“I thought I rec-a-nized that sexy voice,” he said. “How you been, baby?” A smile spread across his shiny dark face, and his eyes were bright with sly pleasure. He had on a vermilion tank top and cutoff shorts and was barefooted. He’d told me during the night I’d spent with him a year or so back that his tight, neat, muscular body was “the finest in Albany.” He’d said it with delighted satisfaction and no trace of embarrassment, and for all I knew, which was a good bit, he might have been right.
In Huey’s living room I sat on the old, worn, boxy couch with little strands of silver running through the black upholstery. I said, “Your voice sounded familiar, too, except I could have sworn the voice belonged to a guy I once knew named Philip Green.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Did I call myself that? Yea-hhh, well. You know how it is, baby.”
I knew. “I’d hoped I’d run into you again,” I said loudly.
He turned down the volume on Disco 101-M’s “Pop Music” was on-and sat on the chair that matched the couch. He smoothed out a fresh white bandage that was wrapped around his exceedingly well developed upper arm and said, “That would have been sweet. We sure had a real good time, as I remember, Ronald.”
“Donald.”
Laughing, he leaned over and squeezed my ankle. “Can I get chu somethin’ to drink? A Coke or a glass of wine or somethin’- Dahn-ald?”
“You can. A Coke.”
He went into the kitchenette. There was no evidence that anyone other than Huey was staying in the apartment. I could see into the small, windowless bedroom. The bed was made. The clothes piled atop the old dresser beside it looked like garments Huey could get away with wearing, but not Billy Blount.
“Too bad this ain’t a social visit, Donald.” He handed me a Coke in a Holiday Inn glass. “Even if you are a cop.” He sat down and looked at me.
I said, “I’m a private detective,” and showed him my license.
“No shit.” He examined the card carefully. “How you become one of these dudes? Take a test?”
He handed it back.
“You have to have three years’ experience as a police, army, or agency investigator, pass an exam, and hock the family jewels to get licensed and bonded.”
“Must be in-ter-estin’. You been a cop?” His smile was strained.
“Army intelligence.”
“Ooooo, a spy! That sexy.”
“That was a while ago. Now I’m on my own and I’m looking for Billy Blount.”
“Yeah. You said.” He lit a Marlboro. “How come you lookin’ round my place, Donald? I don’t truck wit no desss-per-ah-does.”
“Your name was written on Billy’s phone book.”
“Yeah. Sergeant Bowman come around, too. Asshole come out here a hell of a lot quicker than the cops who come last night. Took them suckers half an hour to show up after I called, and meanwhile I’m bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Some sumbitch busted in here to rip me off, and when I caught him, he cut me. See that?” He raised the bandaged arm. “Eight stitches! Guess I was lucky, though. Coulda been ninety-two. This is what you call your high-crime neighborhood, Donald.”
“It was a burglar who cut you?”
“Yeah, I know about the routine. First the dude calls to see if I’m home. This one called twice last night. I answer the phone and there’s no one sayin’ anything and he hangs up. Checkin’ to see if I’m home, which I am, with a friend I run into earlier over at the Terminal. Then around two in the mornin’ my friend leaves and I guess this dude’s watchin’ the house, see, and thinks it’s me goin’ out, and he comes in that winda there. I was just goin’ to sleep and I hear this fucker and I get up and I’m gonna jam his nose right up into his brain, see-I do martial arts, right? ��� except the guy’s got a knife and he cuts me and it’s so dark he’s back out the winda-head first, I think
��� before I can kick his balls up his ass. There’d a been lights on, they’d of carried that dude outa here on a stretcher. Anyways, I think he ain’t comin’ back. Not if he don’t want his neck busted off.”
“Did you get any kind of look at him?”
“Too dark. Average-size guy, and I’m pretty sure white with light hair. But I doubt I’d rec-a-nize him on the street. Guess I better get the lock fixed on that winda. Been meanin’ to for six months.”
“Yeah, you should. Look, I might be way off base, but-how do you know this was a burglar?”
A bewildered look. “I don’t get chu, Donald.”
