Vermilion

by Aldyne, Nathan

Clarisse shrugged. “I just wanted to know what shade was fashionable with murderers these days.”

  Searcy reddened.

  “Go home and take a couple of Valium, Lieutenant. Get some rest,” said Valentine solicitously. “Put some Vaseline on the rope burns.”

  “What!”

  Clarisse turned and smiled. “Frankly, Lieutenant,” she said, “how do you look in Boots?”

  Valentine and Clarisse laughed. Searcy backed away. He staggered back to his stool, grabbed his coat, and rushed up the ramp.

  Valentine and Clarisse turned languidly back to the bar. Randy and Mack looked at them in astonishment. “What was that all about?” Randy demanded.

  “Just another runaround,” said Valentine.

  “The grapevine of wrath,” said Clarisse.

  “Did he bother you, Mack?” asked Valentine.

  Mack shook his head. “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he said proudly. “I don’t know what you said to him, but I don’t think it improved his temper.”

  “No,” said Clarisse, “I don’t think it did. But he’ll think twice before he attacks one of us again.”

  “Spit it up,” demanded Randy.

  “It’s Clarisse’s story,” said Valentine. “Brenda Starr on assignment couldn’t have done it better.”

  Clarisse twisted about proudly on the stool. Then, at her request, Valentine related what had happened earlier in the evening. Clarisse smiled smugly.

  Randy and Mack laughed with amazement throughout. “That takes care of Searcy,” said Mack, and started to move away.

  “Never underestimate a wounded straight man,” cautioned Randy.

  Valentine nodded. “You’re right. Especially that one. We got rid of him tonight, but that’s all the ammunition we’ve got. I’d be real surprised if he didn’t come back. There’s no—” He glanced at the clock behind the bar. “Oh, Christ! It’s after twelve. Clarisse, we’ve got to run. I’m late for my divorce!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  AFTER HAILING A TAXI outside Nexus, Valentine and Clarisse rode in silence to Clarisse’s apartment building on Beacon Street in Back Bay. While Valentine tried to count the rounds of Black Russians he had ordered that evening, Clarisse rested her head groggily on his shoulder. The driver was a small man hunched down in the front seat; Valentine could not see him through the heavily scarred Plexiglas divider.

  Clarisse was jarred by a sharp turn around the corner of the Public Garden. “What you think Searcy’ll do now, Val?”

  Valentine shrugged. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. Go home and get some sleep. He won’t do anything tonight.”

  “I still have to walk Veronica Lake.” She stared out the window at the blocks of brick townhouses and seemed surprised when the taxi stopped before her own building. She kissed Valentine quickly and whispered, “Don’t start anything tonight that has to be finished in New Hampshire. If there’s any real problem, though, just send Mark over to me and I’ll straighten him out.”

  “That’s not his problem,” said Valentine.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Good-night,” she said, and climbed out of the cab, tucking her leather envelope beneath her arm. Closing the door behind her, she said loudly. “Call me at the office, I plan to be in by nine tomorrow.”

  Valentine laughed and pulled the door closed; he asked the driver to wait until she was safely inside the building.

  Clarisse waved from the lighted vestibule. Valentine looked at his watch; it was already twenty minutes past midnight. Mark would be stationed by the entrance to the Eagle, hoping every time the door opened that it would be Valentine who had pulled the latch. Mark was the type who felt these small disappointments. “You know where the Eagle is?” asked Valentine of the cabbie.

  There was a sudden movement in the front seat and the shadowy driver sat up abruptly. He turned and peered through the small window of the Plexiglas. He was a handsome Puerto Rican with a dusky complexion, short dark curly hair and a shaggy moustache. Light from a car at an intersection sparked on a diamond chip in his right earlobe. He grinned at Valentine.

  “Aha,” said the driver, “you take your girlfriend home, and then you go out and play?”

  Valentine rolled his eyes, and sighed. “Do you know where the Eagle is? I’m meeting my shrink there.”

  “I was going there anyway myself,” said the driver. “I get off duty at one. Tell you what, you pay me what the meter says and I turn it off. I give you a ride on the roof.” The man reached a slender dark hand over and flipped off the meter.

