Bagmen (A Victor Carl Novel) (13 page)

CHAPTER 24

MONKEY’S PAW

A
t about six o’clock in the evening I grabbed a spot at the window of a coffee bar where I could suck down a jolt of espresso while keeping an eye on Eighteenth Street.

“I need to see you,” Ossana DeMathis had said over the phone that morning. “When can you shake free?”

“I have a couple of meetings this afternoon. Maybe six?”

“Okay, where?”

I thought on this a second, and let a flame of suspicion rise to lick my jaw. “There’s a place called the Franklin on Eighteenth. Do you know it?”

Perhaps I imagined the slightest hesitation before she said, “No. No, I don’t.”

“South of Chestnut. It’s just a small place. Let’s say six fifteen to be safe.”

“Okay, yes. To be safe. See you then, Victor. And thank you.”

No,
I thought.
Thank you.

Why did I find Ossana DeMathis so enthralling? Of course there were her sharp aristocratic looks, her lithe hard body, her skin pale as an acquiescence, her deranged green eyes that haunted the soul. But the allure of a woman always goes beyond raw physicality into the land of self-transcendence. I’m not looking for a woman to complete me; my God, just the thought of it horrifies. Why would I ever want to become a complete me when I could be something new and shiny? And that’s what the most attractive women promise.

With a thin waif with tight black pants spackled with paint, I could become bohemian Victor. With a saintly earnest type with long legs and arms full of pamphlets, I could become dedicated-to-a-cause-greater-than-myself Victor. With a laughing woman at a bar with the big drink and breasts like twin gerbils ready to spring from their cages, I could become hedonistic Victor, sucking the very marrow of life right through her nipples. And with Ossana—connected Ossana, red-haired and distant Ossana, dressed-to-the-max Ossana, haughty and naughty Ossana—I could become political Victor, rising, rising.

But no matter how much I wanted to rise with Ossana, I wasn’t going to be her sap. Somebody had spied on my meeting with Jessica Barnes, and I wasn’t ready to exclude anyone. My time for being less than utterly careful had passed.

At precisely a quarter past six, there she came, checking the street addresses with a piece of paper in her hand. She looked good walking up the street, her body slim, her copper hair glossy, her eyes mascaraed to within an ounce of their lives, her outfit formal enough to make it seem she had dressed for the occasion, but still kicky, with a pair of shocking-red fishnets scissoring out of a flat black skirt. She stopped in front of the bar, looked left and right, hesitated a moment, glanced down as if she had never before considered that a bar might live down that stairway.

Was her uncertainty real? Was it an act? Did it seem slightly staged, as if she knew I was somewhere watching? Did it matter? Just the sight of her blurred my suspicion into something else, a fizzle and pop of possibility. I drained the espresso and waited a moment to make sure no one was following her. I hitched up my pants in eagerness when I hit the street.

She was sitting at one of the small tables in the middle of the room, right next to the table I had shared with Jessica Barnes. When she saw me, her mouth twitched just enough so that I felt it in my chest, at the exact spot, in fact, she had placed her hand at our meeting before.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Is this one of your regular spots?”

“No, but my regular spot is a bit regular.” I pulled out a chair and joined her at the table. “You’ve never been here before?”

“No, never.”

“You found it easy enough.”

“I got the address from the Google.”

“Handy, that thing. They don’t serve much food here, but they’re pretty clever with their drinks.”

When the waitress came amidst the smallest of small talk, Ossana ordered herself a cosmo, and I asked for a Sazerac.

“I thought your drink was a Sea Breeze.”

“A harder cocktail fits the new line of work I’m trying.”

“What line is that?”

“Upholstery.”

She laughed and then grew quiet. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Is that why you needed to see me?”

“No, but still I have.”

“Good, then whatever I’m doing, it’s working.”

When the drinks came, Ossana thanked the waitress and lapped at her reddish liquid like a cat. My Sazerac was brilliant enough to make me think of taking hold of Ossana’s wrist and licking off her flock-of-birds tattoo.

“It was something you told me the other day,” she said. “How you welcomed the way all the people at the Governor’s Ball stared at you like you were a leper.”

“Aren’t you sick of it all?” I said. “Dressing right, acting right, minding your precious manners.”

“My God, yes.”

“Then stop.”

Her lips slipped into a sad smile with a hint of wistfulness. “I don’t have your courage. But just once I’d like to watch them shrink away like leeches from salt when they see me.”

