Lethal Fetish

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  I was pondering all of this while the conversation about aphrodisiacs slid into an argument about the role of technology in baby making. Larry and Dennis maintained that test-tube babies, the first one in America having been born a month ago, took the fun out of reproduction. Carol and Anna countered that having babies took the fun out of sex, a point the guys couldn’t rebut.

  “As interesting as all of this might be,” I interrupted, “what Anna’s information means is that I need to pay Lane Linford another visit. Something’s not adding up.”

  “What do you figure, boss?” asked Larry.

  “The kid told me this morning that he manipulated his grandparents so he could get them declared incompetent and modernize the business. I need to know the real story if we’re going to protect our company’s reputation, if and when the time comes.”

  “I’d like to go along,” Dennis said. “I still got a dog in the fight, seeing as how I provided them with the insecticide.”

  “We’ve gone over that,” I said.

  “It’s not your fault,” Carol added, reaching to put a reassuring hand on his arm.

  “There’s more to tell,” he said staring down at the tabletop. “What them old folks did with the flea collars I gave ’em is just like I did with my little brothers.” We all sat quietly while Dennis took some deep breaths. “Mamma had gone to visit her sister who had cancer and my daddy wasn’t around. So I was s’pose to take care of Reggie and Tyrone. Their friends had head lice and got tol’ that they couldn’t come to school.”

  “And so, you thought flea collars would help?” Carol said, squeezing his arm.

  “If Reggie and Ty got lice, I couldn’t look after ’em, go to my own school, and work every afternoon. I knew how cockroaches spread in the projects and figured lice would do like that. So, I boosted a package of flea collars from Walgreens, put ’em on my brothers and made ’em wear sweaters to hide the things so’s not to get teased.”

  “Did it work?” Nina asked.

  “Not sure. Ty got real sick a few days later, ralphing all night. Drove Reggie and me to sleep in Mamma’s room. Mos’ prob’ly my home cooking, but maybe the collar. I got scared and took ’em off. Reggie got lice after Mamma got back. For a week, she rubbed baby oil into his hair and made him wear a shower cap to bed, then shampooed his head to within inch of his life every morning.”

  “Mammas know best,” Carol said.

  “They do at that,” Dennis said, looking up from the table. “But what I did is why this thing with the Linfords drags on me. Can you relate?”

  “Big time, homey,” Larry said.

  I told Dennis he could join me tomorrow morning for a visit to Lane Linford. This prompted a discussion of “lame names,” which then switched to cool names including Golden State’s Lloyd B. Free who legally changed his name last December to World B. Free, which led to a debate as to whether “World” was a self-aggrandizing reference or a political statement.

  Nina had been unusually quiet during the evening, just picking at the pub food and sipping her ginger ale. As the gathering started to break up, I took her aside and asked her if something was wrong. She said Petey hadn’t come to the daycare again and she was getting worried about the kid. I offered to take her home, hoping that the flannel-and-corduroy signal would get me out of the workout at Marty’s that I had originally planned. But she gave me a peck on the cheek and said she needed a long walk now that the rain had stopped.

  Larry knew I wasn’t keen on her neighborhood. He caught my eye, winked and asked Nina if she could tolerate a companion on her walk, as he wanted to buy tickets for the U2 concert at the Civic Auditorium which was on the way. She knew he was probably lying but didn’t have the heart to refuse the big, protective lug.

  ~||~

  I headed to Marty’s Gym to sweat off the porter and pie. Marty came out of his hopelessly cluttered, dimly lit office to push aside the wrap I was using and tape my hands. Mostly he wanted to share his thoughts about the declining work ethic of young fighters who “pranced around the ring as if boxing was a goddamn ballet performance instead of a blood sport.” As he chomped his unlit cigar butt, he tore into President Carter as a “world-class wuss” for having boycotted the 1980 Olympics noting, “maybe one in a hundred Americans could even find Afghanistan on a fuckin’ map.” Marty finished by declaring the US team “had better get its shit together for ’84 or the commies are going to do in LA what they did in Moscow.” Out of tape and having exhausted his irritation with the modern world, he grunted and headed back to his office.

