Slate (22 page)

In the upper left hand corner of the first page was typed:

Sweeney Drysdale II

Column

BAR, Issue 82, Vol. III

She read the items quickly, discounting them one by one. Her foot tapped in anxiety. At the last lines on the second page, her foot stopped in the midst of a downward beat.

She reread the item, folded the sheets of paper closed again, then slipped them back into the envelope and put it into her left coat pocket. She picked up the cigarette package that had fallen, put the bedside table back in its place, and snapped out the lamp. Unceremoniously, she let herself out of the apartment, then rushed up the steps and flew across the entryway to the front door.

She had no difficulty in securing another taxi.

C
LARISSE SHOVED THROUGH the doors of Slate at only twenty minutes before midnight. One of the panels slammed into Joe's knee where he sat in the entranceway.

“Sorry, Clarisse,” said Joe. “I guess I was too close.”

“It's all right,” said Clarisse hurriedly, gazing across the enormous crowd. In the last half hour, Joe had admitted everyone in line. Fire inspectors went into hibernation on New Year's Eve, and Slate, like every bar in town, was crowded far past its legal capacity. Joe touched Clarisse's sleeve. “I thought you were up in the office,” he said.

“I got called away suddenly,” she said. “I had to go to a sick friend's apartment.”

“I hope they're better,” said Joe earnestly. “Have you got my keys? I feel naked sitting here without them.”

Clarisse reached impatiently into her coat pocket and dropped the key ring into Joe's waiting palm.

“Thanks,” said Joe. “And Happy New Year.”

“It had better be,” said Clarisse darkly.

Clarisse pushed through to the bar, offering few apologies on the way. Holding plastic champagne glasses, Mr. Fred, Miss America, and Julia were crowded at Ashes' end of the bar. Mr. Fred's glass was filled with what Clarisse hoped was a soft drink. Julia was dressed in black tie and tails with her leather motorcycle hat raked back on her head.

Clarisse slipped between Miss America and Julia. Ashes stood facing her, filling a dozen or so of the glasses with champagne. Several dozen more were neatly lined up nearby. Clarisse held her hand over the next glass he was to fill.

“You don't want any?” he asked.

“I want Valentine,” said Clarisse. “Tell him to come down here.”

“Clarisse, we're very busy,” Ashes complained. Clarisse grabbed the bottle from his hand. “Now,” she said.

Miss America, Mr. Fred, and Julia glanced uncomfortably at one another. Ashes headed down to the other end of the bar. Clarisse began filling glasses herself while she waited.

Down at the other end, Ashes tapped Valentine on the shoulder and then conferred with him briefly. Linc, still sitting where he had been all evening, peered past Valentine at Clarisse. His glance was worried.

“Is anything wrong?” asked Miss America, gently touching Clarisse's arm.

“I'm fine,” said Clarisse grimly, continuing to pour.

In an attempt to lighten the tone, Mr. Fred exclaimed, “Don't you love my jacket, Clarisse? America made it especially for tonight. The fittings were
hell
. She stuck so many pins in me I felt like a voodoo doll.”

“It's gorgeous, Mr. Fred,” said Clarisse perfunctorily. She looked at Julia as she put down the empty bottle. “Where's Susie?”

“Over in the corner,” Julia said sourly, “talking to a couple of her regulars.”

“Regulars? In here?”

“Vice cops from across the street.”

At that moment, Susie Whitebread came up behind Julia. She wore matching black tie, and her hair had been permed into a short afro. “You're my only vice,” she said, snaking her arm around Julia's waist. At that moment Ashes and Valentine appeared. As Clarisse was about to speak to them, Susie exclaimed, “And wasn't no cop I was talking to neither! I was talking to Ashes' friend who fixed our Betamax.” She smiled at the bartender. “He did a fan-fuck-ing-tas-tic job on that piece of machinery, honey. I thought I was never gonna get to look at Miss Nav-ra-ti-lov-a again!“

Valentine's eyes widened when he heard this, and he glanced at Clarisse. She looked back without apparent surprise.

