“Of course. Everybody knew Jeff King. He’s been a regular in P’town the last few summers. Three or four years ago, he stayed here all summer long, and became the largest-scale dope dealer we had. Summers after that he’d come back every weekend or so, just to deal.”
The customers in the shop gave up all pretense at browsing, and listened intently. The White Prince stood a few feet away from the counter—so that Clarisse would have a full view of him—and Clarisse saw that it would be pointless to ask him to use anything resembling a confidential tone and volume.
“What did he sell?” she asked.
“The usual—Black Beauties, meth, MDA, speed, ’ludes, coke. Things to get you up, things to keep you going, things to lay you out.”
“Did you buy from him?”
“I used to. When he was still bringing good stuff.”
“And he wasn’t anymore?”
“No. A few years ago he couldn’t have gotten away with it. P’town wasn’t so popular then, everybody was a regular, and word would have gotten around fast that he was cutting his MDA with speed. MDA’s just great—a good glow and you can have sex all night and do everything, if that’s what you’re into. MDA’s the best thing that’s happened to romance since they hung the moon in the sky. But once you start cutting it with speed, it makes things rocky—you’ll still do everything, but you’ll do it faster and harder. Lately he’d been coming back and selling to strangers, people who didn’t know his drugs were no good. That may have been why he was murdered—”
There were gasps in several corners of the shop. Clarisse turned and smiled to everyone. “He wasn’t a close friend,” she assured them.
“Somebody got hold of his bad MDA, or his bad coke, or his bad meth, and tried to get their money back, and so on and so forth. You found him, Daniel said?”
“Yes,” said Clarisse, and gave change for a ceramic clown nervously bought by an elderly woman in a puce blouse and matching synthetic pants.
“It must have been a terrible experience,” said the White Prince languidly. “I heard that you threw him over your shoulder and carried him to the courthouse. His hands were scraping the asphalt. I heard that at five A.M., it looked just like The Creature from the Black Lagoon, and the meat rack scattered when they saw you coming.”
“It wasn’t quite like that,” said Clarisse delicately. “Did Noah know Jeff King?”
“They knew each other, but they didn’t get along. Trouble in the past, I think.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Ask Noah, I don’t know. I never ask questions about the past,” said the White Prince, tracing a recently manicured fingernail across his lower lip.
Chapter Thirteen
WHEN VALENTINE WAS still setting up the register that Monday afternoon, he noted in the mirror that Terry O’Sullivan had sidled onto a stool just behind him. The time for polite discouragement had passed. Terry had come to Provincetown with the intention of staying only a week—from Saturday noon to Saturday noon. But when, after a week of being hounded, Valentine at last agreed to go with him to the Garden of Evil party, Terry had taken a room at the Boatslip for another two days. And now Valentine was dismayed to find Terry was exceeding even that extension.
Valentine did not speak. He had once thought Terry O’Sullivan handsome: a compact well-defined body, dark features, short curly black hair and a full black mustache. But his polite pushiness during the week that they had lived in Noah’s compound and the absurdity of Terry’s assumption, on their first date no less, of some sort of relationship existing between them had effectively dissipated that attractiveness in Valentine’s mind.
“Daniel, could I have my usual?” said Terry.
“What’s your usual?” said Valentine.
“You know,” Terry replied, puzzled, “club soda and lime.”
When it was set before him, Terry made no motion to pay. “That’s seventy-five cents,” said Valentine shortly.
Embarrassed, Terry laid down the money. Valentine made change and then walked to the other end of the bar. He opened a New Yorker that was lying on the beer cooler and began to leaf through it.
“Daniel,” Terry called, “come down here and talk to me.”
Valentine slowly closed the magazine, and said pointedly, “I thought you were supposed to go back to Boston this morning?”
