And yet here, on my wall, was part of it too. The pictures, the body, the emotions. Her neck. Her shoulder. The bend of her elbow. The curve of her wrist. Maybe it wasn’t them, maybe it was me. Maybe I had pushed her away because I was afraid. Afraid of getting too close to this, of getting consumed, or maybe of being consumed with disappointment. Answer me this, when had reality ever lived up to fevered expectation? Barely touching the paper I traced the bulge of her calf, the curve of her knee, the smooth inside of her thigh.
The phone rang.
I spun around. I snapped the towel off my neck and tied it around my waist.
The phone rang.
I panicked for a second, thinking it must be her, it had to be her. What should I say? How could I apologize? What were the magic words? There were always magic words. I’m a fool. Forgive me, please. You’re so so special. You frightened me, that’s what it was. Or the old standby, Did you know I can lick my eyebrow?
The phone rang.
I stepped forward and picked it up.
“I found another one,” came the voice.
“Excuse me?”
“A car, mate. Another of Manley’s cars.”
“Skink?”
“Who’d you think it was?”
“No one. Go on.”
“A 1989 LeBaron convertible. Who came up with that name for a car, hey? LaIdiot? But there it is. A LeBaron convertible, a classic much in demand with collectors, sos I hear. But that don’t matter none to you, does it? LePiece-of-crap, it’s one of two registered to the girlfriend, but she drives the other one, a Lincoln. This one, we traced the pinks back to a dummy New Jersey corp. what’s stock is registered to our boy. It’s behind her apartment down in German-town. A la-di-da place called the Alden Park.”
“I suppose we should go after it.”
“Suppose?”
“It’s just that Manley looks like a beaten dog already.”
“Some dogs you just can’t beat enough.”
“You’re a card carrying member of PETA, I presume. I’ll set up a date with R.T. in the sheriff’s office.”
“Do that, mate, afore it disappears on us. The thing about a car is it’s a mobile asset, innit? Here one day, cruising west on Route 66 the next.”
“I don’t think this one’s going anywhere.”
“How’s the job going?”
“Confusing,” I said. “It’s like I’m lost in a maze.”
“Oh, a rat like you will find his way eventually, I got no doubt, long as there’s cheese at the end. Anything more for me?”
“Yeah, there is.” I rubbed my scalp with my fingernails, rubbed it so hard I could feel the burn. “I want someone followed. Very discreetly. No hint you’re giving her the tail.”
“A dame?”
“That’s right. But it’s real Mission Impossible stuff.”
“I’m caught or captured, the secretary will be disavowing any knowledge of my knickers, is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“All right, Vic. It’s good to know where I stand. Give it up.”
“Her name’s Straczynski,” I said. “Alura Straczynski.”
Chapter
33
SEVEN NINETY-NINE WOLF STREET. Apartment Three B.
Beth and I stood in the hallway, at the door. We had debated for how to play it. Vacuum cleaner salespersons? City health inspectors? Homeland Security investigators checking out a suspicious neighbor? We came up with a bundle of bad possibilities, and then decided to play it straight, sort of.
“Hello,” said Beth, when the door was cracked opened by a heavy woman in a great red-and-purple muumuu. “We’re looking for Beverly Rodgers. Is this her residence?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Ms. Rodgers?”
“No.” The woman gathered up the collar of her housedress in a meaty hand. “I’m just a friend who helps take care of her. And you are?”
“We’re lawyers,” I said, handing my card through the narrow opening. “We need to talk to Ms. Rodgers about a matter of some urgency.”
“How did you get through the security door?”
“A nice lady on her way out held it open for us.”
“They’re not supposed to do that. A letter has been sent to all the tenants.” She leaned out the doorway, looked behind us into the hall. “You’ll have to leave. Beverly can’t be disturbed right now. She is ill.”
“Nothing serious, I hope,” said Beth.
“I’m afraid it is. She is a terribly ill woman and she has insisted that she have no visitors. But later, if she gains enough strength, perhaps she’ll be able to give you a call.”
“Like I already told you, we are here on a matter of some urgency,” I said. “It involves a will. I believe she knew a Mr. Joseph Parma, now deceased?” I looked behind me and then lowered my voice. “I can’t talk about it in the hallway, but it might be in her interest to see us immediately, before Mr. Parma’s mother takes charge of the estate.”
“I’m sorry. She can’t be disturbed.”
“Why don’t you ask her. We’ll wait out here while you do.”
She squinted at us for a moment and then closed the door. We could hear the locks engage and then the groaning of the floorboards as she stepped away, toward some back room in the apartment
“It won’t be long,” I said, and it wasn’t.
Muumuu lady gave us a quick, halfhearted smile when she opened the door again. “My name is Martha,” she said. “I’m a friend of Bev’s. I help take care of her.”
“Are you here often?” I said.
“Every day.”
“Paid?”
“I said I’m a friend.”
“So you knew Mr. Parma.”
“They come and go,” said Martha. “Bev is feeling a little better and says she is able to see you. This way, please.”