“Well-it’s like this. You know that Steve Kleckner was stabbed in his apartment in the middle of the night just a week ago. The people who know him don’t think Billy Blount committed the murder, and it’s possible-do you see what I’m saying?”
He blinked, and I could see the icy tremor run through him. He said, “Nah. Nah, no way. That bad stuff go on all the time around here, Donald. Shee-it. Nah. I don’t believe it was the freak who done that murder. This was just some shit-ass dude after my stereo. I didn’t even know that Kleckner boy. Had nothin’ to do wif his friends or anything.”
“But you know Billy Blount. The, uh, intruder-he didn’t look like Billy, did he?”
He gave me a cold, hard look and said, “No. Billy I’d know. I know Billy.”
“Sure. You would. And you’re right; there’s probably no connection. But you’ll get that lock fixed, right?”
“Sure, Donald. If it’ll put your mind at ease.” He grinned. “Wouldn’t want chu to worry about ol’
Huey unless you was gonna be here to worry ‘bout me in person and we could cheer us bofe up.
Ain’t that right, baby?”
“Just get the lock fixed,” I said, ambivalence swelling like a doughy lump in my lower abdomen.
“Knowing that you’re safe will cheer me up enough for now.”
He chuckled.
I said, “Fill me in on Sergeant Bowman’s visit. What did you tell him?”
His eyes narrowed, and I could see the perspiration forming on his forehead. “I told him, ‘Yassuh, no suh, yassuh, no suh.’” He laughed quietly. “Motherfucker called me some nasty names.” He dragged deeply on his cigarette.
I said, “I’ll meet Bowman on Monday. He sounds like a treat. I take it Billy hasn’t been in touch.”
“Unh-unh. I wisht he did. I could help him out.”
“How?”
“Hide him out wif some friends of mine.”
I said, “It’s obvious you’re among the many who don’t think Billy did it-killed Steve Kleckner.”
He contained his impatience with my belaboring what was plainly absurd to him. “No. Not do a thing like that. Not Billy. Now, what else do you want to know, Donald. Just don’t ask me no more questions that might make me mad. Okay, baby?”
“Then tell me what you know about Billy. If he didn’t do it, I want to help get him out of this. But I’m going to have to find him first.”
Huey slouched in his chair and fingered the bandage on his arm. “Billy’s a sweet man, that’s what. One of the sweetest men I’ve had the pleasure to meet around Albany. Present company excepted.” He leered pleasantly. “We’ve had some very enjoyable times together, Billy and me.”
“Did you go out together much?”
“Sometimes we’d go dancin’. At the Bung Cellar, or Trucky’s if we could get a ride. Mostly we’d just hang around his place, or he’d come over here. Just listenin’ to music, and smokin’, and lovin’-that’s what we bofe liked mostly. A sweet, nice man.”
“When did you last see Billy?”
“‘Bout a week before the thing happened. Spent the night right there on that couch you’re sittin’ on. He gets up Sunday mornin’, says so long, and that’s the last I seen him. I was about to call him when I seen on TV what’d happened.”
Billy Blount the sofa fetishist. “Is this a hide-a-bed?”
“Yeah, folds out. Billy couldn’t stand my bedroom. No windows. Freaked him out. Made him all antsy. I figgered maybe he’d done time wun
st, but when I axed him he said unh-unh. Wouldn’t of figgered, anyways. Billy went to college. I done ten months at Albany County Jail myself-told Billy about it and it made him mopey. Made me mopey, too, baby! I was seventeen. Breakin’ and enterin’. And I’ll tell you, Donald, I ain’t gone back in. Them places fulla booty bandits! Me, I like to pick and choose. I’da choosed Billy any day. A sweet man, Billy.”
I asked him where he and Billy had met.
He chuckled. “Where did you and me meet, my man?”
The great outdoors. “Who are his other friends in Albany? Anybody he might go to or get in touch with?”
He looked a little hurt with the idea Blount might have closer, more relied-upon friends. He shrugged. “Maybe some guy name-uh Mark who rode us out to Trucky’s coupla times. White dude wif whiskers. And Frank somebody. I never seen that one-I think Billy mostly just bought dope from him. Got some for me wunst when my dealer was busted.
