Against Nature

by Casey Barrett

  Cass told me I had the taste and the judgment of old money, but without the pedigree. My brief gilded days as a boy were just a blip. My father’s fortune had been nouveau and false, built on a pyramid of lies with a crooked foundation. Ever since, my relationship with money had been, well, complicated. I managed to earn a living, though my fees amounted to little more than scraps from the trough of real wealth held by my clients.

  I sat up and rubbed at my puffy face. Scanned the sparse room, never refurnished since it was torn apart a year and a half ago. I loved the place, with all its original accents untouched, but I really did need to move. Thanks to Juliette’s envelopes of cash, I had a bit saved now. I could afford something with fewer demons. Nothing fancy, just a decent studio or a one bedroom without memories. I got up and made coffee in the French press. Heard the usual phantom patter of Elvis’s footsteps coming down the hall.

  I tried to burn off the hangover under a scalding shower. Considered going for a swim, but it sounded like too much work. Caffeine and Advil would have to do. I found the name of Cass’s lawyer searching through old emails. It was Edward Lutelman, Attorney at Law, with an office on East 44th Street, near Grand Central. I’d met him once, in a painkiller haze soon after getting out of the hospital. I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup, just another interchangeable Midtown suit. I remembered him being in thrall of his mistress. Whatever Cass did for him behind those padded dungeon walls, he was forever grateful. There was no hourly rate mentioned, no invoice sent. I opened our last email exchange from two years ago. Hit REPLY and changed the subject line. I typed Cass arrested, have you heard from her? I reintroduced myself in the body of the email, explained the present situation, and asked when he was free to talk. Hit SEND. He replied in less than ninety seconds: Yes, in touch with her, call you shortly. The phone rang five minutes later.

  “Duck, it’s Eddie,” he said. “How you doing?”

  His voice was hushed, loaded with concern.

  “Thanks for getting back to me so fast,” I said. “How’s Cass?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid.” He was silent for a breath, before he added, “Things aren’t looking good.”

  “What’s not looking good? She’s being framed.”

  “I believe you, but they’re doing a hell of a job of it,” he said. “Her prints are all over the murder weapon, that javelin from the bar, the one that killed this Kruger fella? As for the boyfriend upstate, he was in pretty bad shape, I mean before that fall killed him. Marks all over his body, load of drugs in his system.”

  “Eddie, you of all people ought to know what their relationship was like. Of course there were marks on the guy’s body. I’m sure he asked for them.”

  If he was embarrassed by my knowledge of his kinky pleasures, he didn’t let on. “I know, I know,” he said. “We’ll be pointing that out. This is all bullshit. Not to worry, I’ll get her out. I’m just telling you, it’s not going to be easy. Someone is working her over good.”

  “Who’s behind it?”

  “I was hoping you could help me with that,” he said. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I’d like to discuss the rest in person.”

  “Tell me when and where.”

  He suggested an Irish pub called the Wheeltapper downstairs from his office on East 44th, between Third and Lexington. We agreed to meet there at one. I hung up and tried Detective Miller next. Straight to voice mail, told her to call me, that I was back in town. I texted Juliette. Nothing. At least the slave lawyer was taking my calls.

  I arrived early at the pub, found a seat in a narrow banquette surrounded by stained wainscoting and crimson walls. There were framed prints of old Guinness ads and distressed antique signs giving the space a curated clutter. The bar was about a century too young to be authentic, but it got points for effort. I ordered a Harp and a Jameson in deference. My waitress was cute, ginger, with a striking pair of blues and a winking Irish lilt. I listened to Shane MacGowan growl out “The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn.” Even cranking the Pogues—yeah, this place was really trying. I ordered another round soon after the first, scrolled through my phone, and started to wonder about Lutelman. No messages, twenty minutes late, the guy worked right upstairs. I tried his office line. A secretary told me he’d left for lunch. I set down my phone, faceup next to my drinks. Lifted my pint and gazed out the windows at a crowd gathering by the entrance. The lights of an ambulance pulled up in front of the pub, siren wailing. I placed cocktail napkins over the mouths of my glasses and got up to investigate.

