“Everyone is sitting on coffins,” I whispered to Alice.
“I can see that,” she whispered back. “Please keep your voice down.”
The eight coffins were labeled, in blood red: MARRIAGE, MASTURBATION, WALL STREET, ORGASM, PENTAGON, RACISM, CONGRESS and GAY RIGHTS.
“The men are wearing jockstraps and the women bras, all outside their clothing.”
Someone behind us shushed me. For the next two hours, I watched the eight actors spew racial, religious and sexual vulgarities, insults and epithets at each other, and, occasionally, the audience. Every few minutes, the actors jumped up and ran about in a frenzy, changing coffin seats. Whenever a woman landed on the coffin labeled ORGASM, she yelled out, “I fake it!”
I looked around the audience, which filled about a third of the seats in the St. George. That meant everyone, unfortunately, was close to the stage. I spotted several guys I knew who looked like they wanted to be in Cleveland.
***
There was a wine-and-cheese party in the lobby after the performance. After what I had just sat through, I was ready for a hemlock-and-poison-mushroom party. But the cheese was good and the wine excellent, which surprised me.
Wayne Miller came over to us, accompanied by a short, dark, intense man with enough facial hair to win a tryout with the Boston Red Sox.
“This is Adrian Trethewly,” Wayne said. “He wrote Dying Is Wasted on Corpses.”
We shook hands and introduced ourselves. At least I shook his hand, which felt like a wet noodle. He took Alice’s hand and bent to kiss it.
“Charmed,” he said, gazing deeply into her eyes. “I do hope you enjoyed the play.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Alice said.
He glanced at me.
“And you?”
Both Wayne and Alice shot me looks.
“You might want to consider real gunshots.”
It went right over his head, as I suspected most remarks did. He turned to Wayne.
“Interesting idea. Do you think we could get a permit for that?”
“I’ll look into it, Adrian,” Wayne said, with a look of disbelief on his face.
Trethewly turned his gaze back to Alice. I’m sure he meant to look seductive. He came off looking like a lecherous walrus.
“Do you have any stage experience, Alice? I am thinking of taking my play Off-Broadway and I just know I could find a part for a woman of your beauty.”
“Would she have to wear her bra outside her clothing?” I asked.
Alice shifted her weight. No one noticed that she kicked me in the ankle. Except me. It hurt.
“Well,” Trethewly said, “of course.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any acting experience,” Alice said.
“You have bras,” I said, moving just out of ankle-kicking range. “Cute lace ones.”
“All women can act,” the little twerp said. “I thought I made that clear with the ORGASM coffin. Men are always fooled in bed. On stage, all it takes is professional direction to bring a woman’s full potential out.”
Wayne made some sort of strangled noise.
“Sorry,” he said. “Something in my throat.”
“Have you thought about setting your play to music,” I said.
“It’s a serious work of art,” Trethewly sniffed.
“You could sell it to Hasbro or Mattel as a parlor game,” I continued, as Alice tried to suppress a giggle. “They could market it as ‘Musical Crypts’. Or maybe a TV producer might see it and turn it into ‘Dancing with the Cadavers’.”
“I fail to see the humor,” he said.
“Then there’s Hollywood. How about ‘Gone With the Sarcophagus’?”
“Adrian,” Wayne said quickly, “I think those folks over there want your autograph.”
As Trethewly huffed away, Wayne looked at me and smiled. He twirled his finger around his ear in the universal signal of nuttiness. For once, I knew he didn’t mean me.
“Well, the food and wine are good,” I said. “Top drawer.”
“I had to do something,” Wayne said. “I didn’t want to get lynched. Listen, I’ll make this up to you guys. We have Chris Botti in July. I’ll get you some tickets.” He looked across the lobby. “I better fetch Adrian. Those people didn’t really ask for his autograph. They look confused.”
***
I walked Alice down to the 7 P.M. ferry.
“See, you’ll have plenty of time to stop for a pizza and still see the Yankee game.”
