He shouted against the noise until someone turned the music off. “Okay, boys, time to wind it down,” he announced. “There’s a man downstairs who will call you a cab if you don’t feel able to drive home.”
“I’m a cab!” shouted Winston, and such was the general inebriation of the guests that they found this hilarious, and there were several shouted repeats of it.
“The neighbors will call the police if we don’t shut it down,” warned Tony. “Anyone here care to spend the rest of the night in jail?”
“No, thank you!” said Donni. “Where’s my coat?”
That started a general exodus, but somehow three of the guests stayed on. They were very quiet and sat sipping wine amid the ruins—Tony had used every single plate, bowl, and glass in the condo to feed and ablute his guests, and those that weren’t broken were stacked all over the place. There was considerable spillage, as well. “Wow,” he said reverently to his remaining guests.
Travis said, “Wow, indeed. That was quite an affair.” He looked around at the mess. “Is there something we can do to help you clean up?”
Milky shook back his flaxen hair and said, “I think we should bring in a fire hose, open a couple of windows, and let ’er rip.” He gestured with a half-empty wineglass, adding another stain to the carpet. “Sorry,” he said and drank the glass dry so it wouldn’t happen again.
Plump Winston said, “Say, I heard The Man is after you.”
“Me?” said Travis.
“No. You, Stoney. That’s what I hear.”
Tony came with his own refilled wineglass to sit on the dais and lean against a leg of the piano. “What? What man?”
“The heat—the cops.”
“After me? What for?”
“I dunno.”
Milky said, “I don’t know, either, but it’s a man in a suit, not a uniform. We were talking about it earlier, but you were in the kitchen making delicious things, so we didn’t want to bother you. But I bet it’s not a traffic ticket. He asked me some questions.”
Tony was suddenly feeling stone-cold sober. “About what?”
“Mostly about where you’d got to. Nobody’d seen you in a while and you weren’t in your old apartment, and he wanted to know if you’d left town.”
“What did you tell him?” asked Tony.
“The truth,” said Milky. “We didn’t know where you were.”
Travis winked and looked muzzily around the room. “Well, we do now.” His wine was in a tumbler and he took a big swallow. “But not for long. Ol’ Marc isn’t gonna like what you did to his place.”
“Never mind Marc, I can clean this up so he’ll never know. Winnie, what else did this cop say?”
“Not too much. When he first came in—this was at the Eagle—we were like, ‘Who are you?’ Then he said he was a friend of Godwin DuLac’s. Some of the men had heard of him. Do you know him?”
“Never heard of—But hold on, wasn’t someone named Goddy looking for me not very long ago?”
Travis said, “Thass right, I remember that, he was in Vera’s. No, wait, he was lookin’ for someone else, first, name of Bob German—no, Germaine. Wanted to know if Germaine was gay. But in the closet, like.”
Milky said, “Yeah, Godwin was in the Gay Nineties, too, looking for this Bob Germ.”
“Germaine,” corrected Travis.
“Whatever. But then he came up with a description that sounded like you, including that ID bracelet you wear all the time, so Pauly gave him your name. We hadn’t seen you in a little while, I think that was while you were still in the hospital.”
Tony glanced at the bracelet on his wrist but didn’t say anything.
Winston raised his glass. “Welcome out of the hospital, man, ’cause you sure know how to throw a party!” The other two cheered and raised their glasses to that.
“Do you know a Bob Germaine?” asked Milky. “I mean, why would he be looking for Bob Germaine and end up with you?”
Tony shifted a little and said, “Beats the hell out of me. I never talked to this Godwin. Who is he, anyway? Do you know him?”
“I do,” said Travis. “He runs a needlework store. Calls himself the President, or CEO, or Commander of Opra—Operations, something like that. And Editor in Chief of a newsletter, too. Nice li’l store, if you like that kinda thing.” He took another big drink.
“Where is this store?” asked Tony.