  While I was working the speed bag, Petros Hagopian was hitting the heavy bag. Petros was known for two things. He was a phenomenally demanding and effective coach for young fighters, having made the Olympic team for Armenia as a middleweight in 1964. He was also the hairiest guy that anyone had ever seen in the gym. From what I could tell, other than the palms of his hands, forehead and nose (excluding nostrils), the guy was covered in a mat of curly, black hair. I wondered if Petros would have enticed “furries,” as Carol referred to those with a peculiar sexual inclination. Some mental images are not welcome, and today had generated more than its fair share.

  On the walk up to my house, a cold mist was hanging in the air which felt good after my workout. It was especially soothing to my itchy hands. I was none too happy about the rash that had reappeared when I took a steam before my shower. That set me to thinking about the Linfords, lice and lust.

  I’m not interested in telling people what they can’t do in their bedrooms. When I was on the force, I was never big on busting prostitutes. If they weren’t juveniles or pressured by some pimp and they just decided to make money with sex, it was their business—not mine. But what about selling animals for sex at the Pleasure Palace? There’s gotta be a line.

  So is it perverted to dress up like an animal? Seems so, but I liked it when Nina wore that black satin camisole. And she enjoyed outdoor sex. Would we be deviants if we weren’t discrete while enjoying a romp among the sun-warmed dunes at Baker Beach or a rendezvous in a dappled forest glen at Mount Sutro? Maybe, but if exhibitionists and voyeurs want to team up for their mutual satisfaction, I’m not sure why it matters to me.

  The whole thing about normalcy was becoming as irritating as the rash by the time I pulled off my sweatshirt and contemplated pinning a series of fritillaries from last summer. My itchy hands weren’t up to the fine operations needed to spread the butterflies and my heart wasn’t in it as I thought of Nina living in the Tenderloin. I was deeply appreciative of Larry’s gracious offer to escort her without making it sound like he was going as her bodyguard.

  I decided to combine Beethoven’s 5th Symphony (Carlos Kleiber conducting the Vienna Philharmonic) with a generous pour of Bushmill’s Black Bush (a dependable blend) to end the day. I settled into my battered recliner, imbibing a familiar symphony and a dependable whiskey. The unexceptional can be exceptionally comforting.

  CHAPTER 13

  I grabbed a coffee and a couple paczkis from Gustaw’s Bakery and tried to keep my breakfast dry while eating and walking down to the shop through the morning mist. Carol looked up from her desk as I came in shaking droplets from my coat and tossing a soggy bag in the direction of her trash can. I missed.

  “Damn it Riley, you’re getting water everywhere and throwing your garbage on the floor.”

  “And good morning to you, sunshine.” She looked great in a Scotch plaid skirt and a butterscotch, ribbed turtleneck that was pleasingly snug.

  “Pick up your trash and stop ogling your office manager. You have a girlfriend, you degenerate.” I might’ve been wondering about what was normal last night, but this morning I was sure that a man admiring a nicely put together woman fell into the realm of normalcy. I picked up the wadded bag, banked it off the wall into the can, and bent over to give Carol a kiss on the cheek.

  “What’s wrong, babe?” I asked.

  “Don’t call me ‘babe’ and I won’t refer to you as a degenerate.” She
sighed and ran her fingers through her hair.

  “Deal. Now what’s the matter?”

  “Jobs are backing up and I’m trying to keep customers from getting grouchy, like me. I know you’re juggling work around here with the investigation. And I know how important it is to figure out what happened with the Linfords to protect our reputation. But even with the lighter workload in the winter, things are jammed and now you’re taking Dennis with you for the morning.” Nobody took the business more seriously than Carol.

  “We’re busting butt to keep up,” I pleaded. “Nobody’s better than you with customers who want their roaches toasted yesterday. Anything I can do to take off the pressure, just say so.”

