Vermilion

by Aldyne, Nathan

  Boots had unzipped the breast pocket of her jacket, extracted a pill, popped it into her mouth, and washed it down with the entire glass of water. She placed the glass on the end table and stared down at her hands.

  “Quaalude?” said Clarisse.

  “Just a Valium. Want one?”

  Clarisse shook her head.

  Valentine was surprised how small the woman was. Her short hair flowed back from her cheeks and softened the sharp lines of her face.

  Boots looked up suddenly. “Maybe we ought to get down to business. I shouldn’t even have come over—we could have done this all over the phone. I have to get back before Frank comes home. He went to Jamaica Plain to buy some dope—he does that every Saturday—and I’ve got some errands to do too.”

  “Has he hit you again?” said Clarisse. She stood on the other side of the fireplace from Valentine.

  Boots glanced at Valentine, and then looked away embarrassed. “I don’t want to talk about Frank. On the phone you said you and—Valentine—were interested in setting up a meeting with me and Frank. Well, that’s fine. Frank’s fine when he’s working. He wouldn’t hit you or anything, so you don’t have to worry about that. We respect limits, we always respect limits. You can’t make a name in this business if you don’t respect limits. So maybe we should set up a date. I brought our calendar along with me.” She began to reach into another pocket of her jacket.

  “So what kind of limits did Billy Golacinsky have?” asked Valentine. “Pretty wide, if Frank killed him.”

  Boots looked up slowly, her eyes wide and her brow creased. “Who?”

  “That kid who was killed. There was another notice about him in the paper this morning, but all it said was his father had refused to pay burial expenses.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Boots,” said Valentine, “Frank’s been beating you pretty often lately, hasn’t he?”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “You told me,” said Clarisse, “that you got that bruise on your arm on Christmas Day. It’s not that old, I could tell by the color. You couldn’t have gotten it more than a week ago. You were right the first time, you got it on New Year’s Day.”

  Boots said nothing.

  Valentine went on: “Somebody we know saw Frank pick up that boy in Park Square the night he was killed, New Year’s night. There was a man in the backseat too, and we think it was Searcy. Searcy’s been trying to pin this murder on friends of ours, even on me. And Frank’s been hitting you to keep you quiet, right?”

  Boots stood, but Clarisse went quickly over. With one hand firmly on Boots’s arm, she sat and brought Boots down as well.

  “I’m getting out of here,” said Boots. “You told me you were getting it on with Bill.”

  Clarisse tightened her grip.

  “This is illegal,” cried Boots, “this is kidnapping or extortion or something.”

  “Has Frank been beating you to keep you quiet?” said Clarisse.

  “No,” said Boots sullenly.

  “That’s just how he gets his kicks then?” said Valentine.

  “No,” said Boots, “Frank doesn’t hit me.”

  “You told me…” said Clarisse.

  “Bill hits me,” said Boots in a low voice.

  “Searcy?” cried Valentine. “Searcy hits you?”

  “I need another Valium,” said Boots. She reached for her pocket but Clarisse stopped her.

  “When you’ve told us everything, then you can have your Valium.”

  Boots slunk down in the sofa. Clarisse let go her arm and retreated to the fireplace.

  “Well,” Boots said after a few moments, “I don’t know everything.”

  “Tell us what you do know,” said Clarisse.

  “Bill came over to the apartment on New Year’s night. Bill didn’t want to have a session or anything, he just wanted to talk to Frank. But I could tell that he was real mad, so I stayed in the bedroom pretending I was still asleep, even though they were yelling.”

  “What were they arguing about?” said Valentine.

  “Billy Golacinsky.”

  “Then you did know him,” said Clarisse, nodding.

  “Yes, but I didn’t have anything to do with killing him! Frank did it. Bill told Frank to get Billy out of town. I heard him say that.”

  “Searcy told Frank to get Billy out of town, and so Frank killed Billy?” said Valentine. “Wasn’t that extreme?”

  “He said ‘get him out of town,’ but I think he meant ‘kill him.’”