  There was a group on the sidewalk looking down at a body in distress. A Good Samaritan was performing CPR. He got up and let the paramedics take over. They knelt around him and tore open his shirt and stuck the electrodes on his chest. Gave him a zap, then another. Their body language did not look encouraged. I elbowed my way to the front of the crowd to get a better look. I didn’t think I’d recognize Lutelman, but there he was: bloated and blue-faced and unmistakable. They strapped him to a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. The paramedics closed the doors and moved slow to their seats. The siren wailed as they pulled into the gridlock of Midtown. I pictured the lawyer in the back, wondered if he was having any final thoughts or was seeing any lights at the end of tunnels.

  The crowd began to disperse. Just another poor fallen suit in this fallen city . . . maybe they’d raise a glass to him at lunch. Maybe they’d wait till happy hour. Many would forget about it by the time they got back to their desks. I lingered by the entrance of the pub, remembered my unfinished beverages and unpaid tab. I felt a hand on my elbow.

  “You look like you could use a drink,” said a voice in my ear.

  I turned to find Dr. James Crowley standing by my side.

  Chapter 28

  We went back inside, sat down at my banquette. Crowley was grim-faced and smartly dressed in a slim-fitting blue suit and high white collar. What was left of his hair was blond and combed down flat. His eyes were a dark watery blue that seemed unaccustomed to light without sunglasses. Veins were visible in his neck and throbbed at his temples. His entire countenance was one of perpetual intensity.

  There are usually two extremes when it comes to the second lives of athletes. Some have had enough of all that exercise. They let themselves go, find new, less healthy excesses to indulge in. Others take private oaths never to lose that hard-won six-pack. They’re the ones who take up marathons and triathlons and treat their bodies like temples. They worship clarity and energy and performance. They will do anything to keep looking back at a sculpted form in the mirror. They are the ones I fear.

  He crossed a leg and looked in judgment at the pair of drinks aligned before me. I removed the cocktail napkins from the mouths of each. I raised the Jameson and held his eyes as I knocked it back. I slammed the glass down on the table. He did not jump. Those blue eyes stared back over sharp cheekbones.

  “What happened out there?” I asked.

  He ignored the question and extended a bony hand. “We haven’t had a proper introduction,” he said. “I’m James Crowley.”

  I let the hand hang over the space between us. “I know who you are,” I told him.

  He lifted his offered hand higher and motioned for our waitress. She turned wary at the sight of him. “What an awful scene,” she said. “I hope the gent’s okay.”

  “Awful, indeed,” said Crowley. He turned to me and asked, “Would you like anything else?”

  “Another round of each.”

  “And I would like a nice big glass of ice water, if you’d be so kind,” he said.

  We watched her retreat to the bar. She was the shapely sort I would have spent all night and a dozen pints pining for, until I was too drunk to make a move. I made a mental note to return under more relaxed circumstances. Crowley eyed my empty glasses.

  “I’m told you like to indulge,” he said.

  “And who told you that?”

  “Your partner, Cassandra. She didn’t mention that we knew each other? We became acquai
nted while Mr. Wingate worked on that book of his. Tragic what happened to him, isn’t it? She didn’t strike me as the type, but I suppose you never know what past traumas can bring out of a person.”

  I reached across the table and grabbed Crowley’s wrist and gave it a quick turn, just enough for him to feel the pressure point. “I’ll snap this arm in two if you don’t cut the shit,” I said.

  I knew once again that the pain had to be intense, but Crowley was not a flincher. He looked back and waited until I released him as the waitress returned with our drinks. She’d seen enough to know not to interfere. She set our glasses before us with averted eyes. Crowley set both hands in his lap. His pint of ice water sweated before him.

  “I’m aware that you are angry and confused, Mr. Darley,” he said. “But I’m afraid I could use your help.” He glanced outside to where Cass’s lawyer had collapsed. His thin lips pressed together; his jaw clenched. “That was not supposed to happen out there. Many things were not supposed to happen. We are dealing with someone very dangerous, and very unwell.”

