Death Trick - Stevenson Richard. Страница 33

"Not talky, but useful."

"That's par."

"But not entirely lacking in redeeming personal value."

"Do you want to talk?"

"No," I said. "It'll wait." I hung my jacket in the closet. I removed my clothes and tossed them in the corner. "A shower."

As I went into the bathroom, Timmy got up to pick up my clothes. Not just a sarcastic Jesuit, but a sarcastic Jesuit mother.

When I came back, the lights were out and Timmy was in the bed, his clothes neatly folded beside mine on the big ledge of my bay window. I slipped in beside him in the hazy blue of the streetlight, and we rolled gently together.

I said, "We're very lucky. You and I."

"I know," he said. "We are. Let's keep it up."

There was an undertone of apprehension in his voice. There needn't have been. He should have known that by then, but he didn't. So I told him.

15

During breakfast the phone rang, timmy was sitting beside it and answered it.

"It's Harold," he said. "I think you've made a friend."

Harold made complimentary and affectionate comments that were good for my ego but not for my conscience. My brief responses were friendly but vague. Then Harold got to the point. "Donnie, I really shouldn't be telling you this, and you must never, ever tell Mike I told you. Will you promise me that?"

"I promise."

"Donnie, I—I really can't tell you what Steve saw that upset him so much, 'cause I don't think you'd believe it. I saw it with my own baby blues, and I could hardly believe it! So if you must, doll, you'll just have to see for yourself. He doesn't meet them at the side door anymore, it's somewhere away from the place. You'll have to follow him somewhere. Tonight, after closing. He goes Wednesdays, and either Fridays or Saturdays."

"Meet who, Harold? Who does Mike meet?"

"You'll see, baby. You'll see."

"Does Mike know that you know this, whatever it is?"

"Ohhh, no-o-o-o, Donnie, and you mustn't tell him. Mike's so liquored up and crazy these days he'd fire me, and I might be forced to hit Hollywood and break into the business. And, God, it's such a debilitating experience out there in these crude times we live in—air pollution, dyke agents, Joan Crawford's shoes getting sold off like scrap metal. Within ten years I'd marry a degenerate disco franchiser and OD on Baskin-Robbins and heart-attack pills. Donnie, I have to stay in Albany, where I can be me. In a place where a certain amount of class is still respected. No, I can't—I cannot afford to lose my job, Donnie. You do understand, don't you, bunny?"

I said, "I won't tell him, Harold. But I might want to talk to you again. After tonight."

Huff, huff. "Well, I should hope you'll want to speak to me again. Now that we're lovers. Bye the bye, love-buns, who was that who answered the phone just now?"

"That was my houseboy."

"Ha, I should have known! You older guys! Is he Filipino?"

"Eskimo."

"And you told me you weren't queer!"

"I swing both ways, remember?"

"You're a flawed masterpiece, Donnie, that's what you are. But what's a woman to do?"

"Tell me another thing, Harold. Did Mike know that Steve saw whatever he saw?"

"Yes, it was horrible. Steve confronted Mike the day after—Steve told me—and Mike was sloshed, as usual, and started screaming like a bitch. He even fired poor Steven—but then he changed his mind five minutes later. See, that's why I'm so scared; Steve was the hot jock, and Mike needed him, and anyways Mike always had a soft spot for Steven even after they broke up. Me, lovable as I am, I'm just a charwoman to Mike, and I can be replaced by any sleazy slut who walks in the door."

"Where were you when you saw—it?"

"In the DJ booth with Steve. It was a quarter to five, and Mike thought everyone had left for the night. But I was depressed about one thing or another, and I was hoping Steven might cheer me up—he had once before. But he wouldn't this time, the little faggot. Anyway, we did get to talking, though— Steven was a dear, dear man—and then we looked out and saw it. We just sat there then, scared half to death, until Mike turned the lights out and left, and we got out with Steve's key. It really blew our minds, Donnie. The pits, the absolute pits."

I said, "Thank you, Harold. You've done the right thing telling me this. But you mustn't tell anyone else, okay? And I won't either."

"My lips are sealed, lover. Except when I'm with you. Then they are parted."

"Good. Thank you. One last thing, Harold. Do you know a guy named Frank Zimka? He's a hustler I think Mike has done business with."

"I know who he is, yes. He's weird. I've seen him around. Once with Mike."

"When did you see him with Mike?"

"Last summer once. Or twice maybe. I don't like him. When Zimka's down, he's a real depresso, and when he's on speed, he gets crazy. I heard one time he bounced a toilet seat off a guy's head. Some other whore who'd turned on to Zimka's trick."

"A toilet seat? Does he carry one with him, or what?"

"I wouldn't know the answer to that, sweet thing; I'm only saying what I heard. Donnie—Donnie, I had a wonderful time last night. You made me feel like—like—"

A nat-u-ral wo-man-n-n—

"—like a human being."

A wave of dizziness. I'd made a terrible mistake. This was going to be hard—impossible. I said, "Um. I'm glad."

"Till the next time, lover."

"Oh. Right. See you, Harold. Thanks again."

"It is I who am the one who is grateful."

"So long, Harold."

I hung up. Timmy looked up from his Wheat Chex, then down again.

I said, "Shit. I am made of shit."

"Come on now," he said. "You have your good points."

'Today my one good point is I'm beginning to understand this whole Kleckner-Blount-Zimka-Truckman phantasmagoria. I think."

"Right. As a detective, you're sterling silver. It's only as a human being that you're made of—clay. What do you think you've found out?"

I told him. He didn't finish his breakfast.

Timmy put on some of the clothes he kept in my closet and left for his office. I gathered up my notes, retrieved the two letters for Billy Blount from "I'm Here Again," stuffed everything in my canvas tote bag, and drove over to Central.

In the office I made another appointment with the Blounts at one. Low tea on State Street.

I was going over my notes again when Margarita Mayes called.

"Mr. Strachey, I've been in touch with Chris." "She called me too, as you said she would. Thank you." "I talked to her last night. She said I could tell you she'd be in Albany Saturday night, and would you come for brunch on Sunday? She won't tell you where Billy is, though; she said I should emphasize that. And if you go to the police, she'll deny all of these things. Will you come?"

"Well, that's certainly a lovely invitation. And I'll let you know—by Friday or so, if that's all right."

"That will be fine. Call me at the office. I'm not staying at the house. Someone tried to break in last night, and I'm staying with a friend in Westmere until Chris gets back. There have been so many burglaries lately. It's really quite frightening."

"Margarita—let me ask you a question. Have you been getting any more crank phone calls?"