Vermilion

by Aldyne, Nathan

  “Of course, there’s no doubt that Scarpetti’s upset,” said Lawrence with a gentle smile, “because he’s had a dozen cars in front of his house every night, cronies to talk over the matter and whatnot. Police cruise up and down the street every ten minutes, all night long, guarding against a repetition of the embarrassment. He’s had floodlights installed on the side of the house, and they shine directly in my windows. I’m furious about that. When all this dies down, I have a friend who’s promised to come down from New Hampshire and shoot them out for me. I can imagine that Scarpetti’s coming down hard on the Boston cops—O’Brien’s a good friend of his. They’ve even put a watch on me, I think, because Scarpetti told them that he lives directly across the street from a known, practicing, avowed homosexual—though I don’t think he has the sense to have figured out exactly what my relationship to Neville is—but surveillance I don’t mind particularly, as long as they don’t ring my doorbell…”

  When Lawrence then discovered that he had in fact been visited by the same Boston policeman who loomed so large in the consciousnesses of Randy and Valentine, he said, “The thing that struck me odd about him, other than the fact that he said he was straight, was that it seemed that all he wanted was to be sure that I hadn’t seen the body being disposed of. He didn’t much care for my thoughts on the matter, which were a great deal more developed than his own. He seemed, in fact, almost relieved that I hadn’t seen anything the night before.”

  “I don’t think he likes this assignment,” said Valentine.

  “No,” said Lawrence, “and I can’t really blame him. As murders go, it’s not very sensational. That little boy wasn’t much more interesting in death than he was in life. That’s one reason I found it odd that Searcy would come around to talk to me when he was off duty. I even had the impression, I’m not sure now why, that he was doing a little of this on his own.”

  Randy laughed. “He seems to do a lot of his work on this case when he’s off duty.”

  Valentine laid his hand across his heart, cocked his head, and said, “Ah to be sure, William Searcy is a dedicated cop. True blue to his very wee soul.”

  “Daniel,” said Lawrence, “your Irish accent is abominable. You should never use it in public. But there’s something strange there. Policemen, probably more than members of other professions, value their off-duty hours…”

  Lawrence paused while Neville passed around another plate of the strange biscuits.

  “Well,” said Randy, “maybe off duty’s the time when he works best.”

  “No,” said Lawrence, “he didn’t seem a very efficient worker. A good investigator always does his homework, and Searcy hadn’t done any of his. The best thing about him was his name. And of course he was rather good looking, in a Marine Corps poster sort of way…”

  “Well,” said Valentine, draining the last of his sherry, “it may be that Lieutenant Searcy has a few surprises for us by the time that all of this is done with.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  VALENTINE HADN’T closed the door behind him when the telephone began ringing. It rang ten times while he put his bag of vegetables on the kitchen table, carefully hung up his jacket, and removed his boots.

  “Yes?” he said placidly as he picked up the receiver.

  “Where have you been?” Clarisse shrieked. “I’ve been calling you every ten minutes since five-thirty!”

  “Clarisse,” he said, “it’s only six. I went with Randy up to the Green Grocer, and then we ran into an old professor of ours—”

  She cut him off. “Val,” she cried breathlessly, “I had a revelation!” Traffic ground loudly behind her voice.

  Valentine rose from the couch and carried the telephone into the kitchen.

  “Where are you?” he said.

  “In a phone booth, with Veronica Lake.” He heard the dog’s bark, and its echo. “I couldn’t wait until I got home. Remember that man who bumped into me by the Art Cinema?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember what he looked like?”

  Valentine stared out the window at the increasing snow. “An overcoat that didn’t fit particularly well, and a pair of green slacks that somebody should have put a torch to.”

  “No, his face!”

  “I didn’t see it. What is this, Clarisse?” He leaned against the windowsill.

  “I did see his face, in profile, but only for a second.”

  “Yes…” said Val encouragingly, when she paused.

  “It was Trudy…!” she whispered.

  Valentine said nothing for a moment. He heard Veronica Lake bark again, this time more loudly.