“Your time will come.”

“Victor, you’re sweet. But there’s a reason we all wear our masks. Except for you.”

“Oh, I wear mine, like any opportunistic striver in this foul little world. Did you see the shoes I wore to the ball?”

“They were darling.”

“See, I try. I’m just not very good at sucking up, thus my fallback position. As the man said, ‘There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.’ ”

“I don’t think Camus meant the scorn that others feel for you.”

“You know the quote? I’m impressed.”

“I majored in French literature in college.”

“I’m sure that was useful in the job market.”

“I wasn’t very good at making café au laits, but my pronunciation was sterling. Do you like being the new Colin Frost?”

“It pays well and sure beats what I was doing before.”

“And what was that?”

“Wallowing in poverty.”

“You?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I can’t imagine it. You’re such a go-getter.”

“Is that what I am?”

“Like a regular Sammy Glick. Has anyone told you that before?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And you don’t like it.”

“No.”

“I meant it as a compliment. That reminds me, I have this for you.”

She reached into her bag, an expensive one, I could tell, because it was a gaudy advertisement for itself, and pulled out an envelope, which she slid across the table. The Franklin was getting to be quite the place for envelopes. I opened hers, took out the paper, gave it a quick scan, put it back into the envelope. It was a list of names, each followed by a figure. I supposed it was time to start spreading the love for the Congressman’s reelection campaign, which meant that Ossana was my new contact. Somehow I didn’t like that. Somehow, along with the Sammy Glick crack, it made me feel like the help, which, to be honest, was exactly what I was. But still.

“Last time I was in this bar,” I said, deciding to shake things up a bit, “I was having drinks with a murder victim.”

“Here?” She looked around, her expression a bit theatrical. But then everything she did was a bit theatrical. “This very bar?”

“That table right there,” I said, tapping the marble next to us.

“What did she tell you?”

“The story of her life.”

“Was it captivating?”

“No, it was just sad. And then it ended.”

“Do they know who killed that woman yet?”

“No. Nor why.”

“What do they think?”

“That it was robbery. Or maybe something else. They’re still at sea.”

“Then what do they know?”

“They know that I took money from Mrs. Devereaux and gave it to the woman and that the money wasn’t on her when they found her body.”

“My God, where did they learn all that?”

“Not from me,” I said.

“There’s a leak.”

“Yes, there’s a leak. But I’ll take care of it. That’s what I do for my dollar, take care of things.”

“Yes, that’s what you do,” she said, putting her hand on mine. “And we’re all so grateful.”

“So let’s get back to the darkness at the base of your soul that you are sick to death of hiding.”

“Can we please not?”

“Maybe it’s time to show someone.”

She pulled her hand away. “Trust me, Victor, you don’t want to see.”

“But I do. You’ve whetted my appetite.”

Her bright lips twitched. “You’re like the little boy saying he wants to go to the horror movie. ‘Please, Mommy, I can handle it.’ And if she relents, he’s the first one to run out screaming.”

“Are you saying you think your darkness is darker than mine?”

“No, I’m not saying that at all. Listen closely, Victor. What I’m saying is that my darkness eats your darkness for brunch with a lemon hollandaise and a flute of champagne.”

“Oh, Ossana, you’re a sunny day in Spain.”

She laughed. “Are we really fighting over which of us is more vile?”

“I guess we are.”

“Why do I find that so stimulating?”

“Because it’s as twisted as we are.”

“We might both be twisted, yes, but not similarly, and not to the same degree.”

“Want to bet?”

“Now you’re just being silly.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m serious as sin.”

“All right then, if you insist. We’ll bet.”

“What stakes?”

“Something small and mean, I would think, something as abominable as our worthless souls. A penny?”

“Not worthless enough. I once saw a taxidermied monkey’s paw in a curio shop. A single little paw with humanlike fingers and pale-yellow nails. The skin was ebony and there were tufts of hair, and the way it was shaped, with a deformed twist, it formed a terrifying maw, like the mouth of some horrid alien creature. And the mouth was talking to me.”

“What was it saying?”

“‘Feed me,’ it said. ‘Feed my paw.’ ”

“When are we having sex, Victor?”

“I can fling your leg over my shoulder and have your breast in my mouth in fifteen minutes.”

“I have to warn you. You’ll be bitterly disappointed.”

