Then Dan got up from the Gaybos’ table and approached the black man.
“You know, you’re saying some pretty reckless things, my friend. Saying things like that could get you in a lot of trouble around here.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“But let’s keep our priorities straight,” Dan went on. “The important thing, the essential information here, is that
you play piano.
Walter, give him a shot of something.”
“No thanks, that’s OK.”
“Whiskey, barkeep. A shot of whiskey for the maestro.”
Now the black man seemed nervous. He glanced around the room. His eyes lit upon the old piano in the corner. His whole muddy, scratched-up face seemed to silently groan.
A
ndy and James danced, and the others sang, and Romulus played “On the Street Where You Live.” He played it straight. His fingertips were sore, and it hurt to open his left hand where the thorns had dug into it, but he seemed to have no anger at all. He hadn’t had the heart to turn these folks down when they had so eagerly pressed him to play, and now he hadn’t the heart to play hob with their favorite tune. He even tossed in a few arpeggios.
He even joined in the singing.
While he played, Cassandra stood behind him and absentmindedly picked leaves and thorns off his jacket. Walter sat behind the bar and watched the Knicks game on TV with the sound turned down. But Romulus could see the old dog’s lips moving a little, mouthing the words to the tune.
When the tune came to an end, Romulus did feel obligated to leave some sort of a mark on it, so he threw in a volley of sour and unaccommodating chord-stomps. Which it turned out his audience loved. They applauded. They hollered. They brought him another whiskey, though he hadn’t finished the first one.
It surprised Romulus, how little damage it had done him to play that tune.
They asked him to play something else.
He tinkered idly with the keys.
“Oh, better not. Better not before Stuyvesant hears me. But tell me something, folks. Walter over there, what’s he got against Leppenraub?”
“Oh, he’s just jealous. He sold his old barn theater to Leppenraub for peanuts, and Leppenraub fixed it up and made it a big success and that pisses the hell out of Walter—”
Walter grunted from across the room. He said, “That’s a lie. That’s bullshit. Theater’s got nothing to do with it. I just don’t like what that pervert does to people. He comes up here and he’s fancy-pants city scum, and he’s got all this sicko art—”
“Walter, our esteemed art critic—”
“Well maybe I am. Maybe I can see what’s bullshit and you can’t. So you got a picture of a guy with his John Thomas hanging out, and somebody’s smeared blood and shit all over him, I say what’s so special? What’s so
artistic
about that? Huh? But Leppenraub, he’s got you all fooled, and he just takes your money and comes up here and buys everything in sight and he does his sick disgusting things and he makes
toys
out of people, even a poor retarded guy, he treats him like his little sicko
doll
—”
“Walter’s talking about his cousin Elon.”
Said Romulus, “Elon’s his cousin?”
“Walter thinks Leppenraub has done something terrible—”
Walter came out from behind the bar.
“I don’t think—I
know.
Everybody knows. Yeah, sure, Elon’s kind of slow, but now—well, I say he’s goddamn scared spitless. Just look at him—look at the way he shakes. Whatever you say to him, he shakes like you’re going to kill him. He didn’t used to do that before. Lot of sick stuff going on at that farm, but Leppenraub’s got him so scared he won’t talk. He won’t tell nobody.”
Romulus asked, “So why don’t you get Elon out of there?”
“Think we haven’t tried? We took the bastard to court. Ah, but he’s got lawyers coming out of his ass. You should a seen them lawyers! Ah, Christ. He had lawyers crawling all over that judge. They were squeezing his nuts! They were—”
One of the patrons rolled his eyes. Said to Romulus:
“Little bit paranoid, wouldn’t you say?”
Romulus nodded. “Yes, it certainly rings true to
me.”
Said the patron, “No, not true.
Garbage.”
Behind Romulus, the girl Cassandra said, “Oh, Archie, you
have
to defend the Leppenraubs. You work for the theater.”
Romulus raised an eyebrow. “Is that true?”
Archie nodded. “In the summers. I do set construction. Moira Leppenraub runs the foundation, and I work with her all the time.”
“Oh, there’s another one,” said Walter. “The witch.”
“No, Walter,” said Archie. “Not a witch. Or if she is a witch, she’s a white witch—OK? She’s all right. And look—I’ve been over to the farm lots of times, and I think the way David takes care of Elon is pretty damn generous.”
