Gorman said, “You didn’t have a contract, asshole.”
I pointed a finger at him. “Call me that once more.”
He sneered at me, but didn’t say anything.
“Wheeler died before the first of the books came out,” I told her—and the little crowd. “And Gorman here built his publishing empire on it.”
“Empire,” Gorman snorted. “I’m just a small-businessman, a cottage industry, and a fan who likes mysteries. Who besides me woulda printed that old hack’s garbage? I gave him some posterity, schmuck. You’re just cryin’ ’cause I didn’t put your name on the covers.”
I said nothing.
The crowd began to disperse—a crowd of people shaking their heads.
“Thanks, jerk,” he said. “I oughta sue you for defamation of character.”
“You’ll have to come up with some character, first,” I said.
Besides—these fans wouldn’t boycott Gorman; even I bought Gorman’s books, though I did so through another dealer, so as not to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was getting my money. For all his faults, Gorman was one of a handful of publishers putting out books of rare material the fans sorely wanted; and he was the publisher who had resurrected the Eric Flayr tales from their unjust oblivion. He was also the first American publisher in over a decade to give Roscoe Kane’s work the light of day....
“I want to talk to you about Roscoe Kane,” I said.
“Screw you,” he said.
“I have to admit I’m glad to hear you’ll be doing Roscoe’s final few Garson books.”
“First in the U.S. to do it,” he said smugly.
“Maybe with the publicity Roscoe’s death’ll generate, you’ll have a valuable piece of property in those books.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just an observation.”
“Get outta here, Mallory! Just get the hell away.” He looked at Kathy. “You’re not with him, are you?”
Kathy, stunned by the behavior of both of us, managed only to nod.
“You keep lousy company, baby,” he said to her.
She burned. “It’s nothing compared to my taste in publishers,” she said, and turned and walked quickly away.
I pointed a finger at Gorman again. “We’re going to talk some more,” I said.
“I’m shakin’, I’m shakin’,” Gorman said, moving his body like a little kid responding to threats from another little kid. Which was maybe the case.
When I caught up with Kathy, she glared at me. “Couldn’t that have waited?”
“Uh, what have waited?”
“Your big scene with Gorman. He is my boss, you know!”
“Come on—that guy’s an iguana. He’s...”
“My publisher!” She turned and gave me a tight angry look. “Noir means a lot to me. I don’t make much off it, it’s not my living, you understand, but it’s the part of my life that makes the rest of my life worth living. And Gorman’s my publisher. He may not be Hugh Hefner, but he’s my publisher!”
“He isn’t even Larry Flynt, Kathy.”
“I don’t care! You could’ve had the courtesy to pull that stunt without me at your side! It was thoughtless!”
I sighed. “Yeah. I guess it was. Sorry.”
“Just leave me alone.”
She walked toward the elevators.
She pressed the up button and stood with folded arms. I came up to her and said, “Is supper still on?”
Her reply about snapped my head off: “Why? Do you want to back out?”
“No.”
“Me, neither,” she said and stepped into the elevator, and I caught a wisp of yet another wry smile before the doors slid shut.
9
I rested the cover painting of Murder Me Again, Doll against the wall next to the bed in my hotel room; I left the tissue paper over it but the garish cover beneath shouted through and reminded me of Roscoe Kane. I turned it to the wall, wondering if buying the thing had been a mistake.
No, I said to myself, someday the ugly circumstances surrounding Roscoe Kane’s death will fade, and Kane, the writer, and Gat Garson, the character, would move to the forefront, pushing all the rest of it into the background, where it belonged. Then I could enjoy my painting....
After all, I was able to listen to Beatles music again, wasn’t I? I could hear “Hard Day’s Night” or “Eight Days a Week” on the radio, and smile and sing along. One night, not so long ago, a news bulletin had interrupted the old Mamie Van Doren movie I was watching (Sex Kittens Go to College), and I knew at once that from then on I’d never be able to watch Mamie Van Doren without thinking of John Lennon, and, more importantly, would never be able to listen to Beatles music again, not with any joy anyway....