“I doubt it,” I said. But damn if she wasn’t right.

CHAPTER 25

THE MANNEKEN PIS

C
onnie Devereaux dropped her desiccated claw onto my knee and gave a squeeze. “You are such a darling. Why I could just eat you alive.”

“I don’t doubt it, Connie,” I said and we both laughed and laughed.

We were alone in her parlor, sitting side by side on a love seat, sharing a convivial drink made for us by dear Reginald before he sullenly backed out of the room. My bag was beside me on the floor, two crystal bowls on the coffee table were filled with sweet bundles of cash, and Connie’s blouse was coming undone, giving me a view of her liver-speckled flesh and the shriveled tops of breasts stuffed like limp jack-in-the-boxes into her black lace bra. It was all I could do to stop myself from gagging, and that was before she leaned over and bit my earlobe, hard.

“Yikes,” I said. “What sharp teeth you have.”

“That, my dear boy, is a warning.”

I pulled at my ear. “Is it bleeding?”

“Give it time. The police have come asking questions.”

“McDeiss?”

“That was one of the names, yes. A big mass of a man. They do grow them big in Philadelphia. How did they know of me? Have you been indiscreet?”

“I am the very soul of discretion,” I said, “but there has been a leak. I’m on it, though. I’ll plug it one way or the other.”

“See that you do. All the kerfuffle has troubled me greatly. I have told the Congressman that I might have to turn off the spigot. And in any event, he hasn’t been very solicitous lately. He isn’t returning my calls, and neither is that lackey of his, that Tom Mitchum person, who always looks like he just came from a funeral.”

“The Congressman has to be extra careful these days.”

“I understand. With the papers linking him to a murder, it is a trying time for all of his supporters. And how unfortunate that the link was through you, Victor darling.”

“It couldn’t be avoided.”

“Isn’t that what Admiral Kimmel said of Pearl Harbor before they took his stars? But because I can’t so easily contact my congressman anymore, I must send my messages through you. Can I trust you to be a reliable go-between?”

“Yes, Connie, you can trust me as much as any politician.”

“Now you’re being funny? Good. Drink up, Victor. Maybe we’ll play some today.”

“Oh, I won’t be much fun. Isn’t Heywood around? His pectorals are so much bigger than mine.”

“They are, aren’t they?” She sidled closer and rubbed my chest through the suit jacket. “My heavens, Victor, I can feel the bones beneath your flesh. You have the chest of a sparrow. You should work out more.”

“I would if it wasn’t such work.”

“Muscles are very becoming in a man, and Heywood certainly is becoming.”

“Becoming what?”

“Oh, you. But today is his day off and I’m lonely.”

“You have Reginald to keep you company.”

“I’m getting tired of Reginald.”

“I think we’re all getting tired of Reginald. So what is it you want me to pass on to the Congressman?”

“That I am growing impatient.”

“With what?”

“Oh, he’ll know. My Heywood is little more than a clenched muscle in both the chest and the head. He doesn’t have your charm.”

“Few do,” I said.

“But he satisfies me, Victor. Oh, does he satisfy me. And so I keep him on. If he failed to satisfy me, I would drop him like a dead trout. You tell the Congressman that I am not feeling satisfied and he is beginning to smell like a rotting fish.”

“And what is it that will satisfy you, Connie?”

“Just let him know that if a certain bill doesn’t pass out of his committee and soon, I might have trouble rustling up enough ready cash to fill your bag. And tell him that I like Mr. Bettenhauser’s smile. It does something to my stomach. I have the urge to nuzzle the war hero’s neck. Did you get all that?”

“Oh, yes, I got all that.”

“Good,” she said, giving my leg another squeeze. “Now, Victor, tell me about yourself. What do you like? Do you want to know what I like?”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me.”

“Everything,” she said.

When I managed to leave that room with my bag full, my pants still on, and the faint vestiges of my remaining virtue still intact, Reginald was standing stiffly by the house’s front door, a disapproving mannequin in his pin-striped suit. His perfect blue tie was tied with a perfect double Windsor. The pack of purebred fur balls swam like a school of piranhas about his shiny black oxfords. He eyed my bulging bag like I was taking out the afternoon sewage.

“Perky boss you’ve got there,” I said.

“I hope you remembered everything,” said Reginald. “We wouldn’t want you leaving anything behind.”

“I didn’t bring a hat.”