Walter scowled and walked off. “Bullshit.”
Said Archie, “Bullshit to you, Walter.”
Cassandra shoved Romulus over and took a place next to him on the piano stool. She was a lovely fiery blond kid, and she had a ring in her nose, and she carried with her an ostentatious display of grit-smells: leather, sweat, alcohol, onions, and metal bangles. Whiff of sheep shit from her Guatemalan wool bag.
She didn’t strike Romulus as a country girl. She seemed to belong in downtown New York, in the very bowels of downtown.
In her honor, Romulus slapped together a progression of gritty chords.
Then he fixed on Archie. “So those famous evil weekends . . .”
“They’re just a fantasy. People like Walter here, they
need
fantasies like that. It nourishes their homophobia.”
Walter had taken up his station behind the bar again. He said: “Pah. Don’t listen to him, bud, he don’t know jack shit.
He
was never invited to those weekends. None of
these
yokels ever went. Leppenraub and his witch-sister, you think they want any
local
trash at their parties? No way.”
Cassandra spoke up. “
I
went to a few.”
Andy smiled. “Yeah, we’ve heard about you and the count.”
Cassandra shrugged. “So what? So fucking what? I thought Vlad was sexy, so what?”
Andy glossed for Romulus. “Cassandra is often subject to lapses in judgment.”
With his left hand, Romulus took a handful of beer nuts from the saucer and began popping them into his mouth, one by one. With his right hand, he played a series of riffs inspired by
Cassandra’s
Lapses in Judgment.
He was sore all over. He had not had an easy night. Nevertheless here he was, and damn if his divinity was not content. The Moth-Seraphs slept. No fear, no anger, and his fingers felt right at home. He asked Cassandra:
“So was it a wild time?”
“Oh great. Best ever. He took me to a field and he played his trumpet for me. That was a
blast,
ha ha.”
“And did you ever see David Leppenraub get nasty?”
“With me? A girl?” Cassandra snorted. “I don’t think he even knew I was there.”
“And torture—you didn’t see anybody getting—”
Archie bust in. “Crap. Rumor.”
Romulus looked at him. “You mean David Leppenraub’s parties were all tea parties?”
Andy said, “No, no, we know he’s not a saint. But
torture?
Uh-uh. There’s just no evidence—”
Walter, from his perch: “
Bullshit! A witness
ain’t evidence?”
Romulus stopped tinkering with the keys.
Archie, full of indignant contempt, snapped, “Yeah? Like who’s a witness?”
“Like Clive Leif.”
Romulus asked, “Who’s Clive Leif?”
Said Walter, “Theater kid. Worked for Moira in the playhouse. You remember Clive, don’t you, Archie?”
“Sure. But he
liked
David. He respected David.”
“That’s what he told
you.
’Cause he was scared. But I got a different story. I got the truth.”
Then Walter turned to Romulus and told him: “This guy Clive, he lived here last summer. He was assistant director for the play—that David Mammoth piece a shit—and he lived here, in one of the old hotel rooms upstairs. Nice kid, a southerner, knew a lot about trout fishing. Mostly these theater guys are a pain in the tush. They think they’re so hot. I tell ’em, You’re so hot, what’re you doing in summer stock then, Mr.
De Niro,
what’re you—”
Said Archie, “Get to the
point,
Walter.”
“Point is, one day, right near the end of the season, Clive comes in here, and he’s stone drunk. I tell him, ‘You look like you have been having a time.’ And he says oh yeah, he’s been over at Leppenraub’s all weekend. And I ask him if he’d had a
good
time, but he won’t say nothing. Then he has a couple of drinks. We’re all alone here, in the bar. And then he looks up and he says. ‘That man’s a fucking monster.’ So I ask him who. And he says, ‘Leppenraub.’ So I ask him what he means, but he won’t say. He won’t say nothing. He just says,
‘Don’t ever tell him I told you that. If you tell any
body, he’ll kill me. He’ll kill you, too.’
And I wouldn’t have told, neither—except he’s been gone such a long time.”
Archie scowled. “Walter, you’re making this up.”
“I swear to God. Then he tells me he’s going. Back to New York, I figure. But uh-uh, he says he’s going
home.
