Kissing the Beehive

by Jonathan Carroll

  Three days later back home in Connecticut, I hunkered down and returned to work on the book. At first I thought it would be best to throw out everything I'd written so far and start again. This time tell the story of four murders and how they eventually connected.

  I worked on that premise for a week but.grew increasingly more uncomfortable with the idea. It's easy to lose sight of what you want when you think you want everything. Discovering the very real possibility that Pauline might have been "only" one of a series of victims threw me way off. Her killer was still alive, taunting Durant and me to come find him. Was his story the one that needed to be told instead? And what about the other victims? Were they to be only footnotes?

  Veronica had said Pauline was my mermaid, a radiant mythical creature I had pulled from the water too late to be of any help. If I had loved her from afar back then, that affection only increased the more I learned about her now. Mermaid, Beehive, cheat, femme fatale, tutor to the retarded . . . In the end, I realized I wanted to tell her story and in the process try to do her justice. It would also be Edward Durant's story, but he was the moon to Pauline's earth: He may have affected her tides, but all of their light came from her.

  I had a long talk over the phone with Durant Sr. about it.

  "You're right, Sam. You either write about what you know, or what you wish you knew."

  I felt so good about this breakthrough that I called Cassandra to ask if she would like to go to a Yankees baseball game. Her mother answered the phone and filled my ear with her waxy woes. Out of nowhere, a memory of an event in our marriage came and I laughed out loud in the middle of her whine.

  When Cass was a little girl, she had to do a report for school about Russia. Always the conscientious student, she came to us wanting to know if the citizens of Moscow were called Mosquitoes. The best part of the story was her mother looked at me for a few seconds and I knew she was wondering if it was true. Great beauty is like a fat person sitting down on a crowded bus. Everyone else has to shove uncomfortably aside to let this fatty in. Everyone else in this case meaning good sense, taste, intelligence . . . I married a beauty and would be forever grateful to her for giving birth to our daughter. The rest was silence.

  Cass was eventually able to wrestle the phone away and we made plans. We hadn't spoken much since I blew up at her for investigating Veronica. This conversation began edgily, but when she heard about the Yankees game she dropped her defenses and we were back on keel. Before we hung up, she hesitantly asked if Ivan could come. I said sure. I would have preferred just the two of us, but there was a man in her life now and she wanted him around.

  I took the train into the city and met them at the Grand Central Station information booth. When I walked up, they were having an animated conversation. Cass wore overalls and a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. Ivan had on a black T-shirt with the name THE EVIL SUPERSTARS across it. On the back was the title of their album, Satan Is in My Ass. I realized they were speaking French. It was so impressive and flat-out cool that I couldn't resist putting my arms around both of them and moving us toward the subway.

  The game was a pleasant bore and I spent much of the time watching the kids delight in each other. What is more exquisite than the first time you are in love? The first time you realize something this all-encompassing is possible and it's actually happening to you? The contrast between the kids was marvelous: Where Cass was all liveliness, Ivan was grave and thoughtful. She was so different with him than with me. For years I had watched her tread the earth carefully, afraid of taking any wrong step or saying the wrong thing. How great to see her ignoring caution altogether now, exploding with happiness and all the things she had to say right this minute. Naturally with Pauline and Durant so much on my mind, I kept seeing parallels between the two young couples.

  Had they gone to baseball games together? Flirted the same way? Her hand on his arm six times in thirty seconds. His eyes gulping her down, his body tensing with joy every time she touched him?

  During the seventh-inning stretch I went to the bathroom and then to buy a beer. Standing in line at the counter, I was idly checking out a good-looking redhead nearby when I heard Ivan's voice.

  "Mr. Bayer?"

  "Hey, Ivan. Call me Sam. Wanna beer?"

  "No thanks. I would like to talk to you for a minute. I didn't want Cassandra to hear. You know your friend Ms. Lake?"

  "Veronica?" Our eyes locked.

  "Yes. She called me. I don't know how to say this, so maybe I should just say it: She told me to stop bothering you."