But that, too, had passed; and now Beatles music, and various other music from my junior high and high school days, was about all I could stand to listen to; that and some of the new music that harked back to those days. I had a little Sony cassette player along, as a matter of fact, which was sitting on the hotel-room dresser at the moment, and I popped a tape in—a Bobby Darin tape—and fell back on the bed and tried to relax and forget about Roscoe Kane for a while.
But Bobby Darin wouldn’t let me.
“Splish splash,” he sang, “I was takin’ a bath...”
I sat up.
“Very funny, Bobby,” I said, and got up and shut off the little cassette player.
And called Mae Kane’s room.
“Y-yes...?” she said, tentatively. From the sound of her voice—not to mention the eight rings she’d let go by before picking up the receiver—I could tell she’d had her share of calls from the media and condolence-wishers and such, and was getting gun-shy.
“Mae, it’s Mal.”
The voice went warm, husky. “Mal. Where are you calling from?”
“My room.”
“You should’ve just stopped by, up here, if you wanted to talk. I could use the company. I’ve had to take all my meals in; room service here’s my best friend.”
I didn’t want to go up to her room, partially because I didn’t trust myself around her, sexually speaking—and I didn’t exactly trust her, either, since maybe she spoke the same language.
But I didn’t say that.
I said, “I ran into Evelyn Kane a while ago.”
There was a long pause, a pregnant pause—but I didn’t have to wait nine months to find out what the pause was pregnant with: hate. Hate that streamed out of the receiver like heat from a hair dryer.
Only, Mae’s clipped words were more like ice.
“What’s that bitch doing here?” she said.
She and Evelyn spoke the same language, too.
“Be fair, Mae. She was Roscoe’s wife, once upon a time. She has a right to show her concern.”
“Then she can come to the services Monday in Milwaukee; there’s nothing for her here.”
“You may be right. Tell me, had she and Roscoe gotten together in recent months?”
There was a wariness in her voice as she said, “What do you mean?”
I was obviously getting into an awkward area. “Oh, you know,” I stumbled, trying to make it sound light. “Got together for old times. Mended some fences. Buried the hatchet. Bygones be bygones. That sort of thing.”
“Well.” She paused again, and the hate was gone, or anyway in check; she was composing herself. “I do think he saw her a few times. He ran into her once, at a grocery store or something. And they apparently were civil. They met for drinks once or twice after that. The marriage... ended pretty bitterly, as you may recall. Maybe... maybe they felt that after all these years, they should at least be civil.”
“And that’s as far as it went?”
“Of course. Where else could it go?”
“Evelyn claimed... look, I don’t know if I should get into this. This isn’t really any of my business....”
Mae laughed and there was a tinge of sarcasm in it. “When did that ever stop you
?” There was a tinge of gin in it, too; room service here was her best friend.
“You’ve got me there. What she said was—she said she and Roscoe were having an affair.”
Silence.
“Mae?”
Silence.
And then an outburst of uproarious laughter.
“Mae?” I said, into the receiver, talking over the continuing laughter.
Finally she managed to contain her glee long enough to say, “That’s rich. Oh, that’s really rich.”
“Can I take your hysteria as a ‘no’?”
“Mal, you’ve seen us, Evelyn and me. Who would you rather...?” She hadn’t had enough gin yet to complete that sentence. But she picked right up: “You knew Roscoe pretty well. What do you think? Do you think he was cheating on me to climb in bed with Madame LaFarge?”
“Mae, he was married to her once. He probably loved her, once. Love’s blind.”
“Maybe, but it’s not retarded. Mal, she’s a crazy, vicious bitch. What’s next, a will leaving our bungalow to her, written in Crayola? She’s a lunatic. Roscoe was nice to her because she was down on her luck; he felt sorry for her. Maybe—maybe he even felt a little guilty for having dumped her. Roscoe had his deep dark depressions, you know. He carried guilt around over both Evelyn and Winnie.”