“I was,” said Terry nervously. “I’ve got stacks of work on my desk, and they’re starting to call me. They can’t do without me,” he added with feeble pride. “But I don’t care. I’ve taken off two more days. I couldn’t leave Provincetown until you and I had gotten the chance to really talk. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Daniel, but I had to think it out first. But this is a perfect time now.” He glanced around; the only other person in the Throne and Scepter was the waiter sitting in the open doorway. He pretended not to listen to the conversation.
Valentine waited.
“Really talk, I mean,” Terry said in a low grave voice.
“All right,” said Valentine grimly. “But I’m going to warn you. You may get answers you’re not going to like.”
There was a silence of some moments.
“I think we’re good together,” Terry began in a rush. “The first time I met you, Daniel, it just about blew my mind. I got this feeling like I’ve never had in my life.” He paused significantly, but if he expected Valentine to echo the sentiment, he was to be disappointed. Valentine stood stock-still, hands folded across his chest, and looked closely at Terry. “At the same time I had the feeling—and I know it’s right—that something good could come of it. If you’d only give it a chance.”
Valentine said nothing.
“Oh,” Terry went on after a moment, “I’m not asking for a commitment, it’s too soon. I just want you to give us a chance. I’ve made reservations at the Boatslip for every weekend they had a room open. I won’t be back next weekend but I will be the one after. And all I want you to do right now is say you’ll set aside that weekend for us. That’s all the commitment I want. Daniel, this could be the start of the most important part of our entire lives.”
Daniel made no reply.
“You look angry,” said Terry slowly.
“I am.”
“How could you be angry?!”
“Because,” said Valentine softly, “that’s exactly what I don’t want—a relationship, I mean.” His gaze was harder than Terry O’Sullivan was prepared to deal with.
“Yes, you do want it,” said Terry O’Sullivan, glancing away. “But you’re afraid of making a commitment.”
“Listen to me.” Valentine’s voice was icy. “If you will remember correctly, you and I have never had sex. We occupied the same bed for an hour and a half, while you talked. I didn’t even get to take off my cufflinks. And you know what else? That was it. That was the high point of what you consider ‘our relationship.’ Because that’s as far as you’re ever going to get with me.”
Terry was crushed.
“I would have had sex with you—but I get you into bed, and you pull out this contract you want me to sign. I have no interest in contracts.”
“Gay people ought to learn—”
“I’m not talking about ‘gay people,’ I’m talking about me!”
“What about Clarisse?” Terry demanded pettishly.
“Clarisse,” said Valentine solemnly, “is the love of my life.”
“She’s a woman!”
“You’re being rude, Terry.”
“Rude! I love you. I…” He broke off in frustration.
“Please leave,” said Valentine quietly, not allowing the man to speak.
“No, you’re wrong, I—” Terry began again apologetically.
“Please leave,” Valentine repeated in a tone of voice that wasn’t as soft as before, “because if you don’t leave now all you’ll have to show for your efforts is an early grave and all I’ll have is a cell in Walpole.”
Terry eased off the barstool. “You do this a lot, don’t you?” he sai
d bitterly. “You must, ’cause you’re real good at it.”
Valentine turned toward the cash register and pushed several buttons in rapid succession. In tiny red lights across the screen were spelled out the words REGISTER CLOSED.
Terry O’Sullivan turned on his heel and left the bar.
Chapter Fourteen
ON MONDAY NIGHT Clarisse decided that she ought to catch up on a little sleep. She had gone to bed not at all on Saturday night, slept little on Sunday, and after two full days of work and thinking about a dead man, she was weary. She declined an invitation to dinner with Valentine, and dined alone on a glass of red wine and half an Explorateur cheese—her favorite. After a leisurely bath, she put on a fresh nightgown, slipped between the sheets and was asleep within five minutes.
Next morning she awoke ready to face life. She checked on Valentine and discovered that he hadn’t returned home the previous night. She made coffee for herself, indulged in part of an Entenmann’s pecan Danish ring, and sat down at her makeup table still with plenty of time to get to work. Provincetown, she reflected, could be very pleasant. Birds sang in the coffee tree.
