“Cheapskate. You’ll owe me a beer. Ultimately, all Linda Porters are descended from the same bush—a hybrid developed by the American Rose Association in the early sixties. Cole Porter bought the patent and named it for his late wife.”
“That bush must have had quite a few descendants by now.”
“A lot fewer than you’d think. It never caught on with the commercial growers.”
“Then the roses from the grave probably didn’t come from a florist.”
“No way. Florists don’t handle them. Linda Porters don’t freeze and they don’t ship.”
“Then they had to be grown locally.”
“Very locally.”
Cardozo thanked Lou and sat tapping his pen against the name
Vanderbrook.
He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and hauled out the telephone directory. A dozen pages had been ripped out, apparently at random, but not the page running from
Valjean
to
Vanderkolet.
He found a Wheelwright Vanderbrook listed, phone number but no address.
He tried the number and let it ring ten times.
He laid the receiver back in the cradle.
Just above Wheelwright Vanderbrook, a Baxter M. Vanderbrook was listed on Park Avenue. He dialed Baxter’s number.
After three rings a man answered. “Hello?”
“I wonder if you could help me. I’m trying to get in touch with Wheelwright Vanderbrook.”
“With reference to what?” The voice was cultivated and almost irritatingly nasal.
“He directed the music for a show at St. Andrew’s Church a year and a half ago. I need some information on an accident involving one of the dancers.”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“Absolutely not. My name is Vincent Cardozo, I’m—”
The voice cut him short. “I find it absolutely appalling that you would phone me about a matter like this.”
The connection broke, and a dial tone hummed in Cardozo’s ear.
In her study, Bonnie Ruskay began to pace. Evening was a rose glaze coming over the wall of books. When she looked toward the window, shafts of violet light blinded her. When she closed her eyes she could see the police lieutenant’s deep eyes and his knowing, worn-down frown.
Something about his question nagged at her. It was as though the question itself was whispering a message:
I know
—
I saw
—
I’m on to you.
She lifted the telephone receiver. Her fingers were trembling. The first time she punched in the numbers she must have hit a wrong button. A voice answered that she didn’t recognize.
“I’m sorry.”
She broke the connection and dialed again, carefully this time. She braced herself for the machine but instead got a live human voice. “Hello?”
“Collie—you’re home.”
“Hello, Bonnie. You sound funny. Something the matter?”
“I hope not. Are you busy this evening?”
“Not especially.” She could hear the thoughtful little frown in Collie’s tone of voice.
“Could you meet me?” she said.
“All right.”
“And Collie—don’t use the van this time. I’ll explain when I see you.”
EIGHTEEN
H
IGH ABOVE THE WAREHOUSE,
a half moon glowed in a cradle of cirrus. On the dock, areas of darkness ribbed the spaces of pale light. Shadows danced across the boundaries.
Seated in the rear of the taxicab, Bonnie and Collie watched the shadows, the same dancing shapes she had watched for two nights. And the shadows watched back.
“Have you used the van lately?” she asked.
His eyebrows bunched together and his dark eyes focused nervous pinpricks of light on her. “You know I have.”
“Besides the children. Have you used it for anything else in the last three months?”
“I don’t recall.” His voice was troubled. “I shouldn’t think so.”
From time to time headlights hunted through the darkness on the far side of the windshield. So far Bonnie had counted three police cars, one ambulance, five limousines.
“Try to remember,” she urged, but gently, so as not to panic him.
“Why?” He turned, and she could feel fear radiating from him.
“The police have been asking.” She kept her eyes fixed on the pier. The limousines worried her. Each time, the game was the same: the headlights searched the crowd for one special young girl or boy. When they caught sight of that person they dipped. That was the signal. The limo would stop and the young person would step over to the open door and accept a ride.
“What did the police ask?” he said. “Were they looking for me?”
“They asked who’s been driving the van—where, why, when.” She looked at him and sensed something choked off in his thin, almost emaciated body. “Maybe you used it running errands?”
He didn’t answer immediately. “No. It’s too much trouble getting it out of the garage. If I’d taken the van anywhere I’m pretty sure I’d remember. My memory’s not that shot—not yet. I haven’t used it. Except for the children.”
“Then we’re all right.” Her hand closed around his. “But maybe you shouldn’t use the van…not for a while.”
