by Ron Renauld
It wasn’t David, however, but a younger man, with dark hair beneath his safari hat. He looked down and peered over the top of his Foster Grants at Marilyn and Stacey.
“Where’s David, Winston?” Marilyn said.
Winston shifted on his bench and looked back toward Ocean Front Walk.
“Well,” he offered, “he’s somewhere out in the water, bodysurfing while he’s on break.”
“Oh,” Marilyn said, disappointed, looking out into the water. “Do you know whereabouts he is out there?”
“Do I know where a needle is in a haystack?”
“Well, will he be back soon?”
Winston shook his head. “Doubt it. He just left a few minutes ago. He’s got an hour off, you know.”
The lifeguard glanced back at the Walk, then abruptly stood up and began blowing his whistle. Two long blasts, then a short. As he was repeating the code, Stacey frowned suspiciously and glanced back at where he’d been looking.
“Marilyn,” she said, nudging her friend.
Marilyn turned around and saw David at one of the show booths. Beside him was a deep-tanned redhead wearing a yellow Spandex swimsuit. They were arm in arm until David looked toward the direction of Winston’s frantic whistling.
“Oh, shit,” Winston moaned from his tower perch.
David waved away the redhead, but too late. Marilyn stormed up to him, several steps ahead of Stacey.
“Wait, Marilyn,” David said, “I can—”
“You can go to hell!” Marilyn said, throwing the dress at him. “I hope it fits her! If it doesn’t maybe you can use it in your act!”
“You have to let me explain,” David said, reaching out to hold her. She lashed at him with the back of her hand and he shouted, stepping back and reaching for his cheek.
“Don’t you dare touch me!” Marilyn fumed.
People were starting to gather around, some even taking sides and cheering the fight on. Stacey grabbed Marilyn by the elbow and led her away. David tried to follow, calling out Marilyn’s name, but they lost him in the crowd.
CHAPTER • 29
After staking out Eric’s house for twenty-four hours, the police finally let themselves in, thinking he might have committed suicide. They didn’t find Eric, but there were enough clues in the cluttered upstairs rooms to link him to all the murders.
Anne had gotten word to Moriarty about the move, and he arrived on his ten-speed just as Gallagher was winding up the shakedown, standing at the base of the outside steps.
“I think we got ourselves a real whacko here,” Gallagher said.
“Captain, listen to me,” Moriarty said, “I want to talk with him if you get him. I can help him. You can’t just gun him down—”
“Who the hell said anything about gunning him down? Gallagher challenged. “And what do you mean, you can help him? The man runs around in a Dracula costume and a cowboy outfit killing people, but he’s okay, you can help him. What you gonna do, get him a job with Central Casting?”
Anne came down the steps to join them. She smiled at Moriarty faintly.
“Captain,” she said, “one room’s been completely cleared out, almost, so he may have made a run for it. Besides all the other things, we found these, too.” She produced a handful of Polaroid shapshots. “You can figure out they were taken only a few days ago.”
“May I see those, please?” Moriarty asked Anne, reaching for the photos.
Gallagher intervened, “What for? It’s police business.”
Moriarty looked anyway.
“They’re all film-related, right?” he said.
“Right,” Anne concurred. “There’s this, too.” Underneath the photos was the 99 RIVER STREET sign Eric had placed at the corner.
“Anne, why don’t you bag these,” Gallagher said, “we’ll look at them later.”
“Yeah, okay,” she said, looking sympathetically at Moriarty.
“Okay, let’s wrap it up here!” Gallagher shouted up the steps.
Once the captain was out of their range, Moriarty turned to Anne. “You have to help me, Anne. You know what this means to me.”
Anne nodded. “I’ve gotten it taken care of already, Jerry. I arranged it so I’m driving solo tonight. Gallagher’s got me on rover to chase down leads with Homicide. You can come with me.”
“Thanks, Anne. Damn it, you’re a doll.”