“Asselsior.” Travis’s speech was growing more slurred by the minute. “Th’ owner of the store owns the whole buildin’—” Travis gestured a big circle with his glass to show it was a very big building. “And lives in a ’partment on the second floor. And, this lady was s’posed to be in charge of selling embroidery things at this embroidery convention, only she broke her leg, so he took over. Made a big pile of money.” Travis stopped to look back at what he’d just said, then nodded sharply and said, “That’s right, that’s ’zactly how it was. Made a whole big pile of money.”
Travis didn’t say “a whole big pile” of money, but used a more vulgar expression. The idea was the same, however.
“Do either of you two know this Godwin fellow?” asked Tony.
“Not me,” said Winston.
“I’ve seen him around,” said Milky. He smirked. “I think he’s cute.”
Travis said, “Well, you wouldn’t think he’s all that, Stoney. He’s kind of a twink.” He winked and nodded.
“He knits his own socks,” offered Milky, in support of that statement.
“Yes,” said Travis, “and he teaches knitting classes, in his store. Cute as a button, can dance like nobody’s business. But he don’t do drugs or go to raves. Specially now he’s a big-shot businessman.”
“And he lives in Excelsior,” said Tony.
“Yeah. He drives a hot little sports car. But: He made his bones, as the gangsters say.”
Tony stared at Travis, whose nod started in again. “He says an ex-lover gave him the car, it’s an Audi, I think. But it was this same rich ex-lover that got murdered. And guess who murdered him? Our cute-as-a-button li’l twink, Godwin.”
“He murdered someone?” said Tony.
Milky gaped at Travis, and Winston said, “No!”
Travis was still nodding. “Yep, got arrested for it an’ ever’thing. But he got away with it, never got convicted, never went to prison. One day he’s sitting in jail, and the next he’s home free.”
Winston raised a finger and said, “Wait a second, I remember that! It was a man named Nye who got murdered—he was a lawyer. Someone else was convicted of murdering him.”
Travis stopped nodding and said, “Someone Goddy set up, I bet. I say, ‘Is the lover dead?’ Plus, who’s driving around in the dead man’s flashy sports car?”
Tony said, “I thought you said he’s a twink.”
“He is. If he likes you, he’ll knit you a sweater.”
“Cute,” sneered Winston.
“And if he don’t like you, he’ll kill you.”
“Well, may I never run into this twink,” said Tony. His heart was racing, suddenly he understood this whole thing. He yawned hugely and announced, “I am bushed. I think we should call it a night. Travis, you are the best left hand a cook ever had.”
“Yeah, that was fun. Maybe we should do it again.”
“No, I think the next time I cook for a crowd I should be all healed up.” He staggered to his feet, a little surprised at how uncertain his feet were, because his head felt very clear. Milky came to steady him while Travis picked up his crutch and handed it to him.
“You sure you don’t want some help cleaning up?” asked Winston, looking around at the chaos.
“No, no, I’ll hire a crew. The carpet’s going to need professional handling. I think someone dropped at least one of every single hors d’oeuvre recipe I prepared.”
“An’ someone else walked in it,” agreed Travis, nodding at one particularly ugly stain. “Well, if you say so. Less leave you to it.”
The trio gat
hered their coats and gloves and scarves, went out the front door and trailed down the hall. Tony watched to make sure they got on the elevator, then closed the door.
He went back into the once-beautiful living room, groaning at the wreck his party had made of it. God, he had so loved living in this place! Why hadn’t things worked out so he could go on living here?
Not that he was sad about it. No, he was beyond sad, well into scared, almost as scared as he’d been when he learned they’d found Germaine’s body out at the airport.
But this time he knew why.
A police detective was after him. After this party, enough people knew where he was that, if he stayed here, the detective was going to find him, arrest him, and charge him with murder.
And it was wrong! He hadn’t done it! If he’d committed a murder, he’d know it! It would be in his bones, in his fists, the knowledge would be in his whole body! And he had absolutely no memory of killing Germaine. None.
Okay, he’d meant to go to the hotel, meet him, hit him, knock him down, steal the check. But he hadn’t done it—or where was the check, huh? Where was the goddam check? He didn’t have it, did he? So he wasn’t guilty!