  The vendor handed me a beer but suddenly I wasn't thirsty anymore. "Bothering me? How are you bothering me?"

  "With your book. She said you didn't want me to help with the research. That's fine with me, don't get me wrong, I just thought it was kind of queer she was telling me and not you."

  "She had no right to say that, Ivan. I never said I didn't want your help."

  "She sounded adamant."

  "Well, so am I. I need your help. There are some things I would appreciate your checking for me. I can't believe Veronica called you." We started back to our seats.

  "She also said you didn't like my dating Cassandra."

  "Look, forget what she said. I think it's great you two are together. For whatever it's worth, you have my blessing. I like you and the way you treat Cass. I wouldn't just say that."

  He stopped and stuck out a hand. We shook.

  The telephone rang at two o'clock in the morning. Late-night calls mean only two things to me – disaster or wrong number. I hate both.

  "Hello?"

  "With whom am I speaking?"

  Confused, I said my name.

  "I hope I'm not disturbing you –" Veronica's voice was nervous and stilted.

  I hung up.

  Hearing her voice at that empty hour threw a pan of cold water on me. There was no way I'd get back to sleep for a long time. I would have roused the dog and invited him to go for a walk. But knowing my roommate, he would have ignored the invitation or farted – his one great talent. So it was just me in the dark with a lethal dose of adrenaline in my veins and too much Veronica Lake in my head. Switching on the light, I sat on the side of the bed.

  The middle of the night has its own song and it's not one I like to hear. In that deep silence, all your ghosts gather in a Greek chorus and each voice is brutally clear. Why haven't you? solos one. Why did you? People think you're a fool. You're getting old. You haven't done it. You never will.

  Years ago I went to an analyst who told me not to worry, everything flows, nothing remains. If you don't like it today, tomorrow will be different. I laughed in his face and said, wrong – everything sticks. These big fat bugs of memory and loss stick to us, some dead, most still very much alive, buzzing and squirming.

  The silence was getting too loud. It was a nice night, so I decided to put on a robe and go sit in the backyard.

  Why didn't it surprise me that Veronica was out there? Why did I do only a small double take, then walk over and lower myself tiredly onto the lawn chair next to hers?

  "Did you call from your cellular phone?"

  "Yes. I've been sitting here a long time, trying to get up the courage to call."

  "What if I hadn't come out?"

  "I would have stayed here awhile and then gone away."

  "What do you want from me, Veronica?"

  "I want the same thing Pauline wanted! I want to live ten lives at once. I've tried to do that, and I've tried to do it right, not hurt people, but –" And then she wept. It went on and on. She cried until she was gasping for breath, like a child who knows it's no use crying anymore because nothing will change.

  I was thunderstruck. Why hadn't I realized it before? Veronica was Pauline! A grown-up, electrifying, confused woman with so much to offer but who kept putting it in the wrong places. How often had I yearned to know what Pauline Ostrova would have been like if she'd lived. Here she was a foot away, crying herself inside out.

  I went over a
nd, kneeling down in front of her, put my head on her knee. She put a hand on the back of my head and we stayed that way some time.

  "I'm cold. I'm going into the house. Would you like to come?"

  She looked at me with hope. I hesitated before smiling and nodding as if to say, yes, that's what I mean.

  We stood up together. I started for the house but she stopped me. "I have something for you. It was going to be a surprise, but . . ." She reached into her pocket and took out a piece of paper. "This is the phone number of a man named Bradley Erskine. He's one of the men who shot Gordon Cadmus."

  "How did you find him?"

  "I did a lot of homework and called in a lot of favors. He said he would talk to you, but he'll arrange it. Just call that number."

  "I don't know what to say. Thank you."

  She waited for me to move. I took her hand and we went back into the house.

  I called the number, half-expecting it to be a phony. The voice said to leave a message. I did and two days later a woman called back. There was a phone booth on the corner of Fifty-eighth Street and Lexington Avenue in the city. I was to be there at five o'clock the next day. Don't bring anyone, don't carry anything, just be there.