  “Go away! Shoo!” cried Clarisse. “There’s another afghan outside the booth, trying to get in! Shoo!”

  “What do you mean ‘Trudy’? Clarisse, that man had pants on. Trudy doesn’t wear pants. I’d be surprised if she even owned a pair of pants. Trudy wouldn’t be seen in public dressed like a man.”

  “It was Trudy, Val!” Clarisse drew in her breath sharply. “Listen, you’ve never seen Trudy out of drag, have you?”

  “No I haven’t, and I don’t know anybody who has.”

  “Now you do. She bumped into me, and turned profile. How can you forget Trudy’s profile? The only reason I didn’t recognize her at first was because she wasn’t wearing any makeup, and she didn’t have on any kind of wig. And I’ve never seen Trudy without makeup and a wig, so it didn’t register at first.”

  Valentine laughed. “No wonder she was anxious to run away from us.” He took a breath and fished a cigarette from the pack in his back pocket. He lit it and dropped the match into an ashtray. “And you’ve locked yourself in a telephone booth with Veronica Lake so that you could call me up and tell me this?”

  “Of course not,” said Clarisse with some exasperation. “This is important. Remember the description that Mack and Randy gave of the man that had picked up Billy at Nexus?”

  “Yes,” said Valentine hesitantly.

  “Well,” said Clarisse, “it fits.”

  “Fits? Fits what?”

  “Fits Trudy. They gave a description of what Trudy looks like when she’s out of drag. It was Trudy in civilian clothes that picked up little Billy Golacinsky.”

  “Clarisse, you’re out of your mind. Just because Trudy puts on ugly green pants and a trench coat and goes to the porn flicks, doesn’t mean that she also goes out and bludgeons little boys to death.”

  “No, of course not,” said Clarisse, “but there was something else—” Suddenly Veronica Lake set up a ferocious barking, and it took a little while for Clarisse to calm her down. “Veronica Lake,” she cried, “has just ripped my best seamed stockings!”

  “What else?” demanded Valentine, glad that he was not stuck in a telephone booth with a large dog when it was snowing out.

  “Remember when we were in Nexus and I asked Searcy what color lipstick was on Billy’s handkerchief?”

  “Yes—you certainly did go on about that too.”

  “He said it was a darker shade than the color I was wearing, and that would make it vermilion, Val. Vermilion! Trudy wore vermilion lipstick, it was the only color that she ever wore, but she told me that she gave it up on New Year’s Day. That little boy was killed on New Year’s Day!”

  “And that’s your evidence to prove that Trudy killed William A. Golacinsky?”

  “Yes.”

  “Trudy has never struck me as the homicidal type.”

  “Lizzie Borden didn’t look like a killer either.”

  “But Richard Speck did.” He paused, then said, “I think maybe you’re right. I’m certainly not going to call up Searcy, but I think we ought to have a little talk with Trudy.”

  “I ought to be there too.”

  “Of course. Can you be at the bar by ten?”

  Chapter Twenty

  VALENTINE WAS preoccupied all that evening, unable to take his mind from the possibility that Trudy, with whom he had maintained an affectionate relationship since the time he had
come to work at Bonaparte’s, had brutally murdered a nineteen-year-old boy. He was relieved when the bar began to fill and he was kept busy, but he was momentarily distracted when Trudy entered shortly after ten. He wondered if it were only his projection, or whether her greeting to him seemed curt and embarrassed.

  Trudy played Rodgers and Hammerstein, but in a muddy spiritless fashion. The drink that Valentine had sent over to her sat untouched on top of the piano.

  It wasn’t until half past ten that Valentine saw Clarisse handing her coat over to Irene in the checkroom. She had changed into black cord slacks and a white-and-red reindeer sweater.

  Valentine motioned the waiter over, and told him that he would have to manage the bar for a while. “You’ll only be on for half an hour, and I’ll double whatever tips you make—OK?” The waiter nervously agreed.