But this Godwin person was trying to convince everyone Tony was a murderer. Hold on, hold on, not Tony, but Stoney. Stoney Durand. Every person who came to the party tonight thought his name was Stoney Durand.
Hold on again. Travis and Milky and Winston agreed the cop had come looking for Stoney, and they said Godwin was told about Stoney, and Stoney was the man living here on Lake Calhoun, so it all came down to the same damn thing. The cop would come and arrest Stoney. And the minute they ran his fingerprints, they’d know Stoney was Tony Milan.
Tony went to the liquor cabinet and found half a bottle of scotch among the empties. He poured some of it into a glass that looked clean enough and went back to the couch. He slumped deep into the suede leather and took a big swallow. So here was this Godwin—what was it? DeLake, duPont. Something. Who had gotten away with murder some time ago—and so had gotten away with it again, right there at that EGA convention. He took another swallow, feeling the warmth of the alcohol flood his stomach, like the warm wrath that fumed into his brain.
Because it all fit. This Godwin creep had stolen the money himself. Money that should have gone into Tony’s pocket and left Germaine with nothing more than a headache. Germaine was dead, Godwin had the money, and they were going to blame Tony!
And Godwin might get away with it, the big-shot businessman. Just because the creep owned a building and knit his own socks—! Tony frowned and waved that thought away. It was because he got away with it once, this Godwin, he thought he could kill anyone any time and get away with it. Tony finished the scotch in a final, angry swallow, then tossed the glass onto the carpet.
He couldn’t go to the cops, not with his record. And they’d investigate and find out about the bank scam and fall right in with Godwin’s scheme to frame him.
Jeez, what could he do, how could he get out of being set up like this? He was going to go back to prison! Gyp, big time!
Tony looked for the thrown glass, thinking about another trip to the scotch bottle—then changed his mind. No more drink. He needed a clear head if he was going to thwart the evil plans of this Godwin person.
How satisfying it would be to go out there and beat on him till he told the truth! But he couldn’t, not like this, all beat up himself. Like this, he couldn’t beat up a little old granny lady. Though the thought of a granny lady quailing under the thumping of his crutch made him smile.
Then he thought of something that would make things equal—more than equal—between him and this Godwin person. He had, of course, gone poking around in Marc’s drawers and cupboards. He’d found a key taped to the underside of a desk drawer. He’d already found a very heavy steel box that Marc had hidden in his bedroom closet, and sure enough the key opened it. But Tony very honorably hadn’t taken a thing from it, not the gold ring with a ruby the size of his fingernail, not the beautiful gold chain whose links had been carved to make them twinkle, not even a single bill that Marc probably would not have missed from the nifty stack of fifties.
But now things were very different, and this was an emergency. Tony really had to go back to that box because he needed the one other thing in it: the equalizer, in the form of a snub-nose revolver, dark and deadly, and already loaded. He could fire one shot to show this Godwin person he meant business and still have five bullets left in case he needed them. Shoot him in the foot, then the knee and so on, until he confessed. Good plan.
Tony couldn’t remember under which drawer Marc had stashed the key to the box, but after pulling out drawers all over the condo, he found it. He dragged the box out of the closet and over to Marc’s bed, where he sat down and opened it.
He took the gun out first, then after a few seconds’ thought, took all the money as well. He told himself he was coming back and would need the money to have the place properly cleaned up. But in the back of his head he knew he couldn’t come back here. He needed that money to get out of town after he took care of that Godwin person. He’d just go, but cops got persistent when the charge was murder—and Tony would be easy to spot. There weren’t many fugitives with a broken left arm, a broken left leg, and a bandage on his head. He counted the money and found there was an even thousand dollars. He could go pretty far on that. And if Godwin had the twenty grand, he could go even farther, and dig himself an even deeper hole.
He closed the box, then opened it again. In its velveteen box was the ruby ring. He took it out. No, too gaudy, no one would believe it was real. So he put it back. But the gold chain was lovely. He put it on over his head and it was just heavy enough to announce its presence, but not so heavy that it looked silly, or fake. The carved links twinkled when Tony moved, and they had an interesting texture when he ran his fingers over them.
