McKain's Dilemma

by Williamson, Chet

Your Designing Friend

  He mailed it. In the next few days he visited Townes several times, always making sure that no one followed him. Townes was bored, as Arkassian had known he would be, and spent much of his time on the phone talking to old friends and clients. The staff at the office had been instructed to tell all callers that Townes was out of the city and unavailable for consultation.

  Arkassian waited patiently for some word from Runnells, and when the doorman announced a visitor one afternoon, Arkassian suspected that this might be the payoff he'd been waiting for. At least he hoped so. Then Chris could come home, he would tell him the whole story, Chris would be furious at him for ten minutes, and then they would split the money and laugh, do a few lines and make love in their own bed again.

  When Arkassian opened the door and saw the man standing there, he felt sure he was from Runnells. The man had the furtive look of someone hired, someone who did what other people wanted him to do. Arkassian invited him in and sat on the couch, his hand near a small .32 caliber pistol he had wedged between the cushions.

  But the man had said nothing about Carlton Runnells. Instead he had given some bullshit story about wanting to find Chris so that he could do a party for his wife. It was a lie. The guy wasn't dressed well enough to afford one of Chris's parties. He was from Runnells sure enough, and if he hadn't come with money, then he had come to find Chris, either to shut him up or to let Runnells know where he was. The longer Arkassian looked at the man, the more he suspected the latter. The man looked like a private cop, not like a hit man, though sometimes there wasn't all that much difference between the two.

  Once Arkassian found out what the guy was after, he got him out fast, then called Townes to tell him that he wouldn't be over to see him that evening. He didn't tell him about the visitor. Townes was scared enough as it was. After he thought about it, Arkassian decided to stay away from Townes for another day as well, just in case the stranger was persistent in his tailing. Townes wasn't happy about that, so Arkassian promised him that if he could, he'd come over late the following evening, even though he had no intention of doing so.

  The next night, a Thursday, Arkassian worked out at his athletic club, then went out for a few drinks with some friends afterward. The talk was good, and they stayed at the bar until after one o'clock. The next morning, Arkassian dialed the apartment in the Village, but there was no answer. He tried again an hour later, then took a cab down to Houston, making sure that he was not followed.

  There was no answer when he knocked on the door. He knocked again, then unlocked it with his key. Since no deadlocks were on, he assumed that Townes was out, and pushed the door open, intending to come in and wait for his lover to return.

  But Townes was already there. He was lying on the living-room floor, and when Arkassian saw him, a cry of rage and pain clawed its way up from his throat, and he fell to his knees, then crawled across the blood-spattered floor to Townes.

  He was unrecognizable. His face had been punched and pounded and twisted so that chin and nose and brows were nothing but a red and mangled mass of flesh and cartilage. The sandy hair had turned to rust from the blood that had seeped into it. Townes's robe was open so that Arkassian could see the bruises and welts that covered his naked body, and the sodden pouch that had been his genitals.

  Ben Arkassian had killed four people in his life, but they had been clean kills, business kills, not like this. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting or needing to kill in this way. It had no place even in his world.

  He tried to shut off his mind from emotions, tried to stop thinking for a moment about Chris and what someone had done to him, tried to let the practical side take over the way Mr. Demeter had taught him. There would be time later for weeping, and for revenge. He had to think now. There was no way he could avoid calling the police, and the sooner the better. He went over the apartment quickly, found Townes's sole container of cocaine, dumped the contents down the drain, and washed it clean. Then he called the police emergency number.

  The investigating officer, a Nazi named Lawrence, was quick to discover Arkassian's syndicate connection, and grilled him viciously. But Arkassian had been grilled before, by hotter cooks than Lawrence, and wasted no time in making the man feel furious but impotent. Arkassian didn't want Lawrence to catch Runnells. He wanted to take care of Runnells on his own.

  Mr. Demeter called him that evening. "My sympathies, Ben," was the first thing he said, and for that Arkassian was grateful. "Have they been hard on you?"

  "Not really."

  "Good. You seem to have lost us one of our bases of operation."

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  "Does this have anything to do with our business?"