Winnie was Winifred, Roscoe’s first wife, dead for many, many years.
“So,” I said, “renewing his relationship with Evelyn was an act of charity on his part.”
“Mal, he had drinks with her a few times. A relationship it wasn’t.”
“Mae. This is hard to ask.”
“Somehow I think you’ll find a way...”
“You indicated you and Roscoe weren’t, well—sexually active, of late.”
“He was impotent, Mal.”
“Couldn’t that have been the pose of a man carrying on an affair with another woman?”
“Mal! Jesus. He had prostate trouble, which is a matter of medical record, all right? Do I really have to go into this further?”
“No,” I said, wishing there was a rock around to crawl under.
“Besides, if Roscoe wanted to leave me, all he had to do was do it. Roscoe and I have—had—a few thousand dollars in savings and own our little home. There wasn’t enough there to bother fighting over. Mal, Evelyn Kane is a crazy woman. Why listen to her?”
“Mae. You agreed it would be a good idea for me to ask around about Roscoe’s death. And Evelyn is here.”
“True. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“That’s okay. I deserved it, a little.”
“When did she get here, Mal?”
“Pardon?”
“Evelyn. When did she arrive?”
“Today. She said.”
“Where do you suppose she was last night?”
“That I don’t know. That’s a good question. Of course I don’t know where she is now, either.”
“Why?”
I explained that Evelyn hadn’t checked in at the Americana-Congress, at least not as of an hour or so ago.
“She might be at another hotel, though,” I said. “With the convention, here, the hotel itself may be full.”
“She’s probably sleeping in her car,” Mae said, humorously. “She’s one classy broad.”
“You said before that you could tell me where I could get hold of Roscoe’s son,” I reminded her.
“Jerome?” She laughed; almost a giggle. “Why, I’m sure you could get hold of him any place you pleased. No problem.”
“Mae, take it easy on that gin, okay?”
“That was nasty, wasn’t it? Jerome is staying with a Troy something. I’ve got it written down....”
She found the name and number and gave it to me, then asked, “Have you called that assistant coroner yet?”
“Actually, no. I’m going to do that after we hang up.”
“Good. How about dinner tonight?”
“No, Mae, thank you. I already have a, uh...”
“Previous engagement? Anyone I know?”
“I don’t think so. A young lady.”
“I’m jealous,” she said, pretending not to be. “You could’ve had room service with me.” She said that flatly, without stressing the innuendo—but the “nuendo” was in there, all right.
“That would’ve been nice,” I managed.
“Maybe you can stop up later.”
“I’ll try.” No way!
“Particularly if you get anywhere, with your inquiries.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“Thanks, Mal. I know I can count on you.”
“I’ll call you later, that I promise you.”
“Please do, Mal.”
We hung up.
I called the Chicago coroner’s office and managed to get Myers, the heavyset assistant coroner from last night. I reminded him who I was and he grunted, and I told him about the maid and the wet towels, and he said, That’s very interesting, thank you, and hung up.
Which is how I knew he’d react, but I’d promised Mae I’d pass my wet-towel information along, and I had.
I called the front desk and asked if Evelyn Kane had checked in; she hadn’t. I asked if she had a reservation; she hadn’t. I asked if the hotel was full up, what with the convention and all; it was.
That certainly explained Evelyn’s absence. Or did it? If she was planning ahead to come down from Milwaukee to see Roscoe, why didn’t she have a reservation at the hotel?
I tried calling the number of Jerome Kane’s friend, Troy. I got an answering machine, a very masculine voice saying, “This is Troy, I’m not able to respond at the moment, but please leave a message at the tone.” Behind the voice, an instrumental version of the theme from the movie Arthur was playing; I didn’t leave a message—I hung up when I was between the moon and New York City, actually.