  “Well, there is something.” I’d taken the bait and felt the trap slamming shut. Men can be such patsies. “My job would be much easier if I had one of those new Apple computers for the office, so I could keep track of our contacts, schedules and accounting.” I understand computers even less than I understand women.

  “I promise to consider it. Seriously. Give me a price quote and I’ll make a decision.” We both knew what I’d decide but it seemed important to maintain the illusion of my being the boss. I started down the hall to find Dennis and Larry.

  “Oh Riley, one last thing,” she called out. I stopped, turned back to her and waited, figuring that I was in for a final reprimand. Wrong again. “That big brotherly peck on the cheek didn’t add to your degenerate quotient.”

  In the back, the garage door was open and Larry had pulled a van into the warehouse to load up for the day while staying dry for a few more minutes. Dennis was looking guilty for hanging with me rather than going out on jobs, so he was happy to take over the loading while I talked to Larry.

  “No problem on your walk?” I asked.

  “Not on the walk. You have one fine woman who can carry a conversation even with the likes of me. I’ll be her escort anytime.”

  “By ‘not on the walk’ you mean there was trouble at her apartment?”

  “Not really trouble, but there was a hoser hanging around who eyeballed Nina. So I laid low after she went into her apartment.”

  “A stocky guy with short hair, needing a shave and wearing an Army jacket?”

  “That’s him. I got sympathy for my fellow vets, if that’s the guy’s story. But this dude just leaned on the railing across the courtyard and stared at Nina’s window. Like he was mental. Her curtains were half open, but I don’t think he could see anything.”

  “How long did he stand there?”

  “Until I went up the stairs and let him know it wasn’t cool.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Didn’t say anything. But he got the message.”

  “Does Nina know?”

  “Nah, didn’t want to worry her. I walked around to her door on my way out and quietly checked the handle. It was locked.

  “Good. She’s smart and tough, but that guy evidently didn’t get my message the last time I was there.”

  “I’d be glad to send a message he couldn’t miss, boss.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll handle this. You did good with Nina. Did you find out anything from your pals last night about kinks around town?”

  “Some, but I should jet if I’m going to get out to Pacific Heights and stay on schedule. Can I fill you in later this morning?”

  We settled on meeting at my favorite diner on Ventura between his morning jobs. Larry took over the loading from Dennis.

  On the way to the Linford place, I turned on KDFC. The announcer informed listeners of his Morning with Mozart program and introduced Requiem Mass in D Minor. After the Lacrimosa movement, Dennis declared, “that Mozart dude wrote some spooky shit.”

  “Probably not the way music critics would put it, but you’re right. That’s what you get when a composer dies in the middle of writing a piece commissioned by a Count to commemorate his wife’s death.”

  “That’s some bad juju. It’s got me uptight along with our little visit.”

  “Nothing to worry about. Once we get there, I’m going to talk to Lane and make a point out of your needing to inspect for fleas since their eggs can last months before hatching.”

  “He’ll buy it?”

  “He’ll be focused on me and won’t figure a courteous black man is any danger.”

  “We be dangerous only if we be rude or be walking down the street or be moving into Ritz Cracker neighborhoods.” I knew what he meant but didn’t respond. There was work to do.

  “What I need you to do is make it look like you’re headed upstairs but loop back to Lane’s wing. There’s a series of rooms down the hall to the left of the entryway. I’ll keep him busy while you see what you can find.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like anything that might give us a clue as to what the kid is hiding. He’s not telling the truth, so we need to find out why he was so dedicated to screwing with his grandparents’ heads.”

  “Don’t know what rich honkeys are s’pose to keep around, but I can see if anything looks warped by the standards of a po-lite colored boy.”

  ~||~

  Lane Linford was unhappy about our unannounced visit. When I told him I’d found serious gaps in his story and I needed some clarifications before we could finally part company, he grudgingly directed me to the cavernous living room. I told Dennis to inspect the upstairs for fleas and Lane didn’t take much notice.