“Just a sucker for a pretty face,” she countered, smiling. “I won’t be able to start for a few hours, though.”
“That’ll work out fine, as a matter of fact,” Moriarty said, “Franco’s playing his first gig tonight over at Venice de Menice with his new band. I’d like to stop by and catch a set.”
“Fine. Want a ride there?” Anne noticed him looking at his bike indecisively. “Going once, going twice . . .”
“Okay, Anne,” Moriarty said, lifting his bike and taking it to her trunk. “Thanks. That will give me time to eat first, too.”
As Anne took Market down to Main Street and headed north, Moriarty fell silent. His mind wasn’t on Eric Binford so much as on his brother. He’d been thinking a lot about him the past few days. Every time he picked up his harmonica or heard music now, he could feel himself being tugged by his memories. A calling. He wondered if his endless attempts to come to terms with his brother’s death had been a mistake. Perhaps by trying to shoulder the responsibility for what had happened, he was clinging to a needless guilt, wearing it like an albatross around his neck.
Anne noticed him staring blankly out the windshield. Smiling, she raised a fist to her mouth and distorted her voice, talking through her nose.
“Jerry Moriarty. Jerry Moriarty. Please report to the candy counter, Jerry Moriarty.”
He turned and looked at her. She’d never seen that look before.
“Hey, I’m sorry, Jerry,” she apologized quickly. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“That’s okay,” he said, the muscles in his face relaxing. “You did me a favor, actually.”
“This is rougher on you than you thought it would be?” she asked.
He nodded. “You know, I haven’t looked at a picture of my brother for over ten years. It’s like he’s always there, but his face has just faded away. I try to visualize him now and all I see is Eric Binford biting at an eraser as he reads over a computer test.”
“Anything I can do to help?” she asked.
“No, I don’t think so.” Moriarty ran his fingers through his hair, flustered. He finally added, “I’m thinking of giving up this job and—”
“Oh, Jerry, no,” Anne said, “Don’t say that. You’re just under a—”
“—lot of stress. I know. That’s the whole point. It’s not what I want. Remember that night I broke our date? I spent about two, maybe three hours on the beach, just playing the harmonica to myself. I did it a few other nights, too. Just playing . . . I don’t know, it’s hard to explain, Anne. I’m just torn between wanting to finish up this crusade I’ve been on for all these years and just calling it all off, taking a few steps back and trying another direction.”
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” Anne asked.
“I didn’t think I could,” Moriarty said. “In fact, I’m a little surprised I did just now.”
“I think you’re still hung up on our first spat,” she said. “You don’t think I’m up to handling a relationship outside of the sack.”
“No, it’s not that, Anne, it’s just . . .” Moriarty forced out an awkward laugh. “Shit.”
“What was that all about?”
“Anne, when do you have some vacation time this year?”
“Well,” Anne said. “They usually want three weeks’ notice, but other than that, any time I want. Why?”
Moriarty shook his head.
“Just curious.”
They stopped for a light at Main and Vista. Moriarty got out of the car, saying, “I can walk it from here, Anne. Thanks. I’ll see you at the club around eight, eight-thirty.”
“
I’d love to,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Take a vacation with you,” Anne said, driving off when the light changed.
CHAPTER • 30
Stacey and Marilyn lost their way twice trying to find the studio, each time passing the shrouded, unlit driveway.
It was just before eight. The sun had set, leaving the driveway cloaked in a grim, dying twilight relieved only by a pair of spots lighting the driveway next to the building.
Stacey stopped the car and shifted into reverse.
“I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.”
“No, wait!” Marilyn said. “We’ve come this far.”
“Marilyn, look at the place, would you?”
“It looks new and expensive. That’s a good sign, don’t you think?”
“But look, there’s only one car here, and that looks like it belongs in a museum, not on the road. I don’t like it at all.”
“Stacey, the man already explained he’s working overtime to get caught up in his work. It makes perfect sense to me.”
Stacey wasn’t convinced.