“What makes you think I’m still hungry?”
She gave me a look. We were a little early for the boat, so we stood in the knot of people waiting for the doors to the ferry slip to open. Workers heading into Manhattan for the night shift. Couples on a date. Noisy high school kids. Some touristy type families. Above the slip doors was a huge display board with a picture of Nathaniel Yorke against a background map of Staten Island. The logo said: “A New Yorke for New York’s Best Borough!” We both looked up at it.
“I never asked you, Alice. What did you think of Yorke the other night? I already know what you think about his wife.”
“I’m not crazy about him, now that I’ve met him.”
I was surprised.
“I thought you enjoyed yourself. He seemed very nice at dinner. A little too attentive to you. I considered shooting him, but my salad came. Besides, I figured he was just retaliating for Teresa trying to talk me into a quickie in the ladies’ room.”
“It’s not always about you, you egotist. Men occasionally notice me.”
“Only if they’re breathing.”
“What a nice thing to say. But I did enjoy myself. Still, there was something a bit off about Yorke. He seemed, I don’t know, so guarded.”
“He was probably not used to being out without his handler.”
“You mean that disagreeable man who tried to prevent him from going to dinner?”
“Yes. Claude Bowles. His campaign manager.”
“He gave me the creeps at the ballpark. He just stood there, glowering, like a vulture, listening to every word.”
“He’s supposed to run interference for his candidate. That’s his job.”
“Still, I’m glad Yorke ditched him.”
“More like Teresa ditched him. I don’t think it was Yorke’s idea.”
A shabbily dressed old woman pushing a small grocery cart walked past us. The cart was piled high with paper and plastic bags, presumably her belongings. We caught her unpleasant odor as she went by. People gave her a wide berth and some teen-agers started laughing. Alice started toward her but I grabbed her arm.
“I got this,” I said.
First, I told the kids to shut up. They did. Then I walked up to the old woman and gave her 20 bucks. She just stared at me and kept going. I went back to Alice.
“Thank you,” she said.
“When I was a kid, my dad and I were picking someone up at the ferry. It was freezing, with snow piling up. As we drove out there was a guy standing there in his shirtsleeves, shivering. I said something about him being a bum. My father stopped the car, got out and gave him his coat, which he’d just gotten for Christmas. Got back in the car and didn’t say a word. I’ll never forget that.”
Alice kissed me.
“I’ve got lots of other stories.”
“I’m sure you do. But there was something else.”
“What?”
“His laugh?”
“Bowles? I don’t remember him laughing. Or even smiling.”
“No, not Bowles. Yorke. He chortled. I distrust people who chortle. It sounds so, I don’t know, insincere.”
“All politicians are insincere. But I’m not quite sure what a ‘chortle’ is.”
“It’s a word coined by Lewis Carroll in Through the Looking Glass, a combination of a chuckle and a snort.”
One of the advantages, or disadvantages, of sleeping with a college professor is that they know things you don’t.
“I pr
esume I don’t chortle.”
“You often chuckle. And, on occasion, snort. But I don’t think you have every chortled, at least in my presence.”
“When the hell do I snort?”
“Rarely, and only during sex. And given the circumstances, I much prefer it to a chuckle.”
The bell for the ferry sounded. We headed toward the doors leading to the slips. I spotted one of the kids that I yelled at walk over to the old woman and give her some money. Hot dog!
“Just for the record,” I said, “I can always tell when you fake it. You never put the remote down.”
Alice kissed me again.
“Only during Downton Abbey.”
I handed her the overnight bag and she started to walk through the doors. Then, she turned.
“Musical Crypts?”
CHAPTER 5 - SKIPPER
I drove home from the ferry with that guilty sense of freedom all men experience when they are released, even temporarily, from the bonds of domesticity, no matter how blissful it is. And my relationship with Alice Watts would qualify as blissful in anyone’s book. She made few demands on me, and most of them were sexual, of which I graciously decided not to make an issue. She had moved into my house on my suggestion, and made it clear that it was a temporary, if delightful, accommodation. We both knew that her days as a professor at Wagner College were probably numbered. A couple of Ivies wanted her and underneath her normally sweet exterior was, I knew, a burning ambition. It was probably only a matter of time before she moved from New York City.