Martha led us through a fussily furnished living room, with chintz throws thrown over the chairs and strange erotic statues turned into lamps. The place smelled of stale perfume, of spilt whiskey, of Dorothy Parker. A box of candy, its top off, its small brown papers strewn and empty, sat on a coffee table between a fluffy couch and an old console television. A couple of framed art nouveau prints of dancing women were side-by-side on a wall. Erté? Ouch. In the corner sat a wheelchair.
“How long has Ms. Rodgers been ill?” I said.
“Oh years and years,” said Martha. “She has a weak constitution.”
“Don’t we all,” said Beth.
Beyond the living room was a dark hallway, an eat-in kitchen to the right, a bathroom to the left, the hallway leading to a closed white door.
“Wait a moment,” said Martha as she opened the door and went through, shutting it behind her.
“Bev’s an invalid?” said Beth, quietly.
“Joey Cheaps, humanitarian,” I said. “Who knew?”
“All right, Mr. Carl,” said Martha, opening again the door. “Bev will see you now.” And then Martha opened the door wide and waved us in as if we were about to have an audience with the queen.
We stepped into a boudoir if ever there was one.
“You told Martha something about a will,” said a brightly lit woman sitting high in the bed, pillows fluffed all about her as if she were held aloft on a cloud, her voice as sharp and as grating as a cat with its tail pinned beneath a tire.
Bev Rodgers was a honey, all right, just as McDeiss had described her. She had short, coiffed blond hair, a pretty round face, and she wore a dressing gown trimmed with white fluff. She could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, it was hard to tell with all the makeup so brightly and thickly applied. She had a mole, either natural or painted, beside her small shapely mouth, and she had a lit cigarette in an actual cigarette holder that she held between two crimson-tipped fingers. She looked like the lead in a Busby Berkeley musical and her voice was impossible.
“I’m very interested in wills,” she said. “I was hitched to one once, but that’s a short story. I
t’s Vic, isn’t it?” she said to me, her bright lips quivering as if to hypnotize.
“Yes, it is,” I said.
“Joey mentioned you. You’re the spieler, right? The one who’s been calling.”
“That’s right. Why didn’t you return my calls?”
“I don’t like the phone. Nothing good ever comes over the phone. And besides, I been ill.” She put a hand onto her forehead. “Oh Joey, dear, sweet Joey. What happened is tragic. Getting greased like that. Just tragic. I’m still not over it.” She took a drag from her cigarette holder, exhaled a thin plume of smoke. “Now, about the will. What did my little scrumpkins leave me?”
“Well, he didn’t mention you by name, Ms. Rodgers—”
“Call me Bev, Vic. We’re all chums here.”
“Thank you, Bev. And this is my partner, Beth Derringer.”
“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” said Bev, never taking her eyes off me, obviously not finding the female of the species worth a quiver of the lips.
“Joey didn’t mention you in the will by name, Bev, but he stated he wanted all his debts paid by the estate. And prior to his death he did mention you to me.”
“Something flattering, I hope.”
“Oh yes, yes indeed. In fact, he said he owed you much. And so I wondered if, by chance, what he owed you was money.”
“And if he did?”
“Well, then, Bev, you might be in line for certain disbursements.”
“Did you hear that, Martha. Disbursements. I like disbursements. Tell me, Vic. Did my scrumpkins have enough scratch to make these disbursements?”
“I think maybe yes,” I said, “if we can make our claims before his mother grabs everything she can.”
“Ah, the mother. I know all about her.”
“You’ve met her?”
“Not personally, no. But Joey, he spilled enough about her. And I know, Vic, that Joey, my Joey, would want me to get what I am owed before that vulture of a mother gets her mitts on anything. We were very close, Joey and myself. He wanted to marry me, and let me tell you, if I had known what was going to happen I would have said yes, believe me.”
“Oh I do, Bev. Yes I do. So you are owed money?”
“Of course.” She reached down and fluffed a blanket. “We’re talking about Joey.”
“How much?”
“Hundreds. Thousands. More. I don’t have an exact figure offhand.”
“But you can get it for me.”
“Sure.”
“With proof.”
“No problem. Proof. Of course I got proof. That kind of money, who wouldn’t have proof. Proof.” Pause. “What kind of proof?”
“Anything. Something written down would be best. Testimony would work.”
“You mean all I got to do is say he owes me?”
“Maybe. Someone else would make it better. Someone like…Martha.”
“She’ll say whatever you need her to say, won’t you, Martha?”
“I remember everything,” said Martha. “To the penny.”
“I bet you do,” I said. “Good, now we’ve got something. Get me the detailed information as soon as you can and I’ll see what we can do. I, of course, will require a small percentage to facilitate the disbursements.”
Her head tilted up. “How small?”
“Forty percent.”
“That’s robbery. I won’t stand for it. Fifteen.”
“Thirty-five.”
“Seventeen-fifty.”
“Thirty’s as low as I go.”
“You’re bleeding me, Vic. Sick as I am, you’re killing me.”
“I’m just a lawyer, trying to get by.”
“Twenty-five.”
“I can’t.”
“Maybe I’ll find myself another spieler.”
“That wouldn’t be wise.”
“Twenty-seven-fifty.”