“I still don’t see how it is he knew about you in the first place. I think it’s a trick, probably something dreamed up by that Joey Madonna jerk.”
Marilyn shook her head.
“He said his daughter rented skates from me last Wednesday and knew I was what he was looking for. Why would he have bothered to tell me he had a kid if he was just out for some cheap thrills?”
Stacey sighed and shifted back into first, pulling up to the building and parking in front of the side entrance.
The door was open. They went in and turned down the first hallway.
“ ‘C. Jarrett,’ ” Stacey read the stenciled lettering on the first door they came to. “Is this the place?”
“Uh huh,” Marilyn said, noticing a note folded in the crack of the door. She pulled it out and unfolded it, reading, “ ‘Developing prints in darkroom. Come in.’ ”
“I don’t like it, I tell you,” Stacey said.
“Oh, stop being such a wet blanket,” Marilyn answered, trying the door. It was also open. They stepped into a lavish reception area, well-furnished and containing a wall lined with portrait samples and a few thousand dollars’ worth of other decoration.
“Wow,” Stacey exclaimed reluctantly, “what a layout. Maybe this guy’s legit after all.”
“Of course he is,” Marilyn insisted. “All these high-pressure types sleep all day and work all night. Do I look all right?”
“Yeah, you look great,” Stacey said, going back to the door. “I’ll pick you up later. Don’t want him to think we were suspicious or anything.”
Marilyn was suddenly anxious. She looked at her reflection in one of the hanging pictures. She’d made herself up to look like Marilyn Monroe around the time of Bus Stop. “Do you have to go now? Can’t you stay a minute?”
“You’ll be all right.”
Marilyn took a deep breath.
“Okay. Thanks for the lift. Bye.”
“Bye,” Stacey said, winking. “Good luck.”
“I’ll need it,” Marilyn said, laughing nervously.
Once she was alone, she stood looking at the other models pictured on the wall, tapping her toe nervously on the floor. Unable to stand still, she finally walked past the reception area and down the inside hallway.
Coming to the open door of the first studio on her right, she looked in and gasped.
A flashbulb exploded, dazzling her eyes.
Eric peered at her from over the top of a mounted antique camera, smiling triumphantly. He was dressed in a light green outfit with an embroidered vest and epaulets, of questionable origin but obviously meant for some sort of royalty. His hair was neatly combed and he wore tall black boots.
“How do you do?” he said, his voice distinguished, like Count Dracula without the fangs. “So good of you to come on such short notice, Miss Marina.”
“My name’s Marilyn O’Connor,” she said, recognizing Eric and smiling demurely. “Who are you?
“I am the Regent of Carpathia,” Eric said succinctly, with a short, noble bow. “Prince of Hungary.”
“What?” Marilyn giggled, enthralled. She didn’t understand it at all, but she found herself happy to see Eric again, especially in the wake of what had happened with David. She was about to apologize for their thwarted date when he stepped around the camera and came toward her.
“No cause for alarm, my dear,” he said elegantly. “For tonight we shall recreate The Prince and the Showgirl, if not your best performance, then certainly your most endearing. You starred in it with Sir Laurence Olivier, and he directed you as well.” He took her hand and kissed it gently. “I am at your service . . . and you mine.”
“Hmmmm?”
“It is a love story,” Eric told her, continuing to hold her hand as he stepped closer to her so that their eyes and lips were but inches apart.
“Tender,” he whispered, “touching. My sweet Marilyn.”
CHAPTER • 31
For almost seventy years, the sturdy brownstone building at the corner of Main and Ryder had housed the United Pentecostal Church, drawing full houses on Sundays and tending to the spiritual needs of a loyal congregation. Two years ago, however, the Lord and his earthly surrogates had moved to the high-rent district closer to the Marina, leaving the brownstone to the heathens. Reopened as Venice de Menice, the only trace left of the previous habitation were the biblical motifs of the stained glass windows—now covered by steel mesh to guard against vandalism—and the outlines of pews on the old oak floor. The altar had been turned into a bandstand, drinks were poured in the sacristy, and punk gangs did the Slam in the aisles when the spirit moved them.