  "No, it doesn't. It's a personal matter."

  "Personal matters are undesirable, Ben, when they get us this kind of publicity. Would you like to come over and tell me about this?"

  Arkassian told Mr. Demeter as much as he felt he should know. He told him about Runnells and the snuff film, about Runnells's man shooting at Townes. He didn't tell him about the two letters he'd sent.

  "And you think this happened because this Runnells was afraid Christopher would tell someone?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You know, Ben, I'd like to be able to say to you don't worry, we'll take care of this Runnells, but you know I can't do that. This has nothing to do with business."

  "I understand that."

  "I assume it's something you'd rather handle on your own anyway?"

  "Yeah, I would."

  "Well, that's up to you. I ask you one thing. Wait a while. You're very valuable to us, and I don't want you out of commission because of something like this. Give it time. I don't want you connected with Runnells. Christopher did a party for him, yes?"

  "Yes."

  "And I assume he made use of your party favors?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, there. So sit tight for a while and hope this blows over, yes?"

  Arkassian said he would, although sitting tight was the last thing he wanted to do. The first thing was to kill Carlton Runnells. But he was no less furious at Runnells than he was at himself. If he had not written the letters, he told himself over and over in a depression that the finest blow could not lift, Chris would still be alive. If he had not been greedy, his lover would not have suffered the nightmarish death he had.

  He kept getting calls from Ned Lawrence, and became aware that Lawrence was as interested in Arkassian's drug business as he was in learning who killed Townes. Still, the man had nothing on him and was really no more than an annoyance.

  Arkassian buried Christopher Townes on the Tuesday after the murder, once the medical examiner was finished with the body. There was no funeral as such, just a nonsectarian minister at the graveside reading a few noncontroversial snatches of prose that Arkassian thought might have been lifted from Hallmark cards. Over two dozen people were there, most of them from Townes's company, which, according to Townes's will, Arkassian now inherited, along with the rest of his belongings—the interest in their condo, the Jaguar, the checking and savings accounts. Arkassian had not known that Townes had had so much money put away, and the fact that he was the beneficiary moved him deeply. Chris had given him all he had, including his life, and Arkassian felt horribly guilty about it.

  He hid himself away in his apartment for the next few days, drinking more and doing more cocaine than was good for him. The following weekend he went to his club and worked out so intensely that he vomited in the locker room, surprised at how good it felt to purge his system, wishing he could void his mind in the same way. On the way home he rented a dozen videocassettes of old movies—Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, Gene Kelly, the kind of things Townes had watched endlessly—and spent the rest of the weekend lost in black and white and color musical fantasies.

  On Monday he got several calls from Townes's office, asking if certain changes met with his approval, after which he called his accountant and told him to go in and see if everything
was going smoothly. The man called him Tuesday, telling him that Townes's associates had adjusted well since the murder, and it looked as if the business would continue to prosper. Indeed, the publicity concerning the death had brought in more clients than ever before. Arkassian hung up and thought about what shit people were.

  The next morning, Wednesday, May the second, the buzzer sounded just as Arkassian was beginning to think about what he'd do for dinner. He pushed the button and heard Albert's voice announce, "Mr. Carlton Runnells and Mr. Michael Eshleman."

  Arkassian stood frozen for a moment, then released a deep breath and realized that he was just a little bit afraid of these two men, even as he hated them. "All right," he heard himself say. "Send them up."

  He went to a closet and took a .38 revolver from it, screwing on a silencer. He wasn't planning to shoot them—Mr. Demeter wouldn't like that—but he wasn't going to let them do to him what they had done to Townes, if that's what they had in mind. He was holding the gun at his side when he opened the door. The well-dressed man in the lead, who Arkassian figured was Runnells, noticed it right away.

  "I hope that won't be necessary," he said from the doorway with a small smile.

  "I hope so too," Arkassian answered. "But I won't know till I see what you're carrying."

  Runnells spread his arms in an attitude of submission, and Arkassian patted him down, finding nothing. He turned to the other man, Eshleman, who frowned but put out his arms. He was clean as well. "In," Arkassian gestured with the .38.