  As Valentine approached, Clarisse was removing her gloves and stuffing them into her leather envelope. Valentine took her right hand and examined the two adhesive bandages around her index finger and thumb.

  “What happened this time?”

  “Oh, Val, after I talked to you I got so upset thinking about Trudy that I cut myself slicing a plum tomato.” She thrust her hand into her pocket. “You don’t look so cheery yourself.”

  “Oh, it’s been a great evening! Scarpetti’s paranoia is making the rounds. Cops raided the South Station Cinema this afternoon, and arrested my friend Jim who was running the projector. And Cal dropped in here a couple of hours ago to tell me that Today’s Boston is running an article next month called, ‘Bonaparte’s Blown Apart: Haven for High-Priced Hustlers.’ Mostly I’m worried about this thing with Trudy, though.” He smiled weakly. “Let’s get it over with.”

  Clarisse glanced at the clock behind the bar. “About time for her break, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Clarisse took a deep breath. “You stay here and let me speak to her for a minute.”

  Clarisse moved past him and made her way to the Wicker Room.

  Trudy was playing a halfhearted clumsy flourish to conclude “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” When she saw Clarisse sidling through a knot of men, she snatched up her drink and downed it.

  She turned to Clarisse and smiled. “Good evening dear.”

  “Is this your break?” Clarisse seated herself beside Trudy on the piano bench.

  Trudy nodded.

  “I’d like to talk to you about something personal, if you could spare me a few minutes,” said Clarisse.

  “Personal to who? You or me?”

  “Me.”

  Trudy took a swallow from the drink that was nothing but ice. “Is it a ‘woman’s problem’?”

  Clarisse nodded, and engineered a soft smile.

  “Well, dear, we can’t very well discuss such things around a piano, with all these good-looking men about.” Trudy nudged Clarisse, and then slid off the bench.

  “Step into my office,” said Trudy, and led Clarisse toward the restrooms. She stuck her head inside the ladies’ room door and cried, “This is Trudy! I’m serving eviction notices!”

  While Trudy’s back was turned, Clarisse raised her arm and waved it as a signal for Valentine to follow. He had been hovering near the door of the Wicker Room and now stepped forward.

  A middle-aged man in a three-piece suit emerged from the ladies’ room, said with a tender smile, “It’s all yours,” and moved away to rejoin his friends.

  Clarisse and Trudy stepped inside. Clarisse leaned against the mirror, and Trudy stepped into the last stall. She put down the seat cover and sat comfortably, crossing her legs so that one green wedgie propped open the door of the stall.

  “Let me guess,” said Trudy, “you finally cornered Valentine and now you’re pregnant.”

  “No,” said Clarisse, “that’s not it exactly.”

  The door opened.

  “Full house!” warbled Trudy in falsetto.

  Valentine stepped in without a word, closed the door carefully behind him and crossed to lean against the sink.

  Trudy glanced from one to the other. “All right,” she said, in a low somber voice, “what’s up?”

  “Trudy,” said Clarisse, “I saw you this afternoon—”

  “Yes,” said Trudy quickly. “Coming out of the Art Cinema. I thought that you hadn’t recognized me—but it was me, all right. And you two are upset? I thought you of all people would be a little more understanding. I may dress like a woman of fashion, but there are times that I still like to go into a dark theater and watch little boys do nasty things on the silver screen, and I couldn’t get into the place looking like this.”

  “Of course we’re not upset about that,” said Clarisse, “we—”

  “We want to know what you know about Billy Golacinsky,” said Valentine, more harshly than he’d intended.

  Trudy uncrossed her legs, and the door of the stall swung shut. In a moment she pushed it open again, crossed her legs the other way, and now braced the door with her knee. She righted her wig. “Who?”

  “You know who we’re talking about,” said Clarisse softly.

  “What was his name? Willy?”

  Valentine took a cigarette from his jeans and lit it. “We’re not accusing you, Trudy. We just want to know what you know.”