“Repair shops rip you off,” said Ashes. “Glad he was able to help you, Susie.”

Linc had threaded his way through the crowd and now stood just behind Clarisse, sipping his beer and trying to pretend that he had come there only by chance.

Valentine stood uneasily behind the bar, looking back to his deserted station. All the champagne glasses were gone, and about three dozen men down there were clamoring for more. “What's this all about, Clarisse?” he asked impatiently.

Clarisse whipped the open envelope from her pocket and withdrew the two folded sheets of paper. She shook them open and held them up for Valentine to see. She dropped them face up on the bar.

“Now we go upstairs,” she said, looking at Valentine and Ashes.

Julia, Susie, Mr. Fred, Miss America, Linc, and a drunk that nobody had ever seen before craned around to try to get a look at the papers.

“How in the hell did you get hold of that?” demanded Ashes incredulously. He made a grab for them, but Clarisse smoothly slid them out of the reach of his grasp.

“What is it?” cried Mr. Fred excitedly. “America, can you see what it is?”

“No,” said Miss America, who had been standing right next to the pages. She backed away from the bar. Julia sidled in closer and glanced at the papers on the bar. She craned her neck to get a better look. She turned back to Susie and said, “Somebody better turn off them fans up there, or we are all gonna get splattered.”

“You bet,” Clarisse snapped without taking her eyes from Ashes.

Linc began to edge away into the crowd again, but Clarisse, who caught this movement, reached around and clutched his biceps. “Stay,” she said with brittle sweetness. “Hang around for a while.”

Valentine signaled to Felix and told him to get Larry and come behind the bar to continue filling champagne glasses. “We'll be back in a few minutes,” he assured the nervous runner.

“Can America and I come, too?” Mr. Fred asked Clarisse as he looked about for his sister. He couldn't see her in the crush.

Clarisse gathered up the papers. “No,” she said, somewhat coldly. She turned to him and stared for a moment into his cherubic face. “You know, Mr. Fred, I think you may be in a little trouble. And I'm not sure if America is going to be able to get you out of it this time.”

“What?” said Mr. Fred, his smile disappearing suddenly. “What are you talking about, Clarisse?”

“Don't leave, Mr. Fred,” she said. “We're going to want to speak to you in a little while.”

Clarisse pushed Linc toward the coatcheck room.

Valentine and Ashes came from behind the bar and followed them up to the office.

Clarisse sat stiffly in one of the armchairs. Linc had seated himself nervously and uncertainly on the edge of the other. Valentine perched on the edge of the desk while Ashes, with folded arms, leaned back against the one-way mirror, glaring at Clarisse.

She handed Valentine the two sheets of paper, and he began reading. Ashes turned and stared down into the massive crowd in the bar below. The clock read twelve minutes of twelve.

“The good part is at the bottom of the second page,” said Clarisse.

Valentine flipped over the page and read aloud: “ ‘Men, do you need your 'stache put in shape? Ladies, would you like a shellacked dip that reaches into the next room? Well, run, drive, or fly to your neighborhood drug box—called an automatic bank teller in some circles—and then keep on going to a dynamite little spot where you will not only be dealt with fairly, but can get a splendid tease, a terrific tint, a perfect perm, and a dynamic dye—to say nothing of gladness by the gram, ecstasy by the ounce, and complete contentment by the capsule. Where, you ask, is this truly special haven of tonsorial splendor and chemical happiness? It's been a well-kept secret for years, but if you can fill in the blanks below, you can get your hair curled and your brain fried at the same time. Got a pencil? Try it, guys and girls. It's Mr. F***'s T**** n T***, down on W*rr*n Ave***, across from D*str**t D, and right next door to the soon-to-be S*ate.”‘

Valentine looked up and around. “Mr. Fred deals? Mr. Fred?”