  “You mean ‘on the house.’”

  “Two thirty-five.”

  Valentine pushed three dollars through the small open window, and signaled that he wanted no change. The driver took the money, and stamped down hard on the accelerator. The car screamed forward through a yellow light that was turning red and the driver didn’t put on brakes until he pulled up in front of the Eagle with a grinding squeal five minutes later.

  “Jesus Christ!” said Valentine shakily. “You’ve still got an hour till last call.”

  “I don’t like to have rush,” said the driver. He turned back and grinned at Valentine. “We don’t have to go in. I can take you home now. No charge.”

  “No,” said Valentine breathlessly, “my shrink promised to bring me four hundred downs tonight.” He crawled out of the cab.

  “See you in a minute,” said the driver. By the time that Valentine had stepped the two feet to the curb, the taxi had screeched halfway down the block and was parking in a too-small space by the bumper-bashing method.

  Valentine went through the open door of the bar with half a dozen other men; it was the most fashionable time for making an entrance. He jumped possessively onto an empty stool at the bar nearest the entrance, and ordered a rye, straight up. He gulped half of it down and looked cautiously behind him; Mark was not nearby. Valentine began to search further afield, holding the glass of rye to his lips.

  The Eagle, Boston’s largest leather-and-denim bar, had expanded steadily since its establishment two years before. The main bar was a square with fifty-foot sides; the walls were dark and not much altered or improved since it had been an establishment catering to after-game fans from Fenway Park. Along one wall was a badly executed mural depicting Custer’s meeting with the Indians, that everyone wished would be painted over. Two swinging Plexiglas doors in the wall opposite the entrance led into the disco room. The lighting was dim, but high enough for good cruising. The pool table in the center of the floor had a plywood cover, and several men perched there now. On Thursday night, this part of the bar had a good crowd—about a hundred men—though this was not a third or even a fourth of the number that would be present on Friday and Saturday nights at the same hour.

  The jukebox was pushed to highest volume to compete with the thumping disco music in the dance-bar. The dark leather and denim clothing of the men who stood about in small groups talking in low deep voices seemed to augment the shadows in the room. The pinball machines in the back glowed vibrantly in yellow and red, their bells ringing constantly as serious players shook and tilted them violently.

  The cabdriver who had brought Valentine entered, and touched him lightly on the shoulder, smiling. He moved directly to the disco room.

  Valentine slid off the stool and filtered slowly through the crowd, nodding to friends and acquaintances. When he had satisfied himself that Mark was not in the main room, he shoved through one of the swinging doors into the disco bar.

  This room was characterized as much by the heat as by the flashing multicolored lights and the strobes. It was ill-ventilated and full of smoke. Though no more crowded than the other bar, everything here was intensified: the music, the light, the heady smell of liquor, sweat, and poppers. Valentine edged his way to the dance floor: the men here didn’t mind the heat at all, for it gave the narcissistic the chance to shed their shirts, and it gave others who were less ex
hibitionistic the opportunity to look at firmly muscled chests and arms in January.

  The lighting above the dance floor was so spasmodic and dim through the climax of the newest Donna Summer recording that it was some time before Valentine saw Mark, gyrating in flickering slow motion beside the long wall of mirror. His flannel shirt was tied about his waist, and Valentine noted with satisfaction what felling trees could do for a man’s torso. Sweat glistened on Mark’s face and flailing arms.

  It was with even greater difficulty that Valentine picked out Mark’s partner from the crowd of men near him, but finally he settled on a short Italian with curly dark hair, wearing an open denim work shirt and faded jeans. Valentine knew the record would go on for five more minutes and he would have that much time to formulate the kind words that would give Mark the permanent brush-off. He stared at Mark’s chest and couldn’t think of any words at all.

  Turning to the bar, he ordered another rye and tried to concentrate on the problem at hand; but rather than Mark, his thoughts ran to William Searcy, Frank Hougan, Boots Slater, and William A. Golacinsky.