  “And what exactly happened?”

  He sipped at his water, set it down precisely on the wet ring of the coaster, and re-crossed his legs. “You remember my associate, the young man you upset outside that bar?”

  “Oliver, your partner’s son. I understand you share the same racist tendencies.”

  “His son,” he said, putting the second word in air quotes. “I’m surprised he told you that.”

  “Lipke insists he has nothing to hide. He showed me a photo of him and his boy on the beach. He appeared quite proud that Oliver took his last name.”

  “His ‘boy,’ ” said Crowley. “There might be a better word for it.”

  “What are you trying to stay?”

  Crowley sighed, seemed to consider how to begin, how much to share. “Oliver Lipke, previously Oliver Zesner, has not been a part of Eberhard’s life for long, perhaps a year, less than two. Their relationship is rather unique, not what you would call ‘parental.’ They are uncommonly close. For reasons I have not been able to clarify. He feels a responsibility to the boy.”

  “And you? What’s your relationship to this prince? Common interests of hate?”

  He ignored my taunt. “He is a troubled young man, Mr. Darley. We’ve tried to help him, but the drugs appear to have taken over. Oliver is addicted to methamphetamine. He has also been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. I fear he is off his medication. He’s out of control. And he is particularly interested in hurting you. Your altercation humiliated him.”

  “What did he do to my lawyer out there?”

  “One of his fighting tricks, it happened so quickly I can’t be sure. He ran off. It seemed more prudent to remain at the scene and wait for you than to chase him and draw further attention.” He shook his head, exhaled. “This was all meant to be a simple matter. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, we’ve been monitoring your whereabouts. But no one was supposed to be harmed. This was about Cassandra—I knew she would contact you after what happened to Mr. Wingate.”

  “So you sent in a hopped-up neo-Nazi to warn me?”

  “Eberhard insisted that he accompany me. I did not think it was necessary. You could say our roles have switched since we arrived in the city. Oliver has done some work for us in the past, he had his value, but I’ve been trying to rein him in since we got here. Most of the time I don’t know where he’s been.”

  “Carl Kruger?” I asked. “Was that his handiwork?”

  “May I attempt to clarify things?” he asked.

  I took a gulp of the Harp, a nip of the Jamie. Sat back in the banquette, stretched an arm over the back. This I wanted to hear. “Go ahead. Is there anyone else from your Aryan Brotherhood that you’ve enlisted?”

  “I understand you’ve spent some time in prison,” he said. “That must be how you identified the numerology behind Oliver’s tattoo.”

  “You have until I finish this drink to start explaining yourself.” I took a swallow, set it back down. “As you know, I drink fast.”

  “Very well,” he said. He shifted in his seat. “Your partner, Cassandra, came unhinged. She killed her lover, Victor Wingate, and enlisted you to help her pin it on someone else, namely me. She knew that the suicide explanation would not hold up if they had a look at the body. It was clever that she refused to believe it. The grieving spouse in denial—she is clever, isn’t she? Then she followed it with the execution of Carl Kruger, after she knocked you out. Again, with the intention to frame me, with your help.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Indeed, why? That’s always the most interesting question, isn’t it?”

  “This drink is getting pretty low, Doctor.”

  “He asks ‘why,’ the great question of the universe. Unanswerable, really, but there are a number of explanations. First, her relationship with Victor Wingate was coming to an end. It was not sustainable, the games they played. Poor Victor thought he’d discovered a kinky soul mate, when, in fact, he’d been lured by a black widow. I’m sure she enjoyed herself at first, strapping him to crosses and administering all manner of punishment under those high, beamed ceilings. But these things don’t last, do they? One grows weary as a master, as I well know. That is how I met her.”

  “You spin a hell of a story, Doc.”

  “You don’t wish to believe me, that’s understandable,” he said. “But I must ask, how well do you know your partner, really?”

  “Better than you.”

