Lush Life: An Artie Deemer Mystery (20 page)

Or the Fifth Man? But I didn’t say anything because I remembered I didn’t care one way or the other. “What have they done to Crystal, Norm? Let’s talk about that.”

“Sure. Her pupils dilated?”

“Yes.”

“She slightly warm to the touch?”

She was.

“Yeah, it’s the usual. They probably gave her a tab or two of laboratory acid to loosen her up, but that’s worn off by now. Probably followed it up with a pocketful of tranqs to keep her quiet.” His tone was light and breezy, like he was talking about the view. “No sweat there.”

I studied Crystal. Her breathing and color seemed normal. I wanted to believe Norm, but I didn’t. Was it irresponsible not to take her to the hospital, regardless?

Norm seemed to be reading my mind. “There’d be repercussions to a hospital visit.”

“I told you what I cared about when we started out. If she doesn’t snap out of this we’re going straight to the hospital, fuck repercussions.”

“I hear you. But why don’t you trust me on this? Who made the deal with Tiny to leave you out of it? I had your interests in mind, even if not
fore
most in mind.”

Calabash took his eyes from the road and stared at Norm.

“You don’t even need to say it, big guy.”

We rode in silence for a while, then Norm said, “You’re not speeding, are you?”

“No, I ain’t,” Calabash snapped.

“Christ, everybody’s so hostile. We just launched and successfully completed a covert operation. Where’s that sense of camaraderie, the old all-for-one-and-one-for-all spirit? Hmm? You’re beginning to hurt my feelings.” Pause, then: “Of course, Tiny could be lying about the tape. However, I don’t think he’s got the steely nerves to sit there, the Human Fireball, and lie to me while I’m stoking my stogie. My stogie made me kind of dizzy, I was stoking so hot. No, I don’t think he’s got that degree of nerve. I guess the time of our parting draws near. I only hope you’ll fill me in on any future activity with respect to the tape. I’m sure you will, after all we’ve been through together. Nothing like covert camaraderie to build trust. There’s just one thing before we part. I don’t have a TV on the boat.”

He had put the garbage bags in the back. I reached over and squeezed one. It contained things shaped exactly like videotape cassettes. I told him it wouldn’t be so convenient to watch television at my place, what with Crystal and all, plus we had to return the van to Brooklyn and get Crystal’s car.

“I tell you what. I’ll return the van. I’ll drop you at your place and go on to Red Hook. When I come back, we’ll peruse those tapes.”

“Red Hook? Who said anything about Red Hook?”

“Isn’t that where you got the van and the phony paint job?”

“Yeah, but how—?”

“Little munchkin with a savage limp?” Norm grinned playfully.

“I’ll go with you,” said Calabash, and as an act of friendship that touched me deeply.

“Happy for your company. We can ruminate on Bahamian sunsets, one of my favorite things in this hemisphere.”

I was beginning to feel sad, now the adrenaline river had gone dry, weak and weary, now the covert operation was over. I was only too glad not to drive to Brooklyn and back, even if Norm did have something up his coveralls.

I knew it was hopeless. I knew we’d never make it in unseen. The elevator door opened on Mrs. Fishbein. She, of course, wore her Siberian-winter gear. She could barely move in it. Her ratty fur earflaps were pulled down around her face and tied under her chin. Temperature in the high eighties, humidity hovering around eighty-five percent.

“Ach! Ar-tie. Wif a
woman!
”

At that point I was almost carrying Crystal. “She’s just arrived from Finland. Serious jet lag.” I edged Mrs. Fishbein out of the elevator.

“Is it cold in here?” Crystal muttered.

“Wif a
woman!
”

On the way up, Crystal talked unintelligibly about a childhood swimming competition, which apparently she lost. By the time we were inside, she could walk with the support of a wall. But her eyes still weren’t focusing.

Jellyroll came sprinting down the hall to greet us, but he took one look at our condition and skidded to a stop on the polyurethane. I was delighted to see him. I knelt and hugged him tight. He lapped at my face.

“Oh, Artie, I love Jellyroll,” Crystal cooed. “And I love you.” She bobbed and weaved toward the bathroom. “Let’s take a shower.”

“Sure.” That seemed just then the single most erotic proposal I’d ever heard.

“Are those men coming back?”

“Yes, but not for a while.”

“Then let’s go.”

I had no idea that covert incursions were so sexually arousing.

“Do you have candles?” she asked.

“Candles?”

“Let’s put candles all around the bathroom.”