  He wondered how Searcy had been caught up with Hougan. It did not seem possible that a man as uptight as Searcy—and one with a professional reputation to protect—would answer an ad in the Phoenix that talked about shackles and pain. It was more likely that Searcy had come across the couple in the line of duty. Golacinsky wasn’t the first dead boy who had hung about the Block and the Block was only a few numbers down from Hougan’s apartment; perhaps Hougan and Boots had been involved in another case. Searcy had given them the rough-cop routine, had found out from Boots, say, what the two got up to in the back room with the beams, and then had said something like, “Well, I ought to run the both of you in, but maybe we can work something out…”

  What intrigued Valentine most, however, was that Searcy had taken part in the little games that Frank Hougan was playing up there on Commonwealth Avenue. It seemed impossible that a man as homophobic as Searcy could overcome his fear of his own attraction to men to allow Frank Hougan to come near him. On the other hand, it made a lot of sense that if Searcy were involved with any man sexually—even if it were in so peculiar a manner—it would be with a man like Hougan.

  The Donna Summer ended and without allowing himself to think, Valentine hurried forward to catch at Mark. He and the short Italian had left the floor and stood in the farthest, darkest corner of the room. Mark was rebuttoning his shirt when Valentine came up before them.

  “Oh, hi Daniel,” said Mark, grinning sheepishly. “I’d almost thought you had decided to stand me up.”

  Valentine smiled and glanced at the shorter man. He had slipped his arm about Mark’s waist, hooking his thumb into a belt loop. “I had to protect Clarisse against a roving band of dissatisfied apartment-dwellers. Introduce me.”

  “Oh, sorry,” said Mark, evidently having hoped that Valentine would not ask. “This is Joseph.”

  Valentine and Joseph exchanged polite nods, and the silence that ensued would have been awkward had it not been overlaid with a hundred decibels of Grace Jones.

  Joseph took a hint and unhooked his thumb. “Who wants a beer?” he asked, looking from Valentine to Mark. Valentine held his glass up to show that he was set.

  “A Busch,” said Mark, and Joseph moved off toward the bar. Valentine smiled at Mark, without the least idea in the world of what he was going to say.

  “You’re not upset, are you?” asked Mark, biting his lip in apprehension.

  “Does it show?”

  “Oh!” cried Mark, “I’m so sorry, Daniel. I know we had a date, but the music got to me, and Joseph asked me to dance, and—”

  “I’m not upset about Joseph,” interrupted Valentine, “something else entirely. Something that happened a while ago, something that doesn’t have anything to do with you. In fact, I was coming here to tell you how glad I was that you came down to see me this weekend, and that nothing makes me happier than being able to give you a place to crash…Do you understand?” Valentine smiled and touched Mark’s arm affectionately.

  For a moment, Mark said nothing, thinking hard. Then he smiled. “I know,” he said at last. “I guess I expected more, but I’m glad to see you again too. I guess when I was up in New Hampshire, I had some funny ideas. I was thinking about you all the time, I was always thinking about coming down here to see you in Boston…”

  “You weren’t thinking about me,” said Valentine, “you were just thinking about men.”

  Mark nodded. “I guess so.”

  “I’ll tell you something,” said Valentine, “when you were down here last summer, I think I fell in love with you a little bit…” Even beneath the harsh red light that flooded them, Valentine thought he could detect a blush suffusing Mark’s face.

  “Oh yeah?” said Mark softly.

  Valentine nodded. “But I’ll tell you something else: bartenders make lousy husbands.”

  Mark laughed shortly. “I guess I knew that, and if I didn’t, I should have. Is everybody from New Hampshire as much of a hick as I am?”

  Valentine smiled, leaned forward and kissed Mark hard on the mouth. “Thanks for the jacket. It’s going to mean an improvement in my love life.” He glanced behind him and saw that Joseph was making his way back with two beers. “Has he asked you home yet?”

  “Well, he wanted to, but—”

  “He doesn’t have a place?”

  Mark shook his head. “He’s in town for the weekend.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  Mark grinned. “New Hampshire…”

  Valentine’s eyebrows rose slowly.