She heard the gate rasp open. Thinking it would be Valentine returning after a night’s successful hunting, she went to the window to greet him. It was Noah carrying a suitcase. She called down and waved.
“You’re back!”
He looked up at her and smiled. “Yes. Come on over and watch me unpack.”
She hurriedly dressed and ran across the courtyard. She opened the door of Noah’s apartment, and the White Prince lunged at her down the hallway with an Electrolux. He wore his birch-heeled sandals, which clattered noisily—audible even above the vacuum cleaner—on the bare floor, white silk designer shorts, a kelly green tank top, and a dozen thin gold bangle bracelets on each wrist. A white rubber skullcap with green stars protected his hair against flying dust.
“Hi!” he screamed over the vacuum cleaner. “Noah’s upstairs!”
Clarisse jumped out of his way, slipped past, and went up the stairs. Behind her the vacuum cleaner was shut off, and the Prince shouted behind her, “Did you steal my Bon Ami?” He gave it a French pronunciation. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
“No!” cried Clarisse, and knocked on the door of Noah’s bedroom. The vacuum cleaner started up again down below.
Noah opened the door, motioned her in, and closed the door behind her. The sound of the White Prince in the throes of housecleaning were mercifully dampened.
Clarisse looked around the room. It had been redecorated since she’d seen it last. The walls were deep rose, the prints were Japanese, the furniture was lacquered black—but the windows still looked out on unmistakably sea-resort foliage and Cape Cod sky. Noah’s bag lay opened on the quilted black bedspread.
“I thought you hired someone to do the cleaning,” remarked Clarisse. Outside the room, they could hear the Electrolux being dragged up the stairs.
“I do. But the Prince took the wrong pill this morning. What he thought was vitamin E was actually an Eskatrol. And at ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning what is there to do on an upper except clean house?”
The White Prince flung open the door of Noah’s room and demanded, “Where is the drapery attachment for this machine? Who took it?”
“All the attachments are kept in the bathroom closet,” said Noah patiently.
The Prince rattled his bracelets and slammed the door.
Noah shrugged, and began sifting through his bag for dirty clothes. He looked up and smiled at Clarisse.
“Where did you go?” she asked.
“Boston.”
“I didn’t know you were going.”
“I didn’t think to tell you. I had planned the trip. I went to Boston to look over the Brookline Swiss Miss, and to have breakfast with Cal. You know Calvin Lark, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Clarisse replied. “His firm also represents the real estate office where I used to work. And naturally he’s a friend of Valentine’s. He’s the one who suggested that I go to the Portia School of Law.”
“Well,” said Noah, “I went to see Cal. On business.”
He closed the drawer on some shirts that hadn’t been worn.
“Why so curious? Did I miss something around here?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Somebody at the party on Saturday night was murdered.”
“I know.”
“And I found the body.”
“I know.”
Clarisse turned her head a little and raised her voice; the vacuum cleaner had started up again, this time right outside the bedroom door. “How did you know? You left town so early after the party.”
“The Prince told me, I—”
The Prince opened the door. “I need another extension cord,” he cried. “I want to reach out the window and clean out the eaves.”
“Clarisse,” said Noah, “I’ll be right back.”
He left the room with the White Prince directly behind him, volubly complaining that not only was their only dust mop in terrible shape but that somebody had bought Amway furniture polish instead of good old Lemon Pledge.
Noah was gone for nearly ten minutes. Clarisse peeked into his bag. When he returned he apologized for having taken so long, and said that the Prince had given him a long list of supplies that had to be purchased before he could get anywhere with the cleaning. “So I’ll have to go out now. Do you want to wait here for me?”
“No,” said Clarisse, “I have to get on to work.” She couldn’t help but feel that her uncle was doing what he could to abandon the conversation regarding his trip to Boston. “Do you want to have lunch?”