  “No, Duck, you don’t. Of that, I can assure you. Now, may I continue? Would you like to order another drink?”

  “Talk.”

  “Very well. As I said, that’s how I met your partner, in a role as a master. Cassandra liked to come back to the city on occasion, when she tired of playing house in the country, to attend a certain kind of gathering. Very discreet, very well done, at a private home on the Upper East Side. I’m sure you can infer the details.”

  “No,” I said. “I can’t. Tell me.”

  “Very well, they were S and M parties. An exclusive scene, the owner of the home was very discriminating. When we learned of her boyfriend’s book in progress, and how our clinic might be implicated, we had her followed. Then I flew up to learn more. I assured Eberhard that I might have an efficient means of getting to her. He was becoming panicked over this book. I was concerned as well, for obvious reasons. And so I managed to secure an invitation to attend one of these gatherings. It was an effective place to make her acquaintance.”

  “Bullshit,” I said. “You said these things were exclusive, and oh-so-discriminating. Why would they let your out-of-town ass in?”

  “Because I could afford it.” He shrugged. “And it also happens that I have some experience in such worlds. It’s a rather small community, particularly at the higher end. I was able to offer a suitable referral.”

  “So you were another slave looking for her attention. Nice way to mix business and pleasure, or should I say pain?”

  “Quite contrary. I prefer the other side of the whip, as it were. Your partner was tiring of Mr. Wingate. As you may or may not know, many women who work professionally on the dominant side of our lifestyle will often prefer the submissive role in their private lives. So it was with Cassandra. Her relationship with Wingate had become an extension of her past work. Her visits to these parties were a chance for your friend to indulge in the other side of her nature. It was not Victor’s inclination to play that role, but I assure you, it is very much mine. We connected at once. I admit, I went with a motive, on a fact-finding mission, but her web really is quite sticky. I thoroughly enjoyed playing the master for her. At least for a time.”

  My mouth was dry and my drinks were gone. I raised my hand for refills, asked for water as well. Crowley spoke with such blunt confidence that I couldn’t doubt him. The layers so carefully concealed by Cass were beginning to fall away.

  “You’re sweating,” he said. “Are you okay? Would you like me to continue?”r />
  “Go on.” I lifted the empty pint and put it back down.

  “Very well. I know this must be difficult to hear. As I mentioned, you don’t know your partner as well as you thought. So, yes, I was pleased to play the role of her master at first. I knew it could become a conflict of interest. I was there for information, after all, not a sexual encounter. But we connected that night and I agreed to see her again. She was quite keen. After our sessions, she tended to open up. It’s a common side effect. Our lifestyle can bring incredible release. She told me about this book her boyfriend was working on, just as I’d hoped. She was a wonderful source, and an even better lover, if you enjoy what we do.”

  “I don’t know who’s more full of it,” I said. “You or Lipke. You think I buy this forthcoming, nothing-to-hide bullshit? Why are you feeding me all this crap?”

  “Because, sir,” he said, “my motivation is in saving myself. My partner’s interests, and those of his unstable son, are no longer aligned with my own. Now, may I continue? There is more you should know.”

  “I’m listening,” I said. “Not to say I’m believing, but let’s hear the rest of it.”

  “Thank you. When I’ve finished, you are free to believe whatever you will. Now, as my affair with your friend continued, I think a part of her wanted to be caught. Despite our rather specialized tastes, it was all quite typical, I suppose. An overlapping romance, a soon-to-be jilted lover, but then Cassandra’s cracks began to appear. I’m afraid your last case took its toll. She needs help. I think it broke her in some essential way. Severe trauma will do that to some. She began to exhibit erratic behavior, bursts of rage. She spoke of getting rid of Victor. I became concerned, and truth be told, I was tiring of her drama. I told her we needed to end it. I’d learned all I could from her. She did not take it well. A week later Victor was dead and I knew I was being set up. Her boyfriend had learned certain things about our practice that could be misconstrued in the press.”

  “You mean, like exposing some of the most famous athletes on earth as cheaters? I can see how that might be bad for business.”