“And then there was this chick, I think, too. We run into this chick up at McDonald’s on Central one night, and Billy goes out to the parkin’ lot for about an hour, it seemed like. I seen ‘em outside in her little V-dubya buggy. I got pissed and tired of waitin’ and went out and stood, and then Billy come along. Says she’s the finest woman he knows and if things was different he’d marry her. How about that, huh?”
“What was her name? Do you remember?”
“He didn’t say. Just called her his lifeboat, or lifesaver, or somethin’. Billy’s a trip. I’da never figgered he went for women, but you never know. I’ve even been known to indulge myself every now and again, though naturally I try to keep it under control. How about yourself, Donald?” He grinned.
I said, “These days, half the human race is enough for me. Though, I have a lover now.”
“Ahh, that’s nice, Donald. Truly. I had a lover wunst. Melvin. He was my true, true love. We was together for five bee-yoo-tee-ful years. Lotta good times-till the Lord called Melvin away.”
“Oh, no. He died?”
“Shee-it, no. Become a preacher. Took Jesus as his lover. And I just couldn’t compete with that man, baby! Melvin’s out in Buffalo now savin’ black folks’ souls. Oh, he still pays me a visit from tahm-tew-tahm. Just on very special o-kay-zham.” He laughed and shook his head at something that went beyond Melvin.
I said, “What about Chris? Did Billy ever mention a guy named Chris?”
Huey lit another Marlboro. “No. That one don’t ring a bell. Who’s Chris?”
“I don’t know yet. The name was written on Billy’s phone book. How about Eddie? This would be someone Billy knew once that he’d be happy about running into again.”
He shook his head. “No. No Eddie I can think of. Don’t know who that would be. Billy had folks, of course. That’s who you workin’ for, right?”
“Yes.”
“They wasn’t close. It’s good they helpin’ the boy now he needs a helpin’ hand. I’m glad.”
“Did Billy ever talk about them?”
“Nothin’ much. ‘Cept they carried on like the wrath o’ the Lord about him bein’ a ho-mo-sex-ual.”
“We all have parents. Mine don’t know. They’ve let it be known they’d rather not.”
He dragged on his cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly. “My folks don’t much mind-or don’t let on, anyways. I got a gay uncle who’s a big shot at Grace Baptist down home in Philly.
My brothers is straight. They don’t hassle me. I been lucky, I guess.” He looked at me and smiled. “Say, get chu another Coke? Some wine? A smoke?”
It would have been nice to linger with Huey-for about forty-eight hours. Disco 101 was playing Earth, Wind and Fire’s “The Way of the World.”
I said, “No. Thanks. I’m working. Another time.”
He said, “Mmm-hmmm. Another time. You got it, baby.”
I gave him my business card. “Call me if you hear anything, right? And get that lock fixed.”
“You’re on. You find Billy and bring him back, hear? You want to get in touch, I’m at Burgess Machine Shop-I’m a welder-and nights you’ll find me out and around.”
I got up to leave.
“Huey, one more question. Tell me if it’s too personal. Ready? Here it comes. What’s your last name?”
His face lit up, and he came over and hugged me. “Brownlee. Hubert Brownlee. Think you can remember it?”
I said, “Until I get to the car. Then I’ll write it down.”
We kissed for a minute or two, and then I maneuvered my way down the stairs like a drunk, made it to the Rabbit, got out my pad, and wrote: “Huey Redmond.” But it didn’t look right.
5
I reached Frank Zimka from a pay phone on Central. I explained who I was and what I wanted, and he said, “I can’t talk to you,” and hung up.
I tried Chris again. No answer.
Frank Zimka’s address was in the phone book, so I drove over to his place on Lexington.
Zimka’s name was taped to the mailbox of the basement apartment in an old brown shingled building. To get to it you had to crouch down and lower yourself into a concrete well under the wooden front steps. I knocked on the door glass, which rattled in its frame. The chipped porcelain doorknob hung from a string coming out of the spindle hole.