  She suddenly left off her fidgeting. “Billy Golacinsky was a hustler. He got murdered. He got his picture in the paper and he got a berth in the city morgue. What else do you want to know?”

  Valentine and Clarisse said nothing. Their boots scraped loudly against the white-tiled floor. Trudy fished a pack of cigarettes from the bodice of her green print dress. Valentine leaned forward to light it for her. She propped one arm up on the paper dispenser and looked at them steadily. “I met him Monday night…”

  “At Nexus,” said Valentine.

  She nodded. “I had worked all New Year’s Eve here, of course, and that little boy was going to be my way of ringing in the new year. You know,” she said, more softly, “most people that look at me think all my sexuality goes into my drag, but that’s not quite true. I’m usually up for a little give-and-take, but after a certain age—well, you have to pay for it.”

  Clarisse smiled weakly. “Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that either, Trudy.”

  Trudy nodded briefly. “So anyway, I was at Nexus Monday night. Not in drag. Actually, I don’t have much character when I’m out of drag, I’m just an anonymous old man.” She glanced at Clarisse. “By the way, how did you know it was me this afternoon?”

  “Your profile.”

  Trudy touched her nose ruefully, but said nothing. “I saw this little boy sitting at the bar, and he had everything but a sign around his neck that said ‘Twenty-five Dollars.’ In my mind, I called him ‘Dondi’—the cold, wet, hungry orphan. So I sent over drinks to try to get him drunk. We left there about…”

  “One-thirty,” said Valentine.

  She nodded. “Of course, I wasn’t going to take him home. He looked the kind who might have fingers for plastic. And I might need my American Express next time I fly to San Juan. I didn’t trust him.”

  “Then why did you bother?” asked Valentine.

  “A girl can’t sit at home knitting every night. I knew he didn’t have a place either, and if he did, I certainly wasn’t going there, so I suggested the baths.”

  The door of the restroom opened and a large burly man with a bushy black beard and wearing a black leather jacket stepped inside. “Oh sorry,” he said, “family council. I’ll come back later—I just wanted to take out my contacts.” He left.

  “You suggested the baths?” asked Valentine. “Randy Harmon told me Billy usually suggested that.”

  “I’ve been to the baths before but Randy’s never recognized me, and of course I pretend that I don’t know him. I turned my face away, just in case. But I wondered why that little boy got so excited when I mentioned the Royal. And then when we were going up in the elevator, he said I had to call him ‘Duke Wayne.’ Can you imagine? I tho
ught, ‘Well honey, you got yourself a fruitcake this time!’ We stayed awhile, and then I drove him back to Park Square and that was the last I saw of him until you showed me that morgue shot, Clarisse. I would have said something then but I wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to be fingered. A woman of my stature ought not be fingered. Now,” she said, gathering her skirts about her, “can I go back and earn my beads?”

  “No,” said Clarisse.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  Valentine shrugged. “You left things out. We want to know what happened at the baths. You and Billy didn’t stay long enough to have a real session, and he was angry when you two left.”

  Trudy shrugged and sighed. “All right, listen. Of course when we went in, I had my bag…”

  “The doctor’s bag?” asked Clarisse.

  “Actually it’s just an overnight bag I picked up last time Rochelle and I went to Germany. So we got in the room, and the kid was taking off his clothes and I opened the bag and took out my makeup and my wig. I was putting on the new earrings I had gotten for Christmas…”

  “And he got upset?” said Valentine.

  Trudy nodded, embarrassed. “You’d think he’d never seen a man get dressed up before. He started to call me names, said he wasn’t going to go through with it, that it was bad enough to have to do it with an old man, much less with an old woman—and so on. He demanded twice the amount we had agreed on, and of course I said no, especially since he wasn’t going through with anything. Then he said that the least I could do was drive him back to Park Square so that he could make some more money. I told him he’d probably be better off if he just stayed at the baths where he was warm and dry, but he was still loaded and said he had to make more money. Very nasty little boy—no manners at all. So I dropped him off in Park Square—and I can verify that.”

  “How?” said Clarisse.