  “Laconia. About half an hour from me. He drives an oil truck.”

  “Good God,” said Valentine. “Aren’t there any faggot hairdressers in New Hampshire?”

  Mark thought a moment. “No,” he said.

  Joseph came up hesitantly. Valentine smiled at the small man warmly. “Mark, you have the keys to the flat. Crisco’s under the sink, poppers are in the freezer.” Joseph giggled.

  “Got your rig outside?” said Valentine, turning to Joseph with a smile.

  “No,” said Joseph. “I came down in the pickup.”

  “A lumberjack and a truck driver in a pickup, and in my bed. It’s so butch I can’t stand it. You two get out of here.”

  “Daniel, we can’t make you sleep on the sofa.”

  “You don’t think I’m going to try to sleep while you two are going at it in the bedroom, do you? I can’t sleep when I’m jealous. I’m going over to Clarisse’s.”

  “Oh,” said Mark, “that’s really inconveniencing you, though. I can’t—”

  “Yes you can,” said Valentine sharply. “I couldn’t live with myself if I thought I was keeping you two apart. Besides, Clarisse likes to wake up with a man in her flat.”

  Mark leaned forward and embraced Valentine warmly. In Valentine’s ear he whispered, “No wonder I’m in love with you.”

  Valentine broke the embrace. “Have a good time. Come and go as you like. I have an extra set of keys.” He pushed away into the crowd.

  In the darkness at the edge of the dance floor, he was grabbed. The taxi driver had him fast by both arms. “No shrink. You leave your girlfriend for a threesome…”

  “No group therapy for me,” laughed Valentine, “at least not tonight. But I could be up for a little one-to-one.”

  “You want a ride to my place, then?”

  “Sure,” said Valentine, “for an hour or two anyway. Then I got to get back to my girl, she’s so lonesome without me.”

  Friday, 5 January

  Chapter Fourteen

  “GOD,” MOANED Clarisse as she buried her face in her hands. Her elbows propped on the table began to slip forward. “I could kill you for pushing those Black Russians on me, Val.” She looked up suddenly, tossing her hair back from her face. “You don’t look particularly hung over,” she said accusingly. “What time did you come in?”

  Valentine sat on the other side
of the small walnut table that was nestled in the bay window of Clarisse’s apartment. A few inches from them, on the other side of the glass, the morning was cold and bleak. Slate-gray clouds billowing across the sky threatened more snow and a steady frigid wind blew down Beacon Street. The limestone townhouses across the way, housing for the students of a junior college, were a lifeless and depressing backdrop.

  “I got in at three. I’d have been in earlier but I had a run-in with a taxi driver. And I don’t have a hangover because I took two aspirin before I went to sleep. And you needn’t envy me because I paid my dues last night sleeping on your Castro Convertible rock.”

  “Don’t blame me. My bed sleeps two.” She looked askance at the cup of coffee that he poured for her and pushed across the table. She took a deep breath, grimaced and pushed it away, and then leaned back in the cane chair. She crossed her legs and rearranged the flaps of her rust-colored velour robe. She glanced at the coffee cup again, picked it up, waved it beneath her nose, and set it back down on the table.

  “Yeah,” said Valentine, slow on the uptake, “you and Veronica Lake.”

  At the sound of her name, the tawny afghan padded eagerly into the living room and nuzzled against Clarisse’s thigh. Clarisse ran her fingers through the dog’s silky hair.

  “Good girl,” Clarisse said, “go shed on Valentine.”

  Valentine had moved to the sofa with his coffee. Veronica Lake obediently went over to him and thrust her head familiarly into his crotch.

  “You teaching her tricks?” said Valentine.

  “She’s a natural,” said Clarisse. “I took her out last night when I got in, and we went past Hougan’s place. The car was still there, but the lights were out in front. They may have been in the back entertaining another guest, but the alley behind Commonwealth is dangerous at night, so I didn’t go back there. Anyway, Veronica Lake ought to be ready to go out again—I don’t understand why she’s being so calm.”

  “I took her out when I got up.”