That thought obliterated most of my euphoria at being a “free” man. I found myself needing some solace. So, instead of turning for home, I headed to Castleton Corners, where Joe & Pat’s Pizzeria and Restaurant makes a thin-crust pie that always ranks in the top 10 in all of New York City. I didn’t bother calling ahead. I like to sit at the counter and drink some Chianti and talk to the kitchen crew while they make my pie. I’m a regular. They pour my Chianti into short little glasses that used to hold jelly. Half the time they don’t charge me for the wine.
By the time I pulled down the driveway in my back yard, the aroma of fresh, hot pizza emanating from the back seat was making me dizzy. I looked around for Scar. He likes pizza almost as much as sausage. No Scar. Probably had brought down a wart hog. I opened the back door to my house and was half way through my kitchen when I registered a whiff of cigarettes over the pizza smell. Neither Alice nor I smoke, although I occasionally grub a butt if the occasion demands it. I put the pizza down on the table and slid my hand toward my gun.
“Don’t.”
The voice came from behind me. Whoever it was had been waiting in the dining room, just off the kitchen.
“Hands behind your head.”
No inflection. No nerves. Professional. But strangely familiar. I put my hands behind my neck. I caught a hint of good cologne as he came up behind me and reached around and took my gun. It took less than two seconds. He’d done this many times. I was glad I didn’t try anything stupid.
“You shouldn’t smoke on the job,” I said. “It’s a dead giveaway. If it wasn’t for the pizza smell, I would have had you.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. You weren’t expecting to be rousted. Pizza didn’t hurt, though. It really does smell delicious. Thin crust?”
“Of course.”
“Outstanding. Glad you didn’t drop it on the floor. Most guys in your situation would have. But then most aren’t as cool as you are.”
Did he know me? Again, I tried to place the voice.
“Bottom line,” he continued, “pizza didn’t matter. If I was here to kill you, I might have played it different.”
I found that somewhat consoling.
“Put your hands in your pockets. Head into the living room. Sit on the couch by the window.”
I did as I was told. He sat in the Bennington Pine rocking chair in front of my fireplace. The same chair Nando Carlucci sat in when he came to my house and then tried to cut me into sausage. I may have to get rid of that rocking chair, even if it did belong to my grandmother and was sturdy enough to hold the late and very fat Nando. My latest guest had moved a small pedestal table from my TV room next to the rocker and placed a Waterford Crystal wine coaster on it to use as an ashtray. The coaster looked like it already had half a dozen butts in it. On the coffee table in front of me was a thick envelope. My mind raced. Then I looked up at the man holding a silenced automatic on me. It had a rosewood grip and looked like a SIG Sauer .380. The man liked his guns. In his other hand he balanced the Taurus revolver he’d taken from me.
“A .38 with only five chambers,” he said, smiling. “You always were a confident bastard, Skipper. Pretty good shot, too, as I recall.”
He saw my look of almost recognition.
“It’s good to see you again, Skip,” he said as he flicked open my revolver and let the rounds fall to the floor.
Then he casually flipped my empty gun onto the couch next to me. He had a look of anticipation on his face.
“Maples? Corporal Maples?”
He gave me a genuine smile of pleasure.
“I knew you’d remember, Skip. You were always good with faces. Always took the time to know all your men, even replacements like me. I can’t tell you how much that meant to us. You really cared.”
He was dressed in designer jeans and a black turtleneck. His silver-and-black boots gleamed with polish.
“Why the gun, Vernon?”
He smiled grew even broader at my use of his first name. He waved the gun casually.
