Poisonous Kiss

BOSON BOOKS
Raleigh

Published by
Boson Books
3905 Meadow Field Lane
Raleigh, NC 27606

For information contact

C&M Online Media Inc.

3905 Meadow Field Lane Raleigh, NC 27606 Tel: (919) 233-8164

e-mail:
[email protected]
URL:
http://www.bosonbooks.com/

The story of the cop was a made-for-tabloid tragedy: He was young, good-looking, talented—and convicted of murder. Then there was the love interest. Beautiful, about ten years older…

     Cameras were banned during his trial, so the media sent in sketch artists who came back with images straight out of last century's penny press.

     The picture is there with your morning toast and coffee. It is crafted meticulously, and includes all the details: A courtroom, simultaneously modern and puritan; the judge's bench in the middle, in front of the flag and to the right of the jury. Across from the bench are some seats occupied by the accused and his counsel.

     Arany seems almost lost in the scene. He stands between two giant, muscular police officers. He looks perfect, with a stylish suit draped over his slim frame. Even on your wedding day, you don't dress as carefully as you do in the courtroom, especially when the case involves a capital crime.

     The prosecutor had sought the death penalty. He didn't have much of a chance but it was worth a try. In cases involving police officers—even ex-police officers— judges and juries tend to be more stonehearted. Arany's attorney was hoping for much less. Maybe eight years, which would mean he would be out in five with good behavior. That would be it, if Arany was lucky. If he wasn't: maybe life.

     The artist records the neat lines of Arany's dark gray, pinstripe suit, his snowwhite shirt and his conservative tie. His neatly trimmed hair is thick and brown. Prison has yet to leave its mark—that stunned look of anger, fear and resignation a convict's face can have.

     He had been locked up for the whole trial, because the judge set a bail that neither he nor Celia could pay. "Don't let it worry you," his lawyer had told him. "It means nothing." Of course, nothing.

     In the picture, Arany looks to the left. Not at his police escort, but at Celia Allesandro, behind the officer.

     The drawing you see in the morning paper, next to your coffee and toast, gives more than any photograph can give. Photos catch the moment: Glassy eyes in the flash's harsh light, clumsy looking, unfinished moves, frozen strange faces. But a drawing can be art, even in the morning paper. It condenses. It's as if a sorcerer made one picture from the thousands living in the artist's brain. The drawing shows a characteristic motion, a hiding smile, the fear in those brown eyes.

     The tableau's dramatic center ought to be the judge's bench, the place where most people in the courtroom are looking. But Arany is looking at her. His body is twisted in a half turn, the shoulder lifted, as if his muscles were preparing to jump toward her.

     In a photo, Celia Allesandro would look about twenty-five—not much more. She is slim and girlish, in contrast with the serious, conservative suit she bought for the occasion. The clothes were her lawyer's idea, to keep the men in the jury from seeing her as a
femme fatale
and to keep the women jurors from feeling jealous. It was probably a bad idea: Her good looks showed through, and the suit defeated its purpose. The clumsy attire somehow drew the eyes to her long, exquisite thighs, her slim waist, her deeply curved hips and small, well-shaped breasts. And drawing her hair back in a tight bun only emphasized the delicate features of her face.

     But the drawing shows more than a photo would. It shows the lines around her eyes, the small, merciless signs of age on her slim neck.

     Celia is looking at Arany. There is a tension between the lovers, as if something physical—some sort of energy—spans the space that separates them. And there is an imploring look on her face, like she is about to ask something. She prays that he will remain calm.

     Looking at the picture, you can almost feel the solid muscles under his suit. His physique doesn't quite go with the businessman's attire. A restrained, badly concealed, impatience radiates from the man.

     Arany's burly escorts are hoping he doesn't try anything stupid. OK, he made a mistake, but he had been one of them once. Besides, look at her and say you don't understand him. They don't want to hurt the kid, these two—but they could. They are both over six-feet tall and each weigh at least 250 pounds. Their Colt Specials wait at their hips in open holsters.

     Of course Arany understands the look on Celia's face. His mind is flashing a halfdozen variations on its internal movie screen, like the high-speed computer that it is. He pictures ways of taking care of the guards, beginning with the two musclemen beside him. He is already aware of the grilled windows, the door where another guard was standing and—behind the judge's bench, the door to the jury room. He remembers that there are no bars on that window. If he can get the guard's gun …

     He's like a circus tiger that balances on a giant ball and then jumps through a flaming hoop. No one thinks the big cat won't be able to do its trick. The audience is watching because they want to know: Will the beast tear its tamer to pieces this time? Some unknown factor—laziness, or perhaps uncertainty—keeps the tiger in check, but only children think it's the tamer's pathetic little whip.

     The courtroom audience wonders what keeps Arany in check. He could probably put up quite a fight if he wanted to. He first made headlines when he broke up a gang of bank robbers. The result was daunting: Three dead and several seriously wounded.