  When I arrived, someone was in the booth using the phone. I tried to bribe him out but he told me to fuck off. At 5:07 he hung up and walked off wearing a spiteful smile. I waited another half hour but nothing happened. I called the Erskine number again and left a message, saying I was at the booth and would wait another half hour. Nothing.

  Another week passed while I fumed and tried to work on the book. I didn't tell anyone about Bradley Erskine because I was afraid McCabe or Durant might do something that would ruin it.

  The woman called back and said I was to be at the booth again the next day, same time. When I got there it was empty and the phone was ringing. I snatched it up. The woman said only, "Subway station, Seventy-second Street and Central Park West in half an hour."

  Once there, I didn't know if I should wait outside or go in. I went in, paid my fare and sat down on a bench. Several trains came and went. I was looking the other way when he sat down next to me.

  "Ask away."

  He was in his fifties. Short-cropped black hair, a face that could be described only as soft and pleasant. There was a slight sheen to it, as if he was sweating or had just applied cream.

  I didn't know whether to shake his hand, but since he didn't offer, I didn't try. But I couldn't resist looking at his hands. He was the first murderer I'd ever met and I wanted to remember as much as I could. Fat hands. Pudgy fat hands.

  "Mr. Erskine?"

  "Mr. Bayer?" He smiled and winked.

  "My friend told me you know something about the death of Gordon Cadmus."

  "I do. I had a ringside seat. Do you mind?" He reached over and tore open my shirt. I was so shocked I didn't move. He pulled so hard that two buttons flew off and rolled down the platform. His face was impassive. Leaning over, he looked down the open shirt.

  "Gotta be careful. Don't want you wired or anything. So, okay: Gordon Cadmus. Whaddya want to know?"

  "You were involved?"

  "Yep. I was the second coat from the left." He cracked up and laughed so hard that tears filled his eyes. Then he repeated the line as if it was too good to lose. When he was done, he sighed. "You're not even gonna ask why I'm talkin' to you?"

  "Well yes."

  "Because I need the money. Don't we all? Your girlfriend paid me half up front and the other half after we talk."

  "She gave you money?"

  "Hell yes! Twenty-five hundred now, twenty-five hundred after."

  "Jesus! Five thousand dollars?"

  "You didn't know? Nice girlfriend you got. So yeah, I was there."

  "Who ordered it?"

  He looked at the ceiling. The thunder of an approaching train got louder. "If I said the name it wouldn't ring a bell."

  "Say it anyway."

  "Herman Ranftl. But the rumor was the order came from the mysterious East, you know what I mean? Ranftl just set it up for some warlord or something in Burma. Cadmus and those other guys were messing around with smack importers. I guess they stuck their hands too far into the cookie jar. Fortune cookies!" He laughed again, delighted with his own wit.

  "What happened to the other man you were with?"

  "He got colon cancer. Nice way to go, huh? First they give you a bag for your shit, then you're in a bag and all you are is shit.

  "You know your girlfriend? How the hell'd she find me? I mean, it's not easy, you know? She just waltzed in and said, hey, can we talk? Very gutsy. I like that in a woman."

  Cass had given me Ivan's number weeks before. I called and asked how good a hacker he was. He said the best. I asked him to find out whatever he could about Herman Ranftl and Bradley Erskine. I gave him all the details I had but insisted he not tell Cass anything. Good man that he was, he didn't ask any questions other than what was relevant to his search.

  I went back to Crane's View to talk with Mrs. Ostrova again and to read some pertinent police transcripts at the station. I called Frannie to say I was coming. He wasn't in when I arrived, but he had left a note on the front door telling me to keep dinner free. He had a video of the new Wallace and Gromit film (an addiction we shared) and it was time to eat some steaks together.

  The phone in the car rang as I was driving down Main Street. It was Edward Durant. He was entering the hospital for a few days and wanted me to have his telephone number there just in case. He asked if there were any new developments. Instead of answering, I asked if he'd ever heard of a man named Herman Ranftl.