  "Silencer," Runnells observed. "Aren't they illegal?"

  "Lots of things illegal. Sit down."

  "I take it Christopher told you about us," Runnells said as he sat. Arkassian noticed his hands were shaking slightly.

  "He told me all I need to know to figure you killed him."

  Runnells's face lost its brightness. His mouth became a firm line, and he shook his head sharply. "That's not true."

  "You say."

  "Both Michael and I were home that night."

  "Bull fucking shit. Chris had something on you and you killed him to shut him up, you fuck. You and this fucking leech." Arkassian gestured to Eshleman, who shifted in his chair. "Yeah, come on, motherfucker, come for me, I shoot you in the balls."

  "Michael!" Runnells remonstrated. "I'm telling you the truth, Mr. Arkassian. We didn't kill Christopher Townes. But we have a good idea who did."

  "Come on, man . . ."

  "I will admit that I was responsible for his death—not in the way you think, not with any malicious intent. I only wanted to reason with him, to make him see that . . ."

  "Reason? You call taking a shot at him reasoning with him, man?"

  "That was Michael's error. It was not at my order."

  "I didn't try to hit him, shit, I fired high," Eshleman growled.

  That much was true, Arkassian thought. "Still, the two of you killed your wife, isn't that so?"

  Runnells's face grew pale. "That . . . was not really murder, you see," he said quietly. "Michael and I just . . . hurried her along. It was essential."

  "Yeah. Essential. Like killing Chris was essential."

  "We didn't kill him."

  "Keep talking."

  "I wanted to get in touch with him," Runnells went on. "I wanted to apologize for what Michael had done. Once Michael told me, I started to get scared. I didn't want any part of guns."

  "So you beat him to death." Arkassian toyed with the pistol in his hand.

  "Will you listen please! I tried to get in touch with Chris, I called to apologize, and even to offer him money, but he started pretending he didn't know what I was talking about, and that made me mad, and I . . ."

  "I know. I heard the call."

  That seemed to set Runnells back a bit, but he rallied quickly. "Then you know I'm telling the truth."

  "About the call anyway."

  "Once I'd calmed down, I wanted to talk to Chris again, to tell him all right, I'd give him some money, if he'd just stop this annoyance. I knew he didn't have any hard evidence—it would have been my word against his—but still, it was a nuisance, and I don't like nuisances. But when I tried to contact him at his office, he was gone. Well, I started to really worry then. Had he gone to the police? Was he in protective custody? What the hell was happening? Then I got another letter. I was just . . . incredibly confused. I mean, what did he want? I felt that if I could find him, could reason with him, everything would be all right. We could . . . settle out of court, if you will. So I hired a detective."

  Arkassian remembered the man who had come to see him at the apartment. "A detective. What this guy look like?"

  "Oh, kind of tall, sharp features, a bit on the thin side."

  "Got brown hair? Blue eyes. Maybe one seventy-five, one eighty?"

  "Yes . . . yes, I think so. Why? Did he come here?"

  "Yeah."

  "His name's McKain. Robert McKain. What did he say?"

  "You know what he said."

  "Did you tell him where Chris was?"

  "What you think?"

  "No. Still, he found out."

  "And told you."

  Runnells shook his head. "No. He didn't tell me. When he came back he said he'd had no luck. But he was lying."

  Arkassian narrowed his eyes. "I'm listening."

  "Might I . . ." Runnells took a deep breath. ". . . have a drink?"

  "No. Talk."

  "All right." He nodded. "All right. He told me he hadn't been able to find Chris. He also said that there seemed to be a conspiracy of sorts to hide him, and that he didn't like it, and wouldn't be at all surprised to find out that something had happened to him."

  "Why did you tell this guy you wanted to find Chris in the first place?"

  "I told McKain I was worried about him. I said I thought you might harm him if you found out we were lovers."

  "So he told you he didn't find him. Then what?"

  "Then I tried to forget about it. I figured that Chris would get in touch with me again. I mean, he'd sent that second letter. But I couldn't see why he was acting so fucking coy, like it was all a game or something. Then, yesterday, I found out he was dead."