“I wish I could,” he replied. “But I’ll be at the restaurant. On Tuesday, we have the management-union meeting. Angel and I stand up against the wall, while the twenty-five waiters hurl complaints and day-old pastries at us.”
“Maybe tomorrow then?”
“We’ll see,” he smiled. “But don’t worry about it, we’re both here all summer.”
She stood to go. “Well, why don’t you walk me to work, I—”
“Opposite direction,” he smiled with a small sigh.
They at least went down the stairs together, and out into the courtyard.
The White Prince leaned out the bathroom window and screeched, “Don’t forget the brass cleaner!”
Chapter Fifteen
CLARISSE ARRIVED AT the Throne and Scepter just as Valentine was finishing his shift that evening. He was preoccupied and morose.
“You broke a heart today, didn’t you?” said Clarisse. “You’re always like this when you have to break a heart. Whose was it?”
“It wasn’t today, it was yesterday. And I’m still depressed.” Valentine told her about the disagreeable scene with Terry O’Sullivan.
“I would have thought you’d be over it by now. Didn’t you go out last night?”
“Yes.”
“And didn’t you find someone to make you forget your woes?”
“Yes. But today my woes has come in five times to beg forgiveness.”
“What you need,” said Clarisse sympathetically, “is a little sign over your bed: Three-Day Limit. For your birthday I’ll make you one, in needlepoint.”
“What I really need,” said Valentine, “is about five more drinks.”
“Sorrows float in liquor,” said Clarisse. “Only two things help in a case like this. Spending a lot of money or trying on a lot of clothes. I’ve been known to do both.”
“I don’t want to do either.”
“Accompany me to Maggie Duck’s Duds,” said Clarisse. “I’ve got to find something for my date with Matteo.”
“Who?”
“Matteo Montalvo—the object of my most recent flights of fancy. Cops, as you must know, have a fine eye for the details of a woman’s clothing, so I have to be careful what I wear.”
“Maybe that’s the answer,” said Valentine.
“What?”
“Maybe I should date straig
ht men—at least they wouldn’t be prone to fall in love. And I dote on uniforms.”
“Val, I have just secured for myself the only good-looking unattached straight man in this town. If you try to take him away from me, I will staple your ears to your shoulders.”
Maggie Duck’s Duds was two doors down from the Swiss Miss in Exile. Its stock was good used clothing from the middle forties through the late fifties, and considering the general run of Provincetown markups, its prices were moderate. At nine o’clock on Monday night the shop was not crowded, and Valentine and Clarisse were alone in the back room. From a rack of dresses Clarisse selected an ocher silk evening gown with silver bugle beads shot through the pleated bodice. Valentine was desultorily examining shirts.
Clarisse put on the dress, then stood before the mirror and adjusted the wide padded shoulders and bolero sleeves. She turned around to admire the sway of the floor-length skirt, then pulled back her hair, pushed it up, lowered her eyelids and pouted, affecting her sultriest demeanor.
“For once you got it right,” said Valentine over her shoulder in the mirror. “Miss Barbara in Double Indemnity.”
“Wrong,” she said, “Diana Dors in Yield to the Night.” She shook out her hair and turned to face him. She stopped abruptly, staring.
“It’s that bad?” he asked. From the rack against the wall, he’d put on a shirt with a scattering of black figures on a vibrant red background. The price tag dangled from one of the sleeve buttons. When Clarisse continued to stare dumbly at him, he stepped in front of her and examined the shirt in the mirror. “Collar too wide?” he suggested. “Cut too full?” He pulled the sides of the shirt close to his body. “Maybe cleavage would help,” he said, undoing two more buttons. “Clarisse, say something!”
Clarisse faltered. “It…looks good on you too.”
“What do you mean, me too?”
“I mean that it looked great on Jeff King when he got off the ferry wearing it.”
“Oh,” said Valentine softly, after a moment, “dead man’s clothes…” Then: “Are you sure it’s the same one?”
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