  “How did you get mixed up with Billy in the first place?” asked Clarisse.

  “Well, one night Frank and I needed a fourth, somebody not to join in but just to take Polaroids for this one client we had who said he wanted a ‘pictorial record,’ and didn’t think he was getting his money’s worth unless he had one. So Frank just ran down to the Block and picked up the first kid he saw, and that was Billy.”

  “When was that?”

  “Around Halloween, I guess. Frank gave Billy twenty-five dollars, for an hour’s work. Billy really liked it, the money I mean, especially since he didn’t even have to have sex for it. Well, that client never came back, but Billy sure did. Like he would stand out on the street and wait till he saw somebody who looked like he was coming up to our place and then he’d show up, like it was coincidence or something. Well, that was all right, sort of, but one night he followed Bill inside. Well, Searcy doesn’t like men, but Frank and I were pretty stoned, and then we got Bill stoned, and then Frank made Bill do it with Billy—why does everybody have to be called Bill? Valentine’s a nice name, why aren’t there more people called Valentine?—and then Billy took some pictures of the three of us. That night we really got into it, hanging from the rafters and all that, and the flash kept going off, and so did we, and then it wasn’t going off anymore, and Billy was gone.”

  “Taking the pictures with him,” said Valentine.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Jeane Dixon predicted it in the Enquirer. Then what happened?”

  “Well, then Billy came back the next week and said that he didn’t take any pictures at all because there wasn’t any film and he was just setting the flash off, but we didn’t really believe that. Then about a month ago, Billy got busted on the Block. Bill ran into him at the station when he was getting booked and Bill got scared that he’d say something, and so he got the charges dropped. So what does the kid do, instead of going up and thanking Bill?”

  “Blackmail,” said Clarisse.

  Boots nodded. “He came back another time when Bill was there and he said he wanted two hundred dollars—I mean he thought two hundred dollars was a lot of money and he’d be set up for life or something—and Frank went right through the wall, because this kind of thing isn’t good for our reputations, you know? So he was screaming at Billy and then Bill hit Billy real hard across the face, he slapped him around. I didn’t like that. I’m not into pain, you know what I mean, unless somebody’s paying for it. But Billy said he had the pictures and they were in a safe place and he wanted two hundred dollars or he’d take ’em to the police and turn us all in.”

  “What would he have gained?” said Valentine.

  Boots shrugged. “That kid was a real mean zero. It would have made him feel important. So Frank said he could have the money in a week, and Billy said OK.”

  “When did this happen?” said Valentine.

  “Around Christmas.”

  “And then Searcy told Frank to ‘get Billy out of town’?”

  Boots nodded. “But he meant for Frank to kill Billy. Because on New Year’s Eve, Bill—the cop Bill, I mean—went over to Billy’s place on Joy Street and was going to break in or something—because he figured that Billy would be out having a good time on New Year’s Eve—but he was too late, because Billy got thrown out that afternoon. So then the next day he tried to find Billy and couldn’t and then he came over to our place, real mad and all, and Bill said that they’d r
ide around the Block and the bus station and find Billy and then they’d get him out of town. So then they left the apartment.”

  “Was this late?”

  “About one o’clock, two o’clock—no wait, it was probably later, because Bill had a bottle with him because he said the bars were closed, so that must have been after two.”

  “So,” said Valentine, “Searcy was the man in the backseat. Figures.”

  “So anyway,” said Boots, having warmed to the story, “Frank came back all by himself all nervous and mad and everything, yelling about Bill, saying that they got that kid out of town all right, but that now he didn’t trust Bill, because Bill was a cop, and he told me that if anything happened to him, he’d make sure it happened to me too.”

  “Accessory after the fact,” said Valentine.

  Boots nodded. “They hit him in the head with Frank’s steering wheel lock, you know, that thing you put on the steering wheel and brake to keep the car from being stolen, it’s long and heavy and made of steel or something.”

  “Which one of them actually killed him?” said Valentine.