  "Yeah," Arkassian said in a tone hard with irony. "That must've come as a real shock."

  "It did. Whether you believe me or not, it did. I didn't want Chris dead."

  "How'd you find out?"

  "A letter from a friend here in New York. Then I went back and read the story in the Times. I suspected you at first, I admit it. But then something occurred to me—I recalled something from going through the receipts McKain had given me for his expenses." Runnells reached into his pocket and took out a slip of paper, which he held out to Arkassian. "I found this."

  Arkassian took it and examined it. It was a receipt for $2.47 from a Chinese take-out place. "So?"

  "Look at the address. It's just a few street numbers from the apartment where Chris was killed. McKain lied to me. He'd found Chris all right. Found him and killed him the night before he came back and told me he'd struck out."

  Arkassian weighed the piece of paper in his hand. It felt like lead. "Why?" he asked Runnells. "Why would this McKain guy do it? Unless you paid him to."

  "Why would I pay him to when I have Michael? Why bring in an outsider? Besides, I didn't want Chris dead. If I had, Michael could've killed him that first time he shot at him."

  Eshleman spoke for the first time in what seemed like hours. "I could've," he confirmed. "I'm a real good shot."

  "So then why'd this McKain kill him?"

  Runnells shrugged. "I honestly don't know. Maybe Chris overreacted and tried to hurt him when McKain approached him. Maybe he propositioned McKain and he got mad—I could tell he didn't have much time for gays, he almost refused to take the case in the first place. Reminded me of one of those people who get a kick out of fag-stomping. I don't know. But I feel terrible about it. I suppose I should go to the police with the information, but . . ." He spread his hands, shook his head.

&
nbsp; "No," Arkassian said. "Too many irons in the fire all around for that, huh." He folded the receipt and put it into his pocket. "I think about what you said. I think about this McKain dude. I don't know."

  "There's one other thing," Runnells said, standing up. "I was willing to pay Chris some money, and now I feel responsible for his death. I know I can never pay for his loss, but I think I should at least give you what I had intended to give him." He reached in his pocket and withdrew a fat envelope that Arkassian had felt when he'd patted him down. "There's fifty thousand dollars here. In hundreds. Call it mistake money—a mistake in showing Chris the tape to begin with, a mistake in sending McKain to look for him." He held it out. "Will you take it?"

  Arkassian thought about it. Taking the money would mean that he believed Runnells, or at least believed most of what he had told him. But why shouldn't he? The story made some sort of sense and was consistent with what he knew to be the truth. Besides, Runnells didn't look like the kind of guy who'd beat someone to death. Bloodless murder looked to be more his style—strangulation, poison, a silenced gun or a knife at worst. Arkassian found it hard to imagine the neat, well-groomed man seated across from him awash to his elbows in Chris's blood and pulp. And the theory about the detective going batty—well, that was just weird enough to be true. In his earlier years Arkassian had seen things like that happen all the time. And then there was the fifty thousand. It wouldn't bring Chris back, but it was a hell of a lot of money.

  Finally he nodded. "All right. I take the money." He held out his hand, and Runnells put the envelope into it. "Now. Where do I find this McKain?"

  Runnells cleared his throat roughly. "What . . . you don't mean you're going to try to . . ."

  "Where's he live?"

  "Hasn't there been enough killing, Mr. Arkassian?"

  "I don't think you know nothing about any killing."

  After Runnells and Eshleman left, Arkassian took out a road atlas and found Lancaster. Before he went to kill McKain, however, he felt it necessary to clear his plans with Mr. Demeter. To his surprise, he found that Mr. Demeter did not approve.

  "I'm sorry, Ben. I know this is a personal thing, and normally I wouldn't have any hesitation about saying fine, go ahead, but Townes's murder has turned a lot of heads your way, and our way too as a result. My people have been approached by the police, the press, you name it. Rumors are starting to get out that those parties Townes planned weren't as innocent as they looked. Now I'm saying hey, what the hell do I know? I'm just a businessman with legitimate concerns, right? But people are sniffing."