“It's not as bad as Sweeney made out,” Ashes replied calmly. “Nothing heavy—mostly just ups and downs. He does it more as a convenience for his girls than anything else.” He looked at Valentine and Clarisse. “Sweeney always knew about it.”

“Then why did he suddenly decide to print it?” Valentine asked.

“Miss America said—Ashes began.

“America knows about this column?” Clarisse exclaimed.

“Sure. I showed it to her the day after I found it in Sweeney's desk,” said Ashes. “It seems that one of Fred's clients had been making house calls on a mayoral candidate—while his wife was in the house. Sweeney found out about it and thought it was hot enough to peddle to the press, which it probably was. He wanted Fred to pump the hooker for all the sordid info he could get on the candidate. Fred refused, and Sweeney got angry and yelled a lot, but Fred wouldn't back down.”

“So Sweeney threatened to put that item in the column if Fred wouldn't change his mind,” said Valentine.

“Sweeney told him he was going to shut down the Tease ‘n' Tint,” said Ashes flatly.

“So that's what he meant,” murmured Linc, then snapped his mouth shut.

They all looked at him, and after a moment's consideration, Linc relented. “When I was telling Sweeney all about Rent-a-Wrench, he said he knew of this great space that was going to be opening up soon, and it was very close by. He said it would be perfect for me, and he could pull strings and make sure I got it. Obviously, he was talking about Mr. Fred's place.”

“What strings could he have pulled?” Valentine asked. “Linc, you know Clarisse and I control that building.”

Clarisse sat forward in her chair. “Why did you lie about not being able to find the column?” she asked Ashes.

Ashes hesitated. He glanced again down to the bar, and then said lightly, “Oh, you never know when evidence like that might come in handy.”

“For blackmail?” asked Valentine.

Ashes impassively raised his brows but made no denial.

“Why did you show the column to America?” Clarisse wanted to know. “Why do you care what happens to Fred?”

“I'm his supplier,” said Ashes bluntly.

“Did Sweeney know that?” asked Valentine quickly.

Ashes nodded toward the column. “Obviously, he didn't. He'd have had blood in his mouth if he had known.”

They were all silent a moment; then Linc blurted out, “What am I doing here? I didn't have anything to do with all this drug stuff. I—

“You're here,” Clarisse answered, “so that we can hear the truth.”

“The truth?” Linc echoed.

“About what really happened that night after the party. You didn't go downstairs ‘to pack up tiles,' did you? You didn't see Sweeney out of the apartment, did you? He died while you two were both up there, didn't he?”

“No,” said Linc. “Honestly. He didn't.”

“Us or the cops, Linc,” said Valentine.

The noise from outside was growing louder and more raucous as midnight grew closer.

“All right,” Linc said with resignation. “No, I didn't go downstairs. After we did it, he—”

Ashes seated himself on the edge of the desk next to Valentine to listen.

—he went to the bathroom to wash up. I was in the living room, and I heard this noise—it was like a firecracker. I thought he'd broken something, so I went down the hall to the bathroom. The door was closed, so I knocked, and when he didn't answer, I went in. He was lying on the floor, and at first I thought he'd fainted. But when I turned him over, I saw the bullet wound and the blood.”

Linc was looking down at his hands. He raised his eyes. “Somebody shot him through the bathroom window.” He glanced at Clarisse. “It was open about halfway, and since the sink is right next to the window, he must have been looking at himself in the mirror. Somebody out on the fire escape just reached inside and pulled the trigger, and that's all there was to it.”

“What did you do?” Clarisse asked evenly.

“I took a towel out of the hamper, wrapped it around his head, and carried him into the bedroom and laid him out on the bed. Then I took the towel off him and went back to the bathroom and wiped up the blood. I put the towel in the dumpster behind District D.”

“Didn't it occur to you to call the police?” Valentine inquired. “I mean, since Sweeney was shot and there wasn't a gun around, it would seem unlikely that you had done it.”