“Done,” I said, and from the way she smiled at me, like she had just eaten my lunch, I knew that by letting her win the negotiation I had won her over.
“You know what Joey said about you, Vic?”
“What?”
“He said you was a sharp little number. I suppose that makes two of us.” Her lips did that quiver thing again. It was quite a talent. She could have set up on a street corner, dropped a hat to the ground, quivered for quarters.
“There is one other matter we need to talk about,” I said. “I spoke to Joey on the morning before he was killed and he said he was working on some big money deal. Said it was going to make him flush. If we could figure out what he was talking about it might significantly increase the amount available for disbursements.”
“Joey always had some cook-up working,” said Bev.
“But see, later that night he was at Jimmy T’s, telling the same sort of story. And then, according to the bartender, he got a phone call from you and he left the place straight away.”
“I only called to say I missed my little scrumpkins. To tell him to come home and take care of me.”
“Did he?”
“No,” she said, and then she used the fluff-tipped sleeve of her dressing gown to dab at her dry eyes. “I never seen him again.”
“And you don’t know the details of any deal he was working out.”
“No. I don’t.” Dab, dab, dab. “Why?”
“Because, Bev. Being his attorney, whatever deal he was involved with, I could follow it through, if you understand what I am saying. I could follow it through on behalf of the estate and the people who Joey owed so much.”
“Like myself, for instance,” she said.
“Exactly.”
“Interesting. In-ter-es-ting. But I got to talk to someone first before I can say a thing.”
“Fair enough. You have my number.”
“Yes I does. I’ll be in touch, I’m sure.”
“But time is of the essence if we’re going to keep the money away from his mother.”
“Oh I understand that, Vic, yes I do.”
“Good. And your natural aversion to the telephone might now be most prudent. The police have been here, right?”
“So?”
“I have some sources on the inside and they tell me your phone is tapped.”
“Stinking bluecoats,” she said. “I thought something funny was going on. Someone keeps on calling and leaving no message.”
“I guess that’s it. It was a pleasure meeting you, Bev.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” said Bev as her phone rang. It rang again and then again. Neither Martha nor Bev made a move.
“You ought to answer that.”
“Why?” said Bev.
“It could be something important?”
“Nah,” she said. “It never is.”
Outside the apartment building, Beth and I sat together in my car, down the road from the entrance.
“What a spider,” said Beth.
“Arachnids might take offense,” I said.
“And what was that thing she was doing with her lips?”
“It was like visual pheromones.”
“Did it get you going?”
“No, but every cockroach in the city reared up on their hind legs. The more I learn about Joey’s life, the more I shudder.”
“How long are we going to wait?”
“It won’t be long,” I said, and it wasn’t.
I had thought it would be Martha in the muumuu who would step out of the apartment building, look around nervously, and then head off to some rendezvous. I thought it had to be Martha, what with the wheelchair in the living room, the way Bev was propped up on her pillows, the way Martha served her like Bev was an immobile queen bee, her abdomen swollen with a thousand eggs. But it wasn’t Martha who stepped out of the apartment building in her high heels, her black stockings, her tight blue dress, her hat, her veil, her cigarette holder.
“Quick recovery,” said Beth.
“A miracle,” I said. “I should open a revival tent.”
We followed at a distan
ce in the car as she moved down and around the South Philly streets, as she sashayed here and there. And it wasn’t a surprise, it wasn’t a surprise at all, where she ended. When does a lady stop being a lady? When she turns into a bar.
The Seven Out.
I parked well past the entrance. “Wait here,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
I didn’t want to go in if I could avoid it. I didn’t want her to see me and realize I had been following her and that maybe everything I had said, about the will, about getting her disbursements from the estate, about her phone being tapped, all of it had been a steaming pile of humbug. I didn’t want to go in and I didn’t have to. There was a curtained window at the Seven Out, big enough to hold the neon beer signs that let you know the joint wasn’t a juice bar. Beneath the flashing Budweiser sign and above the Coors Light sign was a small gap between the curtains.
I leaned forward, shielded my eyes from the neon, peered inside. There she was, seated in the back, hat still on, talking urgently with a man whom I had never seen before in the entirety of my life, but whom I could name without a doubt.
Teddy Big Tits.
And yes, yes they were.
Chapter
34
I HAD SET up a date with R.T. at Alden Park, so we could lehaul away Manley’s LeBaron, but before that little joyous prank I had something else that needed doing.
Philadelphia College of Art is pressed between the Franklin Institute, with its great silver ball of static electricity that stands hair on end, and the Pennsylvania Museum of Natural History, with its giant skeletal T-Rex, posed to pierce flesh and bone. The art students hanging outside PCA seemed to have cheerily passed through both hazards and decided they liked the look. I liked the look too—on them. They glanced warily my way as I passed by in my navy blue suit, heavy black wingtips, narrow red polyester tie. I suppose the art students in their black clothes, colored spiky hair, piercings, their tattooed necks and shaved eyebrows considered their garb as a wry comment on society’s mores. Funny, about the professional clothes I wore I felt the very same way.
So here I was back at school, feeling out of place among the throng, off to see the dean. Some things never change.
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