“Great. Candles. Terrific.” Giddy with expectation, I peeled off to the kitchen to rummage for candles. Crystal continued toward the bathroom. I had candles. Somewhere. Jellyroll, head cocked, watched me rummage. “Have you seen the candles, boy?” I found several in various conditions, culled the citronella, collected matches, and made for the bathroom, shedding shoes and shirt, dropping candles en route.

Crystal was already in the shower, moaning with pleasure at the hot water running over her shoulders. Her clothes were wadded up and stuff ed into the wastebasket. “Artie, who were those guys in the truck?”

“The big guy is Calabash, my friend from the Bahamas. The other guy is a spook from the CIA.”

“You’ll tell me all about it?”

“Sure,” I said, stepping out of my shorts.

“But not now.”

“Definitely not now.”

She opened her arms to me. Water coursed over her body, spilled off the ends of her nipples in deflected drops, flowed down her belly and away between her legs. Oh, Crystal. I hugged her close, sipped droplets off her breasts. She cupped me gently in the palm of her hand, and the sensation blasted through my—

Crystal’s eyes rolled back—for an instant, absurdly, I thought, Gee, I’ve never had such an effect on a woman before. Then her eyes refocused, but not for long—“Artie, I can’t. I thought I could, but I—I think I’m gonna—please get me out of this shower.”

I picked her up. Another chance to break our collarbones. I wavered, sat us down prudently on the side of the tub, flipped my feet over onto the floor, and stood up again. Our dripping limbs extinguished candles. I carried her into the bedroom and dried her off as thoroughly as possible before I tucked her under the covers. Crystal and I nestled together like spoons…

A heartbeat later, it seemed, Jellyroll’s high-pitched visitors-are-here bark woke me. Crystal stirred but didn’t wake up.

I peeked out the viewhole.

Calabash and Norm stood in the hall like a comedy team, Norm in front, the crown of his head ascending to Calabash’s sternum. Norm clutched his garbage bags by the neck, while Calabash held a steering wheel hooked in his index finger. A steering wheel? I opened the door.

“Hi, how is she?” asked Norm, breezing in. “Nice place…I like the sparse look.”

Calabash rolled his eyes as he handed me the steering wheel.

“One must always remove one’s steering wheel,” instructed Norm, “or assholes steal your vehicle.” Norm was heading for the western window to check the view.

“Thank you,” I said quietly to Calabash.

“You welcome. Dot mon’s nuts.”

“I know. Maybe we can be rid of him soon.”

“The Hudson River,” said Norm at the window. “Hell of a river, the Hudson.”

“Hey, Norm, if she’s not up and around in an hour, I’m taking her to the doctor.”

“Don’t worry. She will be. So where’s the TV?”

“It’s in the bedroom, but that’s where Crystal is. I’ll bring it out here.”

“I’m here,” said Crystal, leaning against the doorjamb. She was wearing a pair of my sweatpants and a T-shirt.

“Are you okay?” I went to her.

“I’m okay, a little dizzy.”

“Crystal, this is Calabash.”

“How do you do, Crystal?”

They shook hands.

And then I introduced her to Norm Armbrister, who bowed graciously.

“Are you in the CIA?” Crystal asked.

“No, I’m retired. I’m beyond retired—” He pulled out his obituary and, grinning impishly, unfolded it for Crystal to read.

She glanced at him suspiciously as she read it, and returned it without comment. “Well, dead or alive, thanks.”

“We couldn’t have done it,” smirked Norm, “without Artie’s brilliant plan.”

I let that slide. “Would you excuse Crystal and me for a few minutes? There are things I’d like to explain to her.”

“Sure, sure,” said Norm.

“I’ll take de occasion to mix us up a pot of rum swizzles.”

I put Jimmy Heath on the box, because I hadn’t heard his soaring big-band compositions in a while and because I wanted him to cover our conversation.

We sat close together on the edge of the bed. I told her about Barry on the park bench.

“He…just died?”

“Without a sound. Crystal, I wouldn’t be surprised if Norm were bugging the apartment right now. Otherwise, it doesn’t make much sense for him to come over here to watch the tapes.”

“What tapes? You mean the tapes Chet Burns told you about?”

“Bream. I think his name is Chet Bream.” In a whisper, I told her that DiPietro was a phony cop. Then I took her hand and told her that Norm suspected that Uncle Billy knew something about Trammell’s stolen money.

“Oh, Jesus,” was all she said.