“Let’s just call it a necessary inconvenience, Skip. This is not your normal reunion. I have to tell you something. Something you might think you have to act on right away. I know you. You’re a tough guy. One of the toughest I ever met. You might want to do the right thing. Always liked you. Took care of your troops. Including me when I got wounded. But that was then, and this is now. So, don’t make any mistakes. I’ll give you a chance to do the right thing. Just not now, and not with me.”
He put his gun in his lap and lit another cigarette. He wasn’t worried about me making a move. There were 10 feet and a table separating us. The fact that he wasn’t worried told me volumes. He’d figured the distance and calculated the odds, and knew I would, too. It was in his eyes. Vernon Maples didn’t want to kill me, but wouldn’t hesitate to shoot me if it came down to me or him. I respected that. It just happened to be my philosophy, too.
“How about one of those cigarettes?”
“Sorry, Skip. Too much hand movement. I remember how quick you were. Don’t worry. I’ll clean up the butts before I leave.” He smiled. “No D.N.A.”
He was taking no chances. Truth was, I could have used a cigarette. It was one of those special occasions.
“Tell you what, Skip. You can take your hands out of your pockets. Just keep them where I can see them.”
“Thanks.”
“I have to ask you, Skipper. What the fuck was that god-awful play about?”
“You were at the St. George?”
“Beautiful theater. One of the prettiest I’ve seen. Yeah, I was there. Sat through the whole thing. Two hours of my life I’ll never get back. What was the playwright trying to say, other than that he has no talent?”
“I could make something up, Vernon, but your guess is as good as mine. I was shanghaied into going.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Skip. You never appeared to be the type to put up with that kind of bullshit.” He smiled. “Who shanghaied you? That lady you dropped at the ferry? Nice-looking filly. Don’t think I’d let that one get away.”
I recalled Maples more clearly now. He was the kid from Kentucky always talking about hunting dogs and horses. I only had him in my outfit for a couple of months in Afghanistan before he got banged up and sent home. I remembered him as a good soldier. Tall, skinny kid, with chiseled features and pale blond hair. A born killer who could shoot with the best of them, like a lot of kids who come out of the South. Every platoon needs a c
ouple of Vernon Maples. You might not want them to marry your sister, but in a firefight you want them on your side.
“You followed me?”
“Sure did. For two days.”
“That’s just terrific. I never caught a sniff.”
He looked embarrassed.
“Hey, Skip. Don’t sweat it. I do this kind of thing for a living. And it was a real loose tail. Not round the clock or anything. Just popped around occasionally to get your routine. I would have had to be wearing a clown suit for you to notice me. I thought the gal would be a problem, seeing how she’s been staying here with you. I didn’t want to involve her, so I was real happy when you took her to the ferry. Saw her overnight bag. Works out nice. She your main squeeze?”
“How about we leave her out of this?”
“Sure. Sure. Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. Like I said. I didn’t want her involved. Always do my damndest to leave civilians out of the equation.”
“What’s this about, Vernon?”
He lit another cigarette.
“I was on Staten Island recently. Even thought about looking you up then, Skipper. But I was on a job. Turned out a bit more complicated than I expected. That’s why I’m here.”
He paused.
“I killed John Panetta.”
CHAPTER 6 - BLOOD MONEY
“You don’t have any idea who ordered the hit?”
Maples had spent the previous five minutes explaining, in clinical detail, how he’d killed Panetta.
“Doesn’t work that way. I get a name. They get a numbered bank account in an offshore bank. The money clears and somebody dies. Guy who contacts me is just a middleman. Who the hell knows? Maybe he has a middleman.”
I heard a car drive up the street. A neighbor’s dog barked. A moment later I saw why. A woman walked by the front of my house with another dog on a leash. The mutt stopped and urinated on the tree by my curb. Anyone on the sidewalk could look in the bay window near where we were sitting. But all they would see was two men having a friendly conversation. And, in fact, I didn’t want any interruptions. I was caught up in the story Vernon Maples had just told me.
“The cops have hairs and D.N.A. from a black man,” I said.
GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) Page 4