  “I don’t know,” said Boots. “Frank said Bill did it, but that’s what Frank would say no matter what.”

  “Why did they dump the body on Scarpetti’s lawn?” asked Clarisse.

  “Who? I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Frank just said they were driving around the suburbs where it’s dark and quiet, and then they went up the darkest street they could find, and threw the body out the door. Can I have that other Valium now?”

  Clarisse nodded, rose, and brought her another glass of water.

  Valentine touched the scars on his face lightly. “Boots,” he said, “you know that you’re going to have to go to the police, don’t you?”

  “They’ll say I did it!”

  “No, they won’t,” said Clarisse, “you’ll just turn state’s evidence and tell them what you told us, and Frank will confess and Searcy will get his too. You’ll probably be in the clear—not completely maybe, but whatever happens you’ll be better off than staying with Frank. You know too, don’t you, that there’s no way that you ought to trust Searcy?”

  She nodded reluctantly. “I’m scared,” she said simply.

  “They could decide—either one of them—that they can’t trust you. Does Searcy know that you know about all of this?”

  She nodded. “I guess so. I think so.”

  “Then you’re not safe,” said Valentine, “see what he did to me last night?”

  “I thought you said—” began Boots.

  “It was Searcy.”

  Boots lowered her eyes.

  “Well then,” said Clarisse brightly, “it’s off to District One.”

  “I have to change clothes first,” said Boots.

  “What?” Valentine and Clarisse both exclaimed.

  Boots fingered the edge of her jacket. “There’ll be photographers and if I’m going to be on the front page and on television, then I don’t want to be dressed like this. What if Mom sees the picture?”

  “There won’t be any photographers today,” said Valentine. “No television cameras yet. We’ll just walk over there. Nobody’s expecting us.”

  “No. I want to put a dress on.”

  “You think you ought to go back to the apartment?” asked Clarisse. “What if Frank shows up?”

  “He won’t. He was just about to take off when I left. He always spends the day in Jamaica Plain. He won’t be back till dark. He never is.”

  “OK,” said Clarisse, “but Val and I are going with you, and wait with you while you change.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “Of course we do, going to the police is in your best interests,” said Clarisse with a smile, “we just want to make sure that you’re all right.”

  Boots smiled weakly and rose, jamming her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Will your friend back me up?”

  “Who?” said Valentine.

  “Your friend who saw Billy get in the car with Frank and Bill. Will he back me up?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Valentine.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  VALENTINE AND CLARISSE stood silently while Boots searched her pockets for the keys to the main entrance of the building on Commonwealth. When the woman began checking each pocket a second time, Clarisse rummaged in her leather envelope and brought out the office keys. Just at that moment, Boots Slater found her own in her back pocket, and she held them up smiling.

  Valentine and Clarisse followed her closely up to the third floor. As Boots turned her own key in the door, she said, “Come on in and wait, I won’t be more than half a second.” Valentine nodded and went in right behind her. Clarisse followed and pushed the door closed.

  The living room was large but sparsely furnished. A soiled hemp rug covered the floor, and on this were a lumpy sofa with dingy cream-colored upholstery, and two matching armchairs. Several movie magazines and recent copies of Popular Mechanics were strewn across a wooden coffee table. Some marijuana was scattered over the open pages of one of the magazines, and a crumpled plastic bag lay to the side.

  Clarisse glanced up at the ceiling. “You didn’t soundproof this room.”

  Boots tossed her hat onto a library table that was pushed up between the two windows overlooking Commonwealth Avenue. “Just the workroom,” she said. She waved toward the closed door in the back wall.

  She stepped toward the bedroom, but stopped when the door to the workroom suddenly shuddered as a large weight was thrown against it. Boots glanced at Valentine and Clarisse with wide frightened eyes. She bolted for the door into the hallway, but Valentine caught her arm. He pushed her toward Clarisse and pointed at the wall.

  The doorknob of the closed door rattled as it was turned.

  Clarisse grabbed Boots and pulled her to the wall on one side of the door. Valentine pressed against the wall on the other side.