“Do you believe it?”

“I don’t know. Trammell wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of anyone, even somebody who loved him. Artie, I’m going to call Uncle Billy right now.”

I suggested she do it quietly.

No one answered at Billy’s home. Then she called Aunt Louise, who told her that Billy had left, but she didn’t know where he’d gone. She tried the Golden Hours. Someone Crystal knew named Mark answered. Mark told her that Billy had gone out to Montauk bluefishing with one of his cronies, someone named Arnie Lovejoy.

“…I’ve been neglecting Billy,” she said.

“Let’s take the TV and the VCR into the living room, get this over with. I want to close off the bedroom to Norm. I can’t lock the door, but we can watch him when he goes to the john.”

She nodded. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her knuckles were white.

“Christ Almighty,” said Norm as we ran the first of over a hundred tapes. “It’s ‘The Mayhews.’ Remember that piece of shit?”

I could still hum the sickening-sweet theme music. I could still see, even before it had come up on the screen, the tugboat
Jolly Roger
. The Mayhews lived aboard the
Jolly Roger
. It was a rust bucket, meant to be endearingly folksy. Milt and Bingo
Mayhew were the salt of the earth circa 1962. They stood for all that was straight and true, all the solid-upstanding-Christian-traditional values in American society that people killed for. “The Mayhews” was conceived to affirm the status quo and to keep everybody in their place. Bingo and Milt Mayhew had an adopted son, Timmy, played of course by Trammell Weems, who attended junior high school in the “Valley.” People from the Valley put on airs, subscribed to fads, valued status over character, appearance over reality, form over substance. The Valleyites bowed down to graven images, worshiped money, and never said grace before dinner. The Valley was bad; the Mayhews were good.

Every half-hour episode was the same. Timmy would go off to the Valley, there to become temporarily polluted by brazen displays of superficial wealth and conspicuous consumption. He’d come back aboard the
Jolly Roger
imitating, c comically, the denizens of the Valley. Just before the commercial at the fifteen-minute mark, Timmy would inevitably say, “Gee, why can’t you be like other guys’ moms and pops?”

Milt would wipe his hands on his oily rag—he was always working on the engine, which never ran—exchange knowing glances with Bingo while she cooked a wholesome meal from all four food groups, and then we at home knew Timmy was about to learn a lesson in humility, perseverance, thrift, honesty, modesty, truth, justice.

Having learned it, baby-faced Trammell would, before the final commercial, say, “Gee, you guys are all right after all.”

Milt and Bingo would exchange another look. Then Milt would say, “Come on, son, we’ll get this engine going yet.”

“Jesus,” said Norm, “you don’t think
all
these are ‘The Mayhews’?…Hell, we’ve got to watch them all, I guess. I’d rather get mugged. We can fast-forward, but Tiny could have edited the tape in there anywhere, the sneaky bastard.”

Down on the street a car alarm blared.

“Listen, Norm,” I said, “if the tape’s here, it’s not in our interests to see it. I don’t want to be inhospitable, but why don’t you take them somewhere else to watch? If you don’t have a VCR, take mine with my thanks.”

Norm grinned at me. “Well, there’s still a few items that warrant discussion. There could be trouble, and I don’t want us to go off half-cocked.”

“But you said—”

“I said Tiny’s not going to come after you, and I stand by that. But I can’t speak for the others.”

“Mr. Armbrister, do you know my uncle Billy?”

“Norm. Call me Norm. No, I never had the pleasure.”

“Did you tell Artie that Uncle Billy knows about Trammell’s stolen money?”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your uncle Billy, but I wanted to wait till you were sprier. Let’s say Trammell decided that he was better off dead, all things considered. Hell, I can relate to that. Let’s say he didn’t have a lot of time to plan out the details of his death.” Norm paused to put in another tape. He fast-forwarded through the theme music and the
Jolly Roger
bullshit. “Trammell stole maybe ten, maybe fifteen million bucks from VisionClear before he disappeared. You can’t be moving money around offshore banks after you’re dead without attracting some attention. You need a living person to do that.”

“Not Uncle Billy—?”

“I don’t know for sure. But I happen to know there’s an amount in the National Bank of the Bahamas in the name William Barraclough. Billy Barraclough was a secret shareholder in Tropical Trust while he was head of the accounting firm auditing Tropical Trust. Tricky relationship, patently illegal. They fished Billy Barraclough out of a south Florida drainage canal four years ago. They finally identified him by his dental records.”