What the necklace called for was more gold—no, not the ring, dammit! Marc could wear the ring; it looked okay on him, an older guy who somehow made the ring look as real as it was. But Tony was too young for a stone that size.
Hold on! He knew what it needed. Tony went back to his bedroom and found the white dress shirt. Someone had told him once how to get bloodstains out of cotton—and the shirt was 100 percent cotton, though of a smoothness Tony had never known cotton could attain. The secret was shampoo. Soak the stain in shampoo, wet it with cool water, scrub a bit, then rinse. Repeat as necessary. Okay, it was kind of wrinkled; Tony had never gotten any good at ironing, and with only one hand he was not now ironing anything at all.
He had to rip the seam of the left sleeve to get it on over his cast. And put one of the beautiful gold cufflinks on the right cuff first and then work the sleeve over his hand. But laying the beautiful gold necklace over that lovely smooth fabric on his chest was just perfect.
The black suit hadn’t been washable and so Tony had thrown it away, so he put on his best jeans that already were ripped up the left leg, and shoved his good foot into a deck shoe. He needed a shave, but after he looked at himself in the mirror, he realized the bristles only added to his cool look. Getting dressed had made his broken bones ache a little, and he had work to do, so as long as he was in the bathroom anyway, he took a Vicodin just to keep the pain away.
Then he went back to Marc’s closet, to take out and hang Marc’s artfully-antiqued aviator’s jacket over his left shoulder to hide the ripped sleeve, then pulled the shirt a little loose so it covered the gun tucked into his waistband. And just for fun, he also took down the matching pinch-brim leather hat. He tried it several ways, and almost decided to leave it behind—but it covered the bandage on top of his head. He finally wore it backward, which sort of gave him an air.
He thought about writing a note to Marc, then thought, Why? Marc would get the message as soon as he walked in on the disaster Tony was leaving behind.
Twenty-five
TONY went down to the lobby of the condo. The night concierge was not some
one he recognized, which was perfect. “May I summon a cab for you?” the man asked.
“Yes, please,” replied Tony—soberly, of course.
“What is your destination?”
“St. Paul,” lied Tony. If he was asked afterward, the concierge could say that the man with the broken leg went to St. Paul, not Excelsior.
To avoid further conversation, he went out of the lobby into the big covered portico. The outside wall of the lobby was a curve, and the portico followed the curve around it, then plunged downward, into the underground parking area. Tony followed the curve a little way on foot. There was a biting wind whistling into the portico, and he wanted to get as much away from it as he could—he couldn’t put the jacket on over his broken arm, and he’d forgotten to put a sock over the bare toes on his broken leg. But a person always had to suffer to look good, and he was happy to look terrific.
He caught movement outside the portico and looked to see if it was his cab, but it was someone coming out of the underground parking—the exit was on the other side of the building, but curved around to meet the same street as the entrance came off. He watched the beautiful car slow then turn onto the street, the people inside mere shadows behind the dark windows. Probably off to the airport, Tony thought enviously, warm and comfortable in the car, going to warm and happy Hawaii or expensive Singapore or exotic Bangkok for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Not a care in the world. And here Tony stood freezing!
Another car pulled up, and its driver got out and hurried into the lobby. Tony turned and watched him wave at the concierge as he hustled past, bound for the elevators.
Tony turned back and saw the car, an older Cadillac in beautiful condition, standing at the curb. Its color was cranberry or black cherry, not a hint of rust. The engine was running; Tony could see the faint trail of exhaust whipped away by the wind. He moved out from the wall to see the license plate: Florida. Naturally.
Some rich couple, or rich biddy, or rich geezer, lived here in the spring and summer, and then went to Florida when the weather turned sour. And kept Florida plates on the car, in part because Florida plates were cheaper than Minnesota plates and in part to rub the noses of the poor in their good fortune.
Knitting Bones Page 19
