On the Other Hand, Death - Stevenson Richard. Страница 26

Timmy said sourly, "It's hot in here. I think I'll wait in the car. A pleasure meeting you, Lyle." He shot me a look.

Lyle nodded once and continued to watch me carefully while Timmy got up and walked out the door. We listened to his footfall on the staircase. The downstairs door slammed.

"Hey, that one's real cute," Lyle said. "But, tell me, Don. What would your lover think?"

"Your bitterness is unattractive, Lyle. You should work to get rid of it. You might become an attractive man."

He winced and looked away.

I said, "Are you going to help me out or not? A life may depend on it. What did you find out?"

He sat staring at the wall for a long moment, the emotion building in him. Then, still not looking at me, he said, "I'm bitter because . . . because nobody will love me." His face contorted and he shut his eyes. He said, "I want somebody to love me." He fought to regain control, then sat not moving, hardly breathing, his muscular left leg spasming crazily.

"Right now, you're not lovable, Lyle. Self-pity is off-putting. Nobody loves a whiner for long."

His voice breaking, he said, "You loved me once."

An old story. I knew it. I said, "We sucked each other's cocks. That's just friendliness. I don't sneer at it,

far from it, but most of the time I'd rank it only a notch or two above helping a stranger change a tire. Well, maybe six or eight notches. And yes, I know, it's a whole lot more fun. Plus, you don't have to wash your hands with Fels-Naphtha afterwards. Though, of course, after changing a tire you don't have to brush your teeth. On the one hand this, on the other hand that."

He wasn't about to be humored. He said, "It's as close to love as I've ever come."

"But not as close as you'll ever get."

He snorted.

"You've got to get out of Albany, Lyle. You'll never do it here. Go . . . west, maybe. In San Francisco they're recruiting gay cops. Go there. You've got a good record. Go to some half-civilized place and quit hating yourself and taking it out on other people. Find out how fine a man you can be, and go be that person for a while. You'll like it. Other people will like it."

"I can't," he said, shaking his head miserably. "I've never been anywhere. I can't."

"I know someone in San Francisco who'll help you. I'll call him."

"No, don't. I'll never do it."

"Of course, it'd be hard. But you owe it to yourself. And to Clyde Boo, from Yank-your-Tank, Arkansas, or whoever, who's out there waiting for you. You'll find that life with Clyde won't be easy either. But it'll be a hell of a lot easier than this."

He stared at the empty wall.

"In the meantime," I said, "you've got to help me out."

He looked over at me now, his eyes wet. "Will you come and lay down with me first?"

"Well, gee, Lyle . . . gee. Actually, I think Miss Manners would advise against it. I mean, with my lover waiting down in the car and all. I think you have a good bit to learn about timing—about the social graces. I'm pretty sure we'd both feel very, very bad afterwards. Also, these days I'm a bit overextended in that department."

He looked sullenly at his commodious lap for a long moment—it hadn't escaped my notice either—and then back at me. He shrugged, smiled weakly. "Can't blame a guy for trying," he said. "Can you?"

I didn't know about Lyle. Whether he would make it or not. If he did, poor Clyde.

I said, "No, I know what you mean. Acting bashful gets you nowhere. It's just that your sense of occasion is a little off. But it'll improve with experience, I'm fairly certain. Now then. You were going to answer a couple of questions for me, right?"

"Oh. Yeah. Sure. If that's the way you want it." He fetched himself another beer.

Before I left Lyle's apartment, I phoned my friend Vinnie, who confirmed what he'd told me earlier and added additional details. It squared exactly with what Lyle had found out.

Timmy had the car seat tilted all the way back and was snoring lightly.

"Wake up. Lyle was helpful. We've got a lot to do and little time to do it in."

"Huh?"

I took the first right and headed south toward Western. "Lyle says he can find no evidence of any of the night squad guys—detectives or patrolmen—off on any private hoots last night. It's not out of the question that a day man might have been in uniform after dark for his own reasons, but Lyle put me in touch with someone I'd heard about a few hours earlier who looks like an even better bet. Lyle knows an ex-cop—a former night squad bozo

who'd still have his old uniform and might have it in him to misrepresent himself. The man is known to lift a glass from time to time and prefers to do it in 'classy' surroundings. Lyle has set up a meeting in a suitably stimulating environment. And also—now get this—the guy now does private so-called security work. Guess who his current employer is?"

Timmy squinted and rubbed his eyes. He looked at his watch. "Who?" he said.

"Crane Trefusis."

"Jesus it's—it's almost five-thirty. You were in there for nearly two hours."

"Right. We've got just over nine hours left. While you're checking out Wilson, I'll see Trefusis—I've got to cash these checks—but first I'm meeting—"

"You knew him, didn't you?" he said, wide awake now. "I mean, really knew him. Lyle was one of them, wasn't he?"

"What? One of the famous 'Twelve Since June'?"

Twelve. What number had I told him?

He started to vibrate uncontrollably, as if his suspension system was about to go. Then suddenly he snapped, "Let me out!"

"What?"

"I said let me out of this fucking car! Stop this car and let me out. Now!"

"Look, Timmy, you're tired, exhausted—"

He opened the car door as I swung left onto Western, and if he hadn't been belted in he'd have hurtled onto the pavement.

I pulled to the curb. He unclicked the belt and was out of the car in a split second. "But, Timmy—"

I watched him stomp down the street for thirty yards. He halted, hesitated. He turned and stomped back.

He leaned down to the open window. His red, white,

and blue eyes fixed on me through two ugly little slits. He hissed, "I'll check on Wilson. I said I would do that. I'll phone you at Mrs. Fisher's with what I find out. Then I'm going to sleep. Then I'm getting up at two-thirty in the morning and I'm—going out. I don't want to be with you. I want to be with somebody else. Anybody else. You make me sick. Literally sick."

He leaned down, stuck two fingers deep into his throat, and vomited copiously into the gutter.

Love is.

"Look," I said, "it's twelve or fifteen blocks to the apartment. We should talk. Get back in and I'll ..."

He had wiped his mouth on a snow white lovingly ironed and folded handkerchief, which he had carefully removed from his back pocket with two fingers, and now he reached in and dropped the foul thing onto the seat beside me. Additional words evidently seeming to him redundant, he turned and staggered off down the avenue.

I slowly followed him for two blocks while the fuming traffic behind me honked and swerved around me.

Then, figuring first things first—Peter Greco's life now, more complicated matters later—I speeded up and took the first left toward Washington Avenue. As I passed Timmy, I watched him out of the corner of my eye watching me out of the corner of his eye. The inside of my car stank.