Back to North Carolina. Fuck directing, he says. Forget the fucking movies. ’Cause if he doesn’t hide real quick and real good, Leppenraub’s going to have him killed. That’s the last I ever saw of him.”
Romulus remembered something.
“This kid, this—”
“Clive Leif.”
“Right. You ever see him with a video camera?”
“Sure. He
was
a video nut. Had all sorts of equipment up here.”
“Did he ever show you any tapes? Of Leppenraub’s weekends or anything like that?”
Archie broke in. “Of course not. There
are
no tapes. This is all a fabrication.”
“Which part is the fabrication?”
“All of it.”
“Then why did Clive throw his career away and go home?”
“Who says he did?”
This incensed Walter. “You calling me a liar?”
“Just a dreamer,” said Archie. “The world needs dreamers.”
Said Walter, “
I’ll
tell you why he skedaddled. ’Cause he liked to fish, but he didn’t want nobody fishing
him
out of the river.”
Then he smiled. Grinned at his own wit. Romulus hadn’t seen him smile before. The inside of his mouth looked like a Gothic ruin. Cobwebs, tiny bats.
Romulus asked him, “You have an address for him?”
“Uh-uh.”
“A telephone number? . . . A friend who might know? . . .”
“Naw. I don’t know nothing about him. Except he liked to fish.”
“
I
know something.”
This was Cassandra. She said: “I know he came from a little town called Lent. I remember ’cause it was such a weird name. Lent, North Carolina, he said.”
One of the patrons asked her teasingly, “When did he tell you
that,
Cassandra?”
“None of your business. All right, maybe we were on a date. Maybe I thought he was sexy.”
Romulus pressed. “Did he tell you anything else?”
“Yeah, he told me he was going to be the next Jonathan Demme.”
“That’s all?”
She laughed. “He said I had a cute butt.”
They all looked at her, grinning.
“I said he had a cute butt, too.”
She shrugged.
“OK. So what? Another lapse in judgment, so fucking what?”
R
omulus played “A-Tisket A-Tasket.”
While he played, Archie put on his coat, murmured his goodnights and left. So did two of the others.
Romulus played “Hit the Road, Jack.” Cassandra sang, and the others came in on the
no mo
’s.
Then Romulus’s fingers quit on him and anyway his head was swarming with music. A fine bunch of notes but his skull was getting a little crowded. Ache was elbowing out contentment. And he had nothing more to ask these people. Time to hit the road.
He rose.
They gave him a long wave of applause. Even Walter came back out from behind his bar and put his patties together—one clap.
“Hey,” he said, “you ever want to come back and play for drinks, why . . .”
They all laughed. Said Andy:
“You’re a generous man, Walter, that’s why you’re such a smashing success.”
Then Romulus looked out the window and saw a patrol car pull up.
Cassandra saw it, too. “Oh shit, it’s Deputy Warm and Fuzzy. I think I’ll just be slipping out the back.”
Walter gave her a worried look.
“What’s the matter, kid, your ID no good?”
“My ID is great, Walter. You know that. It’s just that Warm and Fuzzy thinks it’s not in synch with the real me.”
She went over and gave Walter a peck on the cheek.
“Gotta run, sweetie. Bye.”
Romulus grabbed his coat. “You know, maybe I’ll just slip out with you.”
“Hey, no need. Warm and Fuzzy won’t bother you.”
“Yeah? He said if he saw me again he’d send me to Matteawan.”
They heard footfalls just outside.
Cassandra asked, “What’s Matteawan?”
“Dungeon. But let’s talk about it another time, OK?”
The outer vestibule door creaked.
Cassandra dashed for the back of the room. She moved pretty quick considering her tight skirt and clip-clop high heels. Romulus was right behind her. Through a door, through a casualty kitchen, through a rat-shit pantry and upstairs and down a long corridor. A wing of the old hotel. Haunted rooms opening on either side of them.
As they ran she said, “Hey, what did you mean when you said Leppenraub killed Scotty?”
She asked him that out of the blue, as they clattered down the hall.
He said, “You knew Scotty?”
“Sure. He used to be my boyfriend.”
“Your
boyfriend?
My . . . Lord. So it’s
you?
You’re . . .”
“What?” she said. “You’ve heard something about me?”
He was panting. Struggling to keep up with her.
“I heard . . .”
“What? Who’s talking about me? Vlad?”