     And the two of them stare at each other, their bodies straining to reach out and make contact. You see it all in the picture the next day, in one of more than 100,000 copies, with a two-column article, in the morning paper, next to the toast and coffee. A picture that tells a lot, but doesn't tell the whole story. It began with an arrest.

Dark rain. Dim lights glimmering on the damp pavement and dark shadows in the doorways. Dark fear. Arany, before leaving the car, secretly touches the gun under his coat. Don't worry. It's there, you didn't leave it home. This is the twentieth time he's felt the familiar grip. Years ago he used to believe this touch would give him a sense of security. Maybe it does some other people, not him. How does it affect Carl, he wonders. His partner, a well-dressed, heavy-built man whose bulk is a mixture of hard muscles from an athletic youth and the flab that comes from living well later. Maybe Carl is experiencing the same fear, but suppressing it. Maybe, just like Arany, he is driven by the same shame of being a coward. And maybe they've been cheating each other for two years, showing false courage. Is it possible? Could a black cop feel the same fear as Arany does in this neighborhood?

     Arany craves a bourbon, and maybe a platoon of commandos behind him. Maybe in front of him.

     "Ready?"

     Carl's voice is reassuring. They smile at each other as the door opens and the car's interior light flashes for a moment.

     Cold, fine, grainy rain drizzles, and the smell of decay and poverty pours out from the doorways, along with the noise of scurrying feet. Darkness. Carl's flashlight cuts a sharp beam of light through a small piece of the night. He holds the light in his right hand, as the left rests on the gun swinging in the holster on his hip. Graffiti covers the peeling paint on the broken street door. Arany finds it hard to move. Go on! Inside! The stairs stink of piss. Just below the second floor landing, a corpse lies flat. Or is this man alive? Carl steps over the body and Arany follows with some resolve, glancing back from above. Just a sleeping drunk. The top button of the man's jeans is open, allowing his enormous, disgusting belly to bulge freely from under his red T-shirt. There is some kind of bag near the man's hand on the floor. They walk on up to the seventh floor, silently, not panting, not complaining. The only sound is an occasional squeak from their sneakers. Arany's hand disappears under his coat. The gun. The twenty-first time. Why on earth couldn't they joke around now, at least say something.

     "Carl!" Arany shouts in a whisper.

     The big man stops short, grasping at his hip.

     "What?"

     "Tell me something!"

     "Go to hell!"

     It's 2 a.m., when most people are asleep. Even the crackheads are scarce. The sound of thick, almost ominous snoring comes through one of the doors. Pity, this isn't the place they're looking for. Room 720 is on the far end of the long corridor. Arany touches his gun one more time. He runs a finger past the safety catch. Catch 22.

     Silence from the other side of the door. The light goes out in Carl's hand and they see nothing. A slight panting is all Arany hears, but after two years of working with Carl, he knows what's happening. Carl steps back and swings his enormous leg. He hits the lock with his heel. Arany knows he wouldn't like to be on the other end of a kick like that. The cheap dead bolt gives way easily, there's the sound of wood crunching and the door slamming open.

     Carl is inside. He bumps into something and curses loudly in the darkness. Arany follows, the heavy service revolver is in his right hand. With his left he gropes around to find the switch.

     Someone is faster, and suddenly everything becomes visible. Even the one 25-watt bulb seems embarrassingly bright in this room. There is a double bed with a naked woman sitting up on the yellowish cover. Her slack breasts are still shaking. The man beside her looks to be in his early forties. He is well built, with broad, light brown shoulders and slim hips. The kind who looks good in a muscle shirt, which is all he's wearing right now. There is a long white scar on his hand. Arany knows it was made by a razor ten years before. The guy got off easy that time, because this cut was accepted as proof that the murder might have been self-defense. This time it will be different. He had crept up behind a security guard and cut the man's throat. This time he won't sue the police for harassment. This time the cops have everything. They have a witness, and they have proof. The only thing they haven't got is the guy in a cell.

     And he knows it. He grabs under the pillow as he rolls off the bed. But Carl is fast. He wouldn't survive a marathon, but his big body moves like lightning over short distances. With two leaping steps he reaches the other end of the bed, and his enormous leg kicks before the man can fire. The guy lets the gun slip and bends double, groaning.

     She doesn't scream. Violence is probably a routine part of her life—and cops are too. She just sits on the bed, her body rigid and her eyes burning with anger. Or maybe they aren't, Arany thinks, that's only my imagination. She's too worn out even to hate them.

     "Sons of bitches," she says softly and without real conviction, as if she could hear his thoughts. He doesn't answer, but puts his hand under her pillow, hoping he won't have to touch this clammy, fatty body. There's nothing there. Arany takes the woman's dress from the floor and throws it to her. Then he picks up her shiny imitation leather handbag. Some change, a hairbrush, rouge, keys, a driver's license, a pack of cigarettes, a silver-look lighter with initials—a memory of better times—a can of mace and a short, slim folding knife. With the bag still in his hand, Arany opens the door of the bathroom to find a dirty shower and, over the basin, some cheap deodorant.