I needed to talk to Gorman. I had blown it, sort of, down in the dealers’ room; I should’ve played like all was forgiven between ol’ Gregg and me, so I could sneak up on him with some hard questions, not the least of which was, Where the hell were you last night when Roscoe died, Gorman?
Now I had to wait for a better time and place, ideally somewhere I could get Gorman alone.
What I wanted to do now was talk to Roscoe’s son, Jerome, but he and Troy were out.
So I slept for a while; not long.
Because less than ten minutes later someone started knocking on my door, and when I went to answer it, I found on my doorstep a tall, thin, tanly handsome man in his forties, his hair stark white in a short, stylish cut, wearing a beige suit with a light blue open-collar shirt and one slender, elegant gold chain looping gently down across a hairless chest.
The face was familiar, though I’d never met this man.
The face was Roscoe Kane’s.
Or at least it was Roscoe Kane’s face before time and booze and gravity had got to it and basset-houndized it. The china-blue eyes were exactly Roscoe’s.
A tapered hand extended itself and I took it, shook it; a firm handshake.
“Sorry we have to meet under such tragic circumstances, Mr. Mallory,” he said, in a manner that seemed to me to be feigning more sorrow than he really felt. “I’m—”
“I know who you are,” I said. “Troy’s friend.”
10
We sat one table away from the table I’d shared with his father in the bar the night before. A few familiar faces were around—Tom Sardini and Peter Christian were nearby, part of a large party of writers, a few of whom I knew, but I didn’t have to know each of ’em to tell they were writers—lots of beards and longish hair and glasses and slightly off-kilter clothing; we were a recognizable breed. I lacked the beard and mustache, but there’d been a time, back when Woodstock wasn’t just a character in Peanuts, when I’d had facial fur, too. The vaguely unconventional look of the mystery writers my age echoed, however faintly, the left wing stand so many of us took in those Kent State days. Some of us voted straight R
epublican now (not me, but some of us did), yet the generation we were part of lingered in our appearance. We tended to look like assistant professors on small college campuses—the sort who never get elected department chairman, and only grudgingly, via tenure, achieve full professorship.
Anyway, Tom and Pete waved at me to join them, and I waved and smiled no, as nicely as possible, and turned my attention to Jerome Kane.
Jerome wasn’t Woodstock generation; he was of that vague, Eisenhower/Howdy Doody generation that was just young enough to miss out on Korea and just old enough to avoid Vietnam. A conservative era; a safe era. But an era that produced its share of misfits—misfits, at least, by the standards of that day. Today, in the hip ’80s, we don’t consider homosexuals misfits—do we, Mr. Falwell?
I wasn’t a born-again Christian, but I didn’t like Jerome Kane, anyway. He’d been soft-spokenly polite in the elevator; his manners were impeccable, his manner graceful, not exactly effeminate. Any residue of bigotry against gays I might feel was not—I didn’t think—a part of my instinctive dislike for him. Dislike? Too strong a word. Resentment. I resented this man.
Why?
“I envy you,” he said. Suddenly.
We’d ordered drinks—he ordered Scotch and tonic, like his father, and I opted for a Coke, avoiding liquor to keep my head clear, seeking caffeine to keep me revved up. But we’d sat silently, waiting for the drinks to arrive; I had questions for him, but he’d called this meeting, so to speak, so I wanted him to speak first. I’d let him have the lead till it struck my fancy to take it from him.
Now, suddenly, he envied me.
“Why?” I said.
“You knew my father in a way I never could. Never will.”
“Your father and I weren’t really all that close.”
The drinks came. A pretty barmaid even bustier than the one the night before gave me a generous view as she deposited the drinks on the table. I smiled at the barmaid and she smiled politely, and then I realized I was overcompensating, and felt foolish. I was sitting at a table with a homosexual and I felt compelled to assert my heterosexuality.
The china-blue eyes smiled. “Attractive young lady.”
“You noticed, did you?”
Kill Your Darlings (A Mallory Mystery) Page 9