  The door flew open and Frank Hougan ran into the room, his chin bloody from a gash in his lower lip. He headed straight for the door to the hallway.

  Lieutenant William Searcy stumbled into the room after him, only a couple of feet beyond Clarisse. His revolver was raised and he aimed at Frank with an unsteady and white-bandaged hand. He pulled the trigger, and the explosion was horrifyingly loud. Jerking backward and buckling at the knees, Frank smashed against a chair. He fell to the floor, and blood from his wounded thigh poured out over the hemp rug.

  Searcy aimed the gun again.

  Boots screamed and pressed her face against the wall.

  Searcy snapped his head around; his eyes were bloodshot, his hair rumpled and damp, and a heavy shadow of beard streaked his face. In one swift motion Clarisse swung her envelope up, hitting Searcy’s hand with such force that the gun whirled into the air, clunking to the floor behind him. The latch of the envelope broke and papers flew up around his face.

  Valentine dove at Searcy, driving his shoulder hard into the policeman’s back. Searcy fell forward, stiff-legged, his chest and face slamming into the hemp rug. Clarisse jumped out of the way, bruising her shin badly on the corner of the coffee table.

  Valentine jumped on the policeman’s back, driving his knees into Searcy’s sides. He grabbed the man’s wrists and twisted his arms back and up, grinding them between his shoulder blades. When Searcy tried to push up, Valentine yanked his wrists violently. The man cried out in pain, and collapsed.

  Clarisse limped over to the revolver and picked it up. She held it before her with both hands, aiming at Searcy’s head. Valentine looked up.

  “Don’t point that thing at me!” cried Valentine, staring into the barrel of the gun.

  Frank jerked convulsively and Clarisse fanned the gun toward him. Grabbing the arm of the chair he struggled to pull himself up. Blood poured out of the wound high up on his right thigh. The pain was too great and he let go, falling back onto the floor and groaning.

  There were loud footsteps in the hallway, and a female voice called out, �
�Marjorie, call the police! My phone’s out!”

  Boots twisted against the wall. She drew her trembling hands down slowly from her face. “They have a witness,” she gasped, “they have a witness and they saw you pick up Billy!”

  Frank raised his head from the floor. He tried to shout something, but the effort was too great and he fell to bleating again.

  “They can prove you did it!” Boots cried. She pushed away from the wall and darted toward the bedroom.

  “Where are you going?” shouted Valentine, and pulled at Searcy’s arms, so that he cried out again.

  “The cops are coming!” Boots yelled. “I got to change clothes.”

  “No!” Clarisse shrieked. “You don’t have to change now!”

  “I’ll be right back!” She ran into the bedroom. Valentine sighed and tried to make himself comfortable on the small of Searcy’s back. “She’s stoned out of her mind,” said Valentine softly.

  “I didn’t kill anybody!” Searcy gasped, and tried to raise himself.

  Valentine leaned close to his face. “It hasn’t been for want of trying,” he said. “You just put a bullet in Hougan’s leg, and you gave me a taste of your technique last night, but it looks like your only success was a nineteen-year-old kid—”

  “I didn’t touch that kid!”

  “Don’t try to convince me—” said Valentine. He broke off, and turned to Clarisse. “I’ve got him, Hougan can’t do anything, call the police, but don’t put the gun down.”

  Clarisse nodded, and edged toward the phone, which was on a small stand beside the door into the bedroom. She punched “911” and stuck the receiver between her shoulder and her ear.

  Hougan was arched over the arm of the sofa, gnashing his teeth in pain.

  “You may not have killed Billy Golacinsky,” said Valentine to Searcy, “but you sure as hell knew what really happened to him. That’s why your investigation was so rotten. You weren’t trying to find out who did it—you were just making sure that no one knew that you had any connection with it. That’s what Professor Lawrence—”

  “How’d—” began Searcy, but when Clarisse began to talk on the phone, Valentine jerked the policeman’s arms, so that he broke off in pain.