“That’s not what I was referring to.”

“You don’t approve of me, do you, Reginald?”

“Your powers of observation are startling.”

“Where are you from? I’m having a hard time placing the accent. London, is it?”

“The outskirts.”

“The outskirts of merry old London. God save the Queen and all that rubbish. Pubs and pints and shepherd’s pie, bangers and mash, fish and chips, rotting teeth. I like your tie. What is it?”

“Lanvin,” he said, as if it meant something.

“Get that at Boyds, did you?”

“And that thing around your neck, did you pick that up at Walmart?”

“Target, actually. I’ve gone upscale. Let’s say we swap.”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in such a thing.”

“Don’t tempt me. You know, it’s funny, your virulent disapproval, because I think we’re pretty similar.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Victor. Someone like you, with your greasy little bag, you have nothing in common with me.”

“Greasy? Why, I might be insulted if you had actually grown up on the outskirts of London, where the taste in accessories is oh so refined. But I don’t think the air is so rarefied in Northeast Philly, where you were born and raised, you sly little fraudster, you.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed with your research?”

“I grew up only a few miles west of you, actually. Abington.”

“The suburbs,” said Reginald, with a slight sneer. “Poor little rich boy.”

“Not me. The part I grew up in was as far from sunshine and roses as you can get. At root we’re pretty similar, kids who went to law school because there was nothing else for us to do and who are now just trying to work our schemes without getting pissed on.” I leaned close enough to make him draw back slightly. “And you’re pissing on my head, Reginald.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“Of course you do, you little guttersnipe. It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, trying to use the cops to thin the competition. See, I know your type; I am your type. And you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t after something bigger than a sycophantic position in this horrid old house. My guess is you’re making a long play for the whole ball of Devereaux wax.”

It was just a guess, the flimsiest of feints, but the way he held his head perfectly still, the way his eyes blinked and his lips hardened, told me that I had hit on something. Maybe not everything, but something, and that was opening enough.

“Good for you. I admire ambition in a man, and no one deserves to have her fortune stripped from her withered hands more than that old bag. And who better to take care of it than her dutiful lawyer. But if I get one more drop of your piss on my head, Reginald, then you’re through here.”

“You don’t have what it takes to interfere.”

“Maybe I’ll take your play for my play, you little pissant. Oh, you may coo in her ear, but I know enough to know that cooing doesn’t plant her turnips. If you were able to satisfy Connie the way she dreams of being satisfied, then she wouldn’t need Heywood, and she wouldn’t be coming on to me like a freight train. So far I’ve demurred as politely as a schoolboy—I prefer my meat a bit more undercooked—but have no doubt that if I put my mind to it, I could overcome the revulsion and crank into her like Paul Bunyan’s big blue ox. I’ll screw her upside and down, downside and up, night and day and fast and slow and hard and true, until her tears are flowing. And in the midst of all that raw rough stuff she so much loves, I’ll whisper sweet nothings into her ear about trusts and estates and powers of attorney, and the next thing you know I’ll be standing at the doorway in pin-striped Dior with a blue Lanvin tie, listed as the executor on all her estate documents, and you’ll be back to trolling for fender benders on Roosevelt Boulevard to pay your rent. Are we clear?”

“Yes, we are clear,” he said through clenched white teeth after a long moment during which he let the truth of it soak into his skin. His accent was no longer tinged with Brit, but pure Philadelphia and flush with hate.

“Now give me your Lanvin.”

“My what?”

“Give me your tie. We’re swapping,” I said as I began to untie my own. “I want to be ready when the call comes. You can have this.”

“I don’t want that.”

“Tough,” I said. “You’ll wear it and you’ll like it.”

I pulled the tie from beneath my collar with a brisk yank and held it out to him.

Reginald stared at it like it was a dead possum hanging from my hand. He looked back up at my face and leaned away as if I were indeed a strange and fantabulous creature, huge and blue and horned, and ready to chew off his face.

“You’re going to keep your mouth shut and your eyes open,” I said, “and you’re going to let me know anything that might interest me. Especially if it involves the Congressman or that murder investigation. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes, Babe the Blue Ox, sir.”

“Yes, Babe the Blue Ox, sir,” he said.

“Now give me the fucking tie.”

First slowly, and then with sudden angry jerks, each spasm a perfect metaphor for exactly what he was, Reginald loosened his Lanvin.