The door was slightly cockeyed-or the building around it was-and when Zimka opened it, it scraped across the threshold in jerks.
“Yes?”
His young body was slim and well proportioned in wrinkled khakis and a once-white T-shirt, and he looked at me suspiciously out of a haggard, peculiarly aged face. His eyes and curly hair were of an indeterminate color, as if something had caused the hue to weaken and fade out. The bone structure of his face was that of a classically handsome young man, but the lines of age were already set, and there was a shadowy tightness around his eyes. He looked like the result of some crazy secret Russian experiment in which a forty-five-year-old head had been grafted to the body of a man twenty years younger.
I said, “I’m Donald Strachey. If you’re a true friend of Billy Blount, you’ll want to talk to me. I don’t believe he’s guilty, and I’m going to help him get out of this.” It was the first time I’d said this out loud, and when I said it, it sounded right.
Zimka gave me a blinking, blank-eyed look, as if I’d interrupted a restless sleep. “Billy’s out of town. I don’t know where he is.” He started to scrape the door shut, then thought of something.
“Billy’s not in jail, is he?”
“He hasn’t been found. I hope to find him soon. Can I come in?”
He blinked some more and gazed down at the leaves and debris at our feet. Finally he said, “I’m crashing, but suit yourself.”
He turned and went inside, and I followed, dragging the door shut behind us. Mark Deslonde had told me that Zimka dealt dope but not that he used it. Though it figured. I’d get what I could.
We entered a low-ceilinged living room with a gas space heater on a dirty linoleum floor, an old green couch, a discount-store molded-plastic chair with chrome legs, and a lamp with a shiny ceramic panther base on an end table. A tin ashtray was full of white filtered butts. I could see a small kitchen through a doorway, and the place stank mildly of garbage. Through another doorway I could make out an unmade double bed under a dim red light bulb.
Zimka sat on the plastic chair and lit a Kent with a butane lighter. I sat on the couch. I said, “You mentioned that Billy’s out of town. How do you know? Has he been in touch?”
He dragged deeply on the cigarette, as if it might contain nourishment. His dazed look came back. “Who did you say you were? Tell me again.”
I got out the card. “I’m a private detective, and Billy’s parents have hired me to find him. I’m not a cop, and don’t judge me by what you might think of the Blounts. I’ve met some of Billy’s friends, and I think I share their opinion that he’s innocent. Do you?”
He brought his heel up to the edge of the seat and hugged his leg. He lay his cheek agai
nst his knee and said quietly, “I wouldn’t care what Billy did.”
“I can see that you’re very fond of him.”
He tensed. “Maybe I am. You really would not understand.”
“Would it help if I told you that I’m gay, too?”
“A gay-detective?”
He looked at me as if I’d told him I were a homosexual table lamp.
“I’m sure there are others. I’ve met two. Generally they don’t announce it. It’s been changing a little, but law enforcement is not one of the nation’s bastions of enlightened social thought.”
“That’s funny,” he said mirthlessly. “A fag real detective. I knew some of the TV detectives were gay.” He mentioned a famous television sleuth who had once passed through Albany and caused a sensation at the Bung Cellar when it was still Mary-Mary’s. “But he’s just an actor,” Zimka said glumly, “not a real detective. Actually, I probably should have done that myself. Been an actor. I’m a pretty good one-Billy could tell you about that.” A hurt, bitter look.
“It sounds like a complicated relationship you have with Billy. Complicated and very close.”
He sat motionless for a long time, blinking and breathing heavily. Then, his voice breaking, just barely audible, he said: “I love him.”
He pressed his forehead hard against his knee and shut his eyes tightly. The hand with the cigarette was up next to his ear, and I watched it, afraid his hair might catch fire. The smoke curled up through a shaft of dusty sunlight coming in through a window with plastic sheeting over it.
I said, “Are you and Billy lovers?”
He looked up at me with wet, angry eyes. “That’s not what I said. I said I love him.”
“Right. I get your meaning. That’s hard.”
He said, “Yes. It is.” He got up and stubbed out the cigarette in the dish full of butts. “You want a white? I could use one.”
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