  Lane flipped a switch and the enormous fireplace erupted in flame. He was wearing silk pajama pants and a smoking jacket which struck me as a pathetic effort to appear suave by a sallow, underweight kid with greasy hair. He slumped onto the divan or settee or whatever the hell the thing was called, which would’ve been a couch in my house but surely rated some classier term in this opulent setting. I opted for one of the wingback chairs upholstered in a fabric with vines and berries and birds.

  “I thought we were done with this matter,” he said, slowly rotating his too-large head around his pencil neck to produce a series of audible crunches.

  “We would’ve been, had you told me the truth.” He stopped lolling his head. “I tracked down Michelle at the Pleasure Palace in the Castro. You really need to practice your lying.”

  He shrugged. “What’s the difference? Someone provided me with the lice.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “One difference is that no imaginary friend told you about the place. Why did you try to hide your connection to the Pleasure Palace?”

  “Frequenting sex shops is not an approved pastime in my social circle.” He started cracking his knuckles, one at time.

  “Okay, let’s talk about the bigger lie.” I paused as he tortured his fingers. “Contrary to your story, HerbalVitae is doing fine. There are no financial reasons for you to take over the company. What you did to your grandparents wasn’t motivated by a desire to save the family business.” He gazed into the distance, as if spellbound by the fire. I waited. The rain had picked up and was pattering against the French doors leading to the back patio. There was no sound from the gas fireplace. Fake logs don’t crackle and pop. If interrogations taught me anything, it was that no lie is as convincing at the truth. I leaned forward, trying to convey sympathy—my own lie.

  “You wouldn’t understand. Nobody would,” he groaned.

  “Try me.”

  He took a deep breath. “Michelle had video tapes that would’ve destroyed me if they ever got out.”

  “Blackmail, eh? Hardly original for a woman who specializes in unusual sexual diversions. But I guess you can’t be innovative in all aspects of business.”

  Lane gave a slight snort and shook his head. “The bitch had me by the balls, figuratively speaking.”

  “What did she have, literally speaking?”

  “You don’t need to know. I’ll go to prison before I’m humiliated to that extent. There’s a witch hunt in this city for anyone that Grant Roberts and his Moral Majority tribunal deems perverted.” It seemed the assistant district attorney’s campa
ign was making life difficult for both sexually warped citizens and straight-laced cops, such as Lieutenant Papadopolous.

  “I used to be on the force. I’ve seen a lot of stuff.” Actually, I’d seen mostly unimaginative stuff, compared to what I’d learned in the last day, but it was worth a try.

  “I have a condition, a habit actually. I can’t break it, but I learned about my grandparents’ condition while researching my own.” Whatever he was doing was going to remain between him, Michelle and a VHS tape.

  “Why not get help? You got enough dough to hire a therapist who would keep your secret.” He shook his head.

  “I have my own account, enough to pay a therapist if I thought one could help. But I didn’t have enough to pay Michelle.”

  “So you needed control of HerbalVitae for long enough to access the company funds and make a blackmail payment. And having your grandparents declared incompetent was the answer.”

  “A hundred grand is a lot of money,” he said.

  “Must’ve been some video.” There was a long minute of silence.

  “Are we done?” He appeared oddly both agonized and relieved. Unlike our last visit, he wasn’t sniveling, but drained.

  “I thought we were yesterday, but then I also thought you were telling me the truth. I’m guessing we’re getting closer now. At least you’re being honest in what you won’t reveal.”

  Lane looked at me for the first time since our conversation began and gave a wan smile. He rose and started toward the entryway, which I took to be my signal that we were done chatting. I called out for Dennis and hoped he had been keeping an eye on us. It wouldn’t help my tenuous relationship with the presumptive inheritor of HerbalVitae if Dennis appeared in the hallway leading to Lane’s wing of the house. But maybe it didn’t matter.