away.”
Nicole sat back in her chair. She stared at me for a long time, as though trying to determine my sanity. Then she said, “Stani, for all the time we’ve been friends, you’ve known that I love you. Sometimes I think I even understand you. But I think something has changed in you, something I honestly don’t understand. And frankly, I’m afraid it’s going to pull us apart.”
“Nikki, nothing has changed in me. It’s just that I finally have a chance to do something … something I’ve never done before, never even imagined doing. I can make a difference if I take action. But I’m still the same person inside.”
Nicole closed her eyes. Minutes passed so quietly that I could hear the bubbles fizzing happily in my mineral water. When she opened her eyes, they were bright and clear. “All right, Stanley,” she said. “Suppose you do go through with this ridiculous secret-agent stunt. How will you do it?”
“I have it all planned.” (I was winning her back!)
“I’m sure you do. Alone?”
“No. I have a partner.”
“You mean an accomplice. Who is it?”
“Someone I met out in Yosemite, a climber who was very close to Roger.”
“Can you trust him?”
“At this point, I have no choice.”
“Stanley, you keep saying that. You do have a choice.”
“No, I don’t, Nicole. This is it. This is my rite of passage.”
Nicole frowned and shook her head. “Or your Waterloo.”
“At least give me your blessing.”
“You are a foolish, stubborn, ego-ridden man.”
“That’s it?”
“All right, all right! Go be an idiot with my blessing! When is this media event happening?”
“Midnight,” I said, and thought, What relief! If Nikki could be sarcastic, then she still loved me.
She said, “As soon as you’re in that place, you call me at home. If I don’t hear from you by twelve-thirty, I’m sending the police.”
“Nikki, I’m not sure I’ll be able to call you. This is a break-in, not an art opening.”
“You call me!”
“Okay, okay. And look at the bright side … if anything happens to me, the Aubusson carpet is yours.”
“Thank you,” she said, extinguishing her cigarette with the usual neurosurgeon precision, “but it clashes with my colors.”
We embraced for a long moment. Nicole murmured, “Be careful.”
It was around eight-thirty when I headed home to prepare for the big night ahead. As I climbed the short masonry staircase leading up to the front door of my building, I sensed something wasn’t right. Then I realized that the lamp under the stoop wasn’t lit as usual. I got my keys out, and it happened. Someone jumped me from behind and locked my arms. Someone else was in front, pounding strong fists into my gut. I tightened my muscles, but it wasn’t enough. I smelled the stench of beer and smoke around me. I kicked violently, but
I connected only once to whoever was there. From behind, my arms were yanked back more. Pain sliced through my shoulder as muscle fibers were torn. Through overwhelming dizziness and nausea I heard someone mutter, “Enough.” I didn’t quite black out, but I wish I had. The last thing I remember was the scent of citrus before I vomited on my Italian leather jacket.
In a distorted dreamlike state, I crawled up the four flights of stairs to my apartment. I felt like a pilgrim at Lourdes: If I made it to the top, I’d be healed. I dragged myself on all fours into my apartment. Sugar Baby was at the door, wrapping herself around my elbows. I closed the door and slumped on the floor. She sniffed at my face, then licked my cheek tenderly. My nurse and lover, a Burmese cat.
After an hour or so I got up. I stumbled into the kitchen and poured myself a drink. Then I filled the bathtub with hot water and soaked in therapeutic bath salts to reduce the swelling and ease the pain that coursed throughout my body. After drying off, I was about to pour another drink, but instead took a couple of painkillers with plain water. I was going to have to be alert in a couple of hours, and my adrenaline would need every break it could get.
I zapped some leftover pizza in the microwave oven, but after a few bites the nausea returned. I gave up with it and went to the bedroom to change. As I put on dark clothing, I reminisced about the night Yudi and I had gone to the slide site at Yosemite. It seemed long ago. That night I was simply anxious. Tonight, I was terrified. I glanced at Yudi’s luggage. I meditated quietly for his safety, for now I was sure he was in trouble.
To relax, I played with Sugar Baby. I figured a round of mousie might reduce my growing panic to a manageable nervous tingle. At one point I realized that this could be the last time I’d ever play with my favorite cat. In my heart I knew Branco was right. I was dealing with a killer.
At eleven o’clock I left my apartment and drove to Cambridge. I was grateful the convertible had power steering, because my shoulders hurt a lot. I wondered how I was going to be able to work the next day, assuming nothing dire happened this night.
I picked up Wacky-Jacky in Harvard Square at eleven-thirty as planned. When he got in the car, he slapped my shoulder and said hoarsely, “Hey, fella! Surprised ya showed up! Thought you mighta changed ya mind.” He’d been drinking, probably hadn’t stopped since our afternoon together at Denial. He whooped loudly. “Gonna have us one hootin’ helluva time tonight!” Meanwhile, my shoulder burned from the manly slap he’d just given me.
A Body To Dye For (Stan Kraychik Book 1) Page 24
