On the Other Hand, Death - Stevenson Richard. Страница 16

Dot got her dog-fart face on, as if Trefusis himself were in the room. Timmy stared, open-mouthed. I walked with Bowman to his car.

"You're wrong, Ned," I said, once we were out the door. "These two guys don't mess around with other men. Something's happened to Peter Greco. You ought to look into it. Really, you should. I know Greco a little."

"They had a spat, didn't they?" Bowman said.

"No."

"Greco and this McWhirter mouthy asshole had a little tiff and the kid ran off. Used to be the story of my life, these domestic squabbles, back in the olden days when I was on a beat. You been around as long as I have, you'll know a lovers' quarrel when you see one, Strachey. When Greco gets tired and hungry he'll be back, and the lovebirds will kiss, or whatever you people do, and make up. I'd give it till around suppertime tonight. When he shows up, give my office a call and leave a message, will you? Save me a shitload of paperwork Monday morning."

"You're wrong, Ned. As you so frequently are. Playing

the odds again instead of using your eyes and ears."

"Off my back, fruitcake." He climbed into his Dodge, slammed the door, and drove off.

I went back to the guest room where McWhirter was holed up. When I told him about Greco's chance meeting the night before with his old lover Tad—Purcell was Tad's last name, McWhirter said—McWhirter seemed surprised but unconcerned. He said yes, Peter might have wanted to talk more with Purcell, to come to terms in some way, but he would have informed McWhirter first, and anyway Peter was due back at Dot's at midnight and "Peter always does what he says he's going to do."

McWhirter was certain that some harm had come to his lover. He was convinced that the police would be no help in getting to the bottom of it, and then added, "Maybe the cops are even responsible. Yes. Oh, God. It's probably the cops!"

A sickening thought slid into my mind, but for the time being I kept quiet about it.

7

I went back to the kitchen and dialed a

number in the Pine Hills section of Albany.

A groggy male voice. "Yeah?"

"Don Strachey. I need a little assistance."

"Don't we all."

"Were you on duty last night?"

"Till three hours ago. I didn't go to bed when I got home though. I sat up in case you called."

"Don't give me a hard time, Lyle. I told you I probably wouldn't call. That I had a lover."

"Lucky you. Maybe I'll get one too. There's a hunk in the department I've got my eye on. He's gay, I know, and he knows I know. But he's shy. And has a wife and six kids."

"Better shop around some more."

"Uh-huh. Shop around."

"When are you going to make the move, Lyle? You're in the wrong town for your situation."

"Are there any right ones?"

"Probably not yet. Stockholm maybe. Or Copenhagen."

"Yeah. Too bad I don't speak Hindu. What do you want, if it's not what I wished it was?"

"Information. I was wondering if maybe the night squad goons were up to a bit of queer-bashing last night. Midnight or after, on Central, around the Green Room."

"I didn't hear about anything. But I probably wouldn't that soon. Unless it made the blotter, and even then I couldn't be sure. Some of the arrests that get made are the genuine article. You know, there are some real lawbreakers out there, Strachey. In case you haven't heard."

"I suppose those guys do stumble over an actual criminal once in a while. A matter of mathematical probability. But this one would be the other—the hate stuff. A phony rap on prostitution, solicitation, resisting arrest. Whatever they're dropping on people these days. A guy by the name of Peter Greco disappeared outside the Green Room at about a quarter to twelve. Slight, dark, curly-haired, cute. A bit boyish for your more mature tastes, Lyle, but ripe for picking by the bash-a-fag crew."

"I'll check around. But disappearances aren't those guys' specialty. You know about it, Strachey. They just grab people, drive 'em around, call 'em some names, maybe rough 'em up a little, then dump 'em. Some make

it to the lockup, a few to the ER at Albany Med. A total disappearance would be something new."

"I know. It would."

A silence. "Uh-huh. Oh, yeah. Jesus. Well, it was only a matter of time, I guess. They're nuts—completely out of control. Maybe this time they've really done it."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Shit."

"Leave a message with my service if you pick up anything." I gave him the number. "I'll check now and again and get back to you. And one other thing. See if you can sniff out any recent coziness between guys in the department and Crane Trefusis. There might be a connection."

"The shopping mall wizard? That Trefusis?"

"The same."

"That one might be trickier. But as soon as I grab a cup of coffee I'll be out asking around. Sure as hell nobody here is gonna miss me. You know what I mean?"

"So long, Lyle. And thanks."

"'Thanks,' he says. Oh, sure."

Timmy agreed to stay at the farm and keep an eye on Dot and Edith. I put him to work phoning more Friday night revelers who might have been outside the Green Room around midnight and seen something unusual, or, if it involved the Albany PD, not entirely unusual.

Down at Dot's pond, Edith was seated on a flat stone with her feet in the moss green water, her skirt held demurely four inches above the water line.

"Good morning, Mr. Lovecraft. Going for a dip?"

"Hi, Mrs. Stout. I just want to cool off the old brainpan for a minute. Maybe I'll get a chance to dunk the rest of me in later."

I leaned down and stuck my head in the water for twenty seconds, then stood up and shook off like a dog.

"Does your head swell in the heat?" Edith asked.

"Right. And then I can't get my hat on."

"That's what happens to my feet." She glanced back toward the house. "I guess I'd better watch my language. Dorothy can't stand the word 'feet.' Dorothy's rather eccentric, in case you haven't noticed. I'm terribly afraid she's going senile. But she's a grand girl and I don't know what I'd do without her. It's not easy for our kind, you know."

"I know about that. I'm one too."

She gazed at me for a long moment, thoughtful and a little puzzled. "Well," she said finally, "I suppose you know what you like, Mr. Lovecraft. But—two big hairy men? Hmmm. I hope you don't mind my saying so, but I can't imagine anything duller."

Chasms everywhere. Though this one we could laugh about. I said, "I can."

The old woman peered at me confusedly through her spectacles for a moment while the connections in her brain slowly got made. Then she said, "That's all you know, sonny."

Driving back toward Central, I slowed as I passed the Deem house but saw no sign of life. Neither car was in the driveway. I figured I'd catch up with Joey Deem later in the day. Meanwhile, Dot and Edith were being well looked after.

At the Wilsons', Kay was airing herself in the chaise alongside the new porch. A mammoth '71 Olds with rusted fenders and a gash along the side was parked under a maple tree. The car had a Howe Caverns sticker on the rear bumper and a sign in the back window that said mafia staff car. It was the kind of sad heap you see in front of K Mart, blithely or defiantly parked in the fire lanes.

I pulled in and shouted, "Crane sends his best, Kay.