Moriarty stood at the bar, watching Drew Cantrell and the Canals wrap up their first set of the evening. He sipped on a dark Heineken as he watched the band, nodding his head and tapping his finger on his knee in time to Franco’s drum playing. The juvenile, glistening with sweat under a spotlight, pounded furiously at the drums, his face flushed with excitement.
At the microphone, Drew Cantrell, dark-eyed son of a journeyman bricklayer, slapped a pair of hollowed gourds against his thighs as he sang starkly:
Things were getting worse;
I wrote a suicide note;
I put it in her purse,
And then I slit her throat.
And then I walked right out the door;
I walked right out the door.
The instrumentals had changed course abruptly halfway through the last verse, on cue with “and then I slit her throat,” translating the verbalized violence into its musical complement. The group members all turned and started playing against one another, all the time raising the tempo of a frenzied beat punctuated by Franco’s jackhammer slapping at his snare.
Moriarty watched the crowd, astounded at the way the music generated the crowd into a frenzy all its own. People who only moments before had been sitting elbow to elbow at the round tables scattered along the walls had suddenly risen to their feet, joining the coagulated mass of bodies on the dance floor. It was a twisted variation of the implosion principle. The tighter the crowd converged upon itself, the more aroused it became. A few of the shrieks leaping out from the packed maze of limbs sounded more pained than joyous.
Entranced by the phenomena, Moriarty found himself tensing against an anticipated outburst of violence. Split seconds before that point was reached, the music stopped in midnote. The group, without missing a beat, lapsed into an acappella chorus of “Leader of the Pack,” clapping their hands and hopping up and down like Mousketeers.
The timing and effect were incredible. The pent-up tension drained out more like a balloon untied than one popped. The crowd ate it up, joining in clapping and then turning it into applause at the end of the song.
“To the edge and back,” Drew muttered into the microphone. “We’ll be back in ten.”
Taped music took over and the house lights went up slightly a
s the band climbed out and away from their instruments and made their way over to the bar. Franco walked over to Moriarty.
“Whatcha think?” he asked.
“I’ve never seen anything like it, Franco,” Moriarty said, “Closest I can think of was a couple of Doors concerts back in sixty-eight, sixty-nine.”
“That good, huh?”
Moriarty nodded, “I think you’re all out of your fucking gourds, pardon the pun, but I have to admit it’s great stuff. I’m glad Drew’s in a group and not behind a pulpit.”
“Depends on how you look at it,” Franco said. “By the way, I’m going by Jism these days.”
“Say what?”
“Jism. My new stage name,” the drummer said proudly.
“Jism. That’s an, uh, interesting choice.”
“Sounds better than Sperm, doesn’t it?”
They both laughed.
“Moriarty! Jerry?”
Anne was halfway through the crowd, waving her hands above her head.
Moriarty finished his drink and got up, turning to the drummer.
“I gotta go. You keep it up, though, okay? The better you look, the better I look, and the better off we’ll both be. Don’t forget that, okay?”
“You got it, shrink,” Franco Jism said.
Moriarty pried his way through the crowd and escorted Anne outside, where there was a line of people waiting to get in, almost all of them young and identical-looking in their attempts to look outrageously different.
“I tell you, Anne, there’s times when I think at heart I’m still a snot-nosed little teenager. But after an hour of that,” he said, jerking his head back toward Venice de Menice, “I’m glad I snapped out of it.”
“Something else, isn’t it?”
“It’s like an incubator for droogies, I swear,” Moriarty said. “Now I see why Franco used a paring knife. There’s not enough room for a machete.”
They walked down to the end of the block and turned the corner, getting into Anne’s patrol car. She was out of uniform.
“How’s he doing?” she asked, starting up the car and turning onto Main Street.