They sat in stillness.
It was after midnight when a sixth limo peeled away from traffic and pulled up at the pier. The long black BMW dipped its headlights. A haggard figure in a tank top hurried smiling to the door.
“That’s the girl.” Bonnie sat forward on the seat and rapped the plastic partition. “Driver.” The radio was playing and she had to raise her voice. “Do you see that BMW?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Follow it.”
“Can do.” The cabdriver started his engine and flicked on his headlights.
In the narrow, dark lobby an old man in a caftan rocked in a squeaking rattan chair. “Yes, folks, how may I help you?” He had a high tenor voice and a smooth Jamaican accent.
“A man just brought a girl here,” Bonnie said.
“Many, many men bring many, many girls to the Dionysius.”
“This girl is underage.”
The old man smiled. “We have no age requirement for our hotel guests.”
“She’s underage,” Collie said, “and she’s prostituting herself.”
Eyes narrowed to slits. “And who the hell are you two—Father Bruce Ritter and Mother Teresa?”
The register lay open on the counter. Bonnie spun it around. A great many couples named Smith and Jones had registered.
The old man leapt up. “Get out of there.”
Before he yanked the register away, she saw that the most recent Joneses had taken Room 202. She bounded up the stairs, and heard Collie clattering close behind her.
“You can’t go up there,” the desk clerk shouted. “You’re trespassing. I’ll call the police.”
“And if you don’t,” Collie called over his shoulder, “we will.”
The poorly lit corridor smelled of mildew and Lysol. Bonnie put her ear to the door of Room 202. Reggae pulsed through, capped with intermittent laughter.
She rapped.
The laughter stopped.
She rapped again.
“Who is it?” A man’s voice, irritated.
“Is Nell there?”
The reggae stopped. There were whispers and skittering footsteps. “No Nell here. Go away.”
“I have her stuff,” Bonnie said.
Muffled voices conferred. “What stuff?”
“I’m not going to discuss it in the hallway.”
The door opened a crack. An eye peeked out. The face was webbed with deep creases. Tightly curled white fuzz covered the head. The eye had to be seventy years old. It blinked, confused.
Collie gave the door a push. Wind chimes bonged.
The man stepped back, quickly closing his terry-cloth robe. “What the hell is this?” A fog of licorice mouthwash whooshed out of him. His gaze swung from Bonnie to Collie. Behind him, Nell sat bare-breasted on the edge of the bed.
“Who are these creeps?” he demanded, mustering righteousness. “Friends of yours?”
Nell leaned against the bedpost, pressing her cheek into the curve of the wood. She half smiled at Bonnie. “I know her.” Something about Nell’s voice seemed slow and heavily encumbered. “I never saw the guy before.” She unhooked her tank top from the headboard and wriggled both arms into it.
“Hey,” the man said. “We had a deal, kiddo. I gave you a hundred dollars.”
“Did you?”
“You know I did. It’s in your sneaker.”
Nell just sat there, smoothing down her tank top, with her eyes on Bonnie.
The man picked up a Nike jogging shoe from the floor. He shook it, but nothing fell out. He shook the other shoe. “What did you do with my money? Don’t think I’m letting you walk out of here.” His eyes came back to Bonnie and Collie, appraising.
“Quit griping,” Nell said. “You can afford it.”
“I may have money—doesn’t mean I have to stand still for this scam.”
Bonnie opened her purse and gave him a hundred dollars.
“And the room’s fifty,” he said.
She gave him another fifty. “You were robbed.”
Out on the sidewalk, Bonnie thanked Collie for the moral support and said good night. She climbed into a cab with Nell.
“It was you that got robbed,” Nell said, “not the old geezer. He never gave me any money. He conned you and you went for it.”
Bonnie looked at Nell. With the lights of Eighth Avenue jiggling past, the shadows under the girl’s eyes were almost grooves.
“I guess that makes me pretty dumb,” Bonnie said.
“So.” The girl went hesitantly to Bonnie’s bookshelves. She examined the leather bindings with their gold lettering in Hebrew. “I guess you’ve decided what to do with me.”
“It’s not my right to decide anything,” Bonnie said.