  "Sure I knew Herman. He was a big Macher for years. Used to go to Giants games with Albert Anastasia. Ranftl ordered the deaths ot Gordon Cadmus and the other two. Died in his sleep a few years ago in Palm Springs. A happy old man."

  "What about Bradley Erskine?"

  "Erskine? But Sam, I told all this to your friend when she came to visit. She took copious notes. I assumed she gave them to you. No? What a charming woman. And certainly a fan of yours!"

  ''Veronica came to your house? You told her about Ranftl and Erskine? When was this?"

  "A week ago. More. Maybe ten days."

  Sirens were wailing somewhere nearby but I barely noticed them after what Durant said. I wished him well in the hospital and got off the phone as fast as I could.

  For a time I forgot where I was going. Why hadn't Veronica told me she'd spoken with Durant? Why had she lied about finding Erskine through her own research when she must have known he'd tell me? The only reason I could think of was so she could find out everything possible about the men and then hand it to me as a gift. Why did she continue to interfere with my work? The night we spent together after I'd found her in the backyard had been okay, but more careful than anything else. We touched tentatively and with too much hesitation. I hadn't seen her since but we spoke on the phone a few times. Warily.

  I came out of my fog when an ambulance swerved around my car and roared on to the end of the block. Two police cars were stuck precariously in the middle of the street, doors still open. Crime scene in Crane's View! Had someone snitched a magazine from the stationery store? A jaywalker caught red-handed crossing against the light?

  As the ambulance pulled to a stop, I slowed and saw McCabe's silver Infiniti. It had gone up over the curb and was now blocking the sidewalk. What was going on?

  I parked as close to the scene as I could. A crowd of people was standing around about ten feet from the action. I walked up and saw Donna, the waitress from Scrappy's Diner. She was going up and down on her toes, trying to get a better look. Both hands were over her mouth and her cheeks were wet.

  "Donna, what's going on?"

  "My uncle Frannie's been shot! Somebody shot him in his car."

  I pushed through the crowd and up to the scene. McCabe was lying on his back on the pavement, a big pool of glistening blood off to his right side. Paramedics were working on him. Two policemen talked to
people who'd apparently seen what had happened.

  Frannie's eyes were closed. When he opened them they were glazed and empty. Fish eyes. At that moment I thought he was going to die. The medics did what they could and then ran for a stretcher. Once he was secured, they snapped it open and had him inside the ambulance in seconds. The doors slammed and they were gone. I ran back to my car and followed them to the town hospital.

  The waiting room was empty. I sat and prayed for him. After I explained to a nurse who I was, she said they had to operate at once. McCabe was unconscious. The wound was grave. They had no idea who'd done it.

  Half an hour later Magda Ostrova came in looking bewildered. She'd been at the market. She'd just heard. Without another word she came over and we embraced. Sitting next to each other in that hospital silence, she squeezed my hand until it hurt.

  Hours went by. People came and went. Other cops, many friends. The surgery continued. Magda began to talk about Frannie. What a good man he was. How he'd been like a father to her daughter, who'd been named after Pauline. How he'd been the man in the Ostrova family after Magda divorced and her father died. She snarled about Frannie's ex-wife and how her career in television had been made when he thought up Man Overboard. That's right. That ridiculous and successful half hour a week was McCabe's idea! His wife took all the credit for it, but his snappy suits and other expensive goodies had come from a percentage of the show. No wonder he had spent so much time in Los Angeles.

  As tactfully as I could, I asked Magda if she and Frannie were together. She laughed and said, "For a month, years ago. It wasn't good to be involved with him in that way.

  "What's strange about Frannie is when you're lovers with him, he treats you like dirt. When you're not, he's the greatest guy in the world."

  The surgery was successful but we were not allowed to see him for two days. When I entered his room, his eyes rolled over to me, then back up to the ceiling. I asked how he was and he nodded. I knew they were going to have to operate again. He gestured for me to come over and sit on the side of his bed. He took my hand and held it but didn't speak. We sat there and looked out the window. A couple of times he sighed but nothing else.