“Does that mean no?” Nell seemed puzzled, thoughtful. Her finger went slowly to the Greek bindings. “Then why’ve you been asking for me?”
“To talk with you.”
“You’ve been watching me and following me so you could talk with me?” Nell looked over and quickly looked away. “That’s a lot of trouble for a talk.”
“It’s a lot—but you’ve been on my mind.”
“Now’s your chance to get me off your mind.” Nell’s lip curled down petulantly. “Here I am. What do we talk about?”
“You.”
“The history of me.” Nell’s face had a half-sneering look.
Bonnie realized the child was scared of people, uncomfortable with them unless she was putting on some kind of act. Tonight’s act was the tough, shopworn angel.
“Would you like a Coke?”
“Coke’s fine.”
Bonnie brought two chilled cans from the little refrigerator and set them on the coffee table. She dropped into a chair and snapped one of the cans open. “Tell me about your home.”
“What’s to tell.” Nell took the edge of the other easy chair. She had difficulty opening her Coke can, as if it had grown unexpected right angles. “I never had much of a home and I didn’t like what I had.”
“How long have you been pregnant?”
In the silence, Bonnie heard the labored sound of Nell’s swallowing.
“The doctor says eighteen to nineteen weeks.”
“That’s pretty far advanced for an abortion.”
“All right.” The girl looked up suddenly. Her face was hard and didn’t move. “I get the picture. Why don’t you just hand me the pamphlets and I’ll go somewhere else.”
“I didn’t bring you here to give you pamphlets. Or lectures. I happen to be pro-life, but that’s not my agenda. I just wonder if you have any idea of the dangers of a late abortion.”
“Look. I’ve been through this.” Nell’s eyes narrowed and her fists tightened. “I’ve wasted four weeks going through it. Tod said you were different. I don’t know how you fooled him, but you don’t fool me.” Nell stood. “If all you’re going to do is throw more pickled fetuses in my eyes, I’m leaving. Thanks for the Coke.”
“Wait a minute. Please.” Bonnie reached out a hand. “I’m not a zealot. We’re talking about your choice.”
“The hell it’s my choice.”
“It’s up to you. You’ve got the power.”
“No. It’s up to you. You’ve got the money. And you use it to control people who don’t.” Nell was breathing heavily. Her face was flushed and she slapped at a drop of perspiration running down the side of her chin. “You don’t know canary shit about me and I’m supposed to believe you care. What a friend I have in Jesus.”
“I may not know you as well as I’d like to, but I want to help.”
“You don’t want to know me.” Nell’s eyebrows quivered upward. “Believe me. You don’t.”
“But I do, Nell. Can’t you even listen?”
“I can hear. And you don’t want to help. What you call helping is a picture you’ve got in your head. Reverend Bonnie’s good deed. You see me, and bam—Nell’s the one, Nell’s going to be this week’s good deed. The Johns have a picture in their head and they see me, and bam—they make it come true this week too.”
“I’m not trying to use you. I want you to have a choice and a chance.”
“Set it to music and play it on a tambourine.”
“I’ve been in touch with some people. Good, decent, warm-hearted people. I’ve told them about you.”
“And they love me.”
“They run a home in Maine. It’s a clean, peaceful environment.”
“And I can wash dishes and make beds and have my baby. You already offered, and I said no thanks, remember? Would you please just get your good intentions the hell out of my life?”
Bonnie was suddenly very tired. “I understand you’ve been hurt. You’ve every right to be suspicious and cynical. But my friends happen to be sincere. And so am I.”
“Sincere and deaf, because you don’t hear what I’m saying. I can’t have this baby.” Her voice had risen to a choked cry. “I can’t have any baby.”
“Maybe your doctor told you that, but it’s only the opinion of one doctor.”
“I’m HIV-positive. Do you know what that means?” Nell’s face was white and sweat was pouring down her forehead. “The baby will be born dying.”
“That’s not true.” Bonnie was thinking quickly now:
I didn’t foresee this. It’s getting out of control. I mustn’t lose control.
She spoke calmly and calmingly. “With proper medical attention for you and the child—”
Nell cut her off, shouting now. “The father’s black! Black babies don’t get medical attention!”
“That doesn’t have to be the case.”
“And they don’t get adopted! Especially not when they have AIDS!”
“How do you know the father’s race?”