Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (10 page)

He thought about the amyl nitrates. If it was sexual
it would probably be kinky. Maybe statutory rape, or young boys.
Maybe he was being blackmailed by a pimp. A sum that large would
indicate adult involvement. Kids wouldn't think that high. Would
they?

The image of the mutilated dead man came to mind and
he shook his head. This was not like a blackmailer. They didn’t
kill the golden goose. Even if he threatened to stop paying, all the
blackmailer would have to do was expose him. A lot safer than killing
him.

He got up from the sofa and walked down the hall to
the bedroom. Maybe it wasn't blackmail, maybe Hightower was paying
for services rendered. He shook his head again. No kind of sex worth
that much money . . . Was there?

As he passed the office he saw the assortment of
drugs on the desk where he'd left them. He stopped and stared at
them. Drugs . . . made more sense than blackmail. The papers were
full of professional people arrested for drug dealing. People who
took it up to support their own habit. He knew coke freaks were like
evangelists in their zeal to get others hooked. And there was never
enough money for the drugs they needed. Maybe he'd had a beef with
his supplier. Like they said at the meeting, the Jamaicans were
raising hell all over town. A crime like this would not be past them.

He gathered up the checks, the checkbook, the drugs
and the address book — at least a beginning, a solid beginning, he
thought as he pulled on his coat. At the door he took a last look
around.

"I was wrong," he said aloud. "Stanley,
you didn't know how to live . . ."

Downstairs he showed a new man on the desk his badge.

"You know about the Hightower killing?"
When the man said yes, Mercanto asked if he was working the desk that
night. The man said he was.

"Did you see him come or go that night?"

"It’s a big building, but I think I saw him go
out, around eight-thirty or nine. I don’t think I remember him
coming back or going out again, but I can't be sure."

"Was he alone when you saw him?"

"I think so, but like
I said, it's a big building. A lot of people come and go around that
time. You know, dinner, the movies, things like that . . . Sorry, but
I hope you catch whoever did it. He was a nice fellow."

* * *

Outside, twilight was settling in, and Mercanto
decided to pick up something to eat and stop by to see Frank. They
could both use the company.

He drove to Chinatown, parked on Arch and drove up
Tenth Street to the Imperial. There was a line, but the owner
recognized him and waved him inside. Mercanto went to the bar and
ordered a Tsing Tao while he looked at the menu. A waiter old enough
to have known Confucius as a boy took his order of won ton soup,
steamed dumplings, lemon shrimp, kung pao chicken and a six pack of
beer.

While he waited for his order he sipped his beer and
wondered what Stanley Hightower had done that night between 8:30 and
3:00 a.m. Mercanto figured when he found the answer he would have the
killer . . .

The waiter brought his order, Mercanto paid and left.
Outside the Trocadero on Arch a long line of kids was waiting to get
in. The poster advertised Warren Zevon — one night only.

As Mercanto drove to
American Street near Third he turned the radio to WMMR, which was
playing Warren Zevon songs in honor of the concert.

* * *

"Frank, it’s me," he called out as he
went in. He was not prepared for what he found.

Frank’s condition had worsened since the
chemotherapy, and he found him half-sitting, half-lying on his couch
covered by a blanket, a sketch pad on his lap. The room was cold.
Under the blanket Mercanto could see Frank was wearing a wool
bathrobe over a sweater, and he was shaking.

"
Frank, are you crazy? It's like an icebox in
here," he said and went to tum up the thermostat, suddenly angry
with him for his self-neglect.

Frank's only reply was, "What're you so dressed
up for? You going to a wedding?"

Mercanto shook his head, not sure he could trust his
voice. The room as much as the way his brother looked told the story.
Dishes were in the sink, newspapers on the coffee table, which was
not like him at all. Frank was a bug on neatness.

"
I brought us dinner," he said as he opened
the bags, but Frank shook his head.

"
I'm not too hungry right now, I’ll have it
later . . . You didn't answer my question, why are you all dressed
up?"

All he said was that he was temporarily back in
plain-clothes. He didn't go into any details. Frank knew about Sloan
from the Rudy Gunther investigation, and he didn't want to upset him
with the news that they’d been thrown together again.

This seemed to cheer Frank some but Mercanto had only
one thought, that he was losing him. When he couldn’t take any more
he pulled on his coat and said goodbye, angry at himself for not
being able to help more, do more.

On the way out he ran into DeBray, the black man who
worked for Frank, whom Frank trusted to take care of him. He took
hold of DeBray by the lapels, pushing him into the side of the
building. "You clean that place up. Don't let him get like
that."

DeBray didn’t push back, but hurt came in his eyes.
"You know him, you know how he is."

"I know," he said, releasing him. "But
do what you can. He needs us. You know that."

DeBray nodded.

Mercanto drove around for
a while. The idea of going home to an empty apartment was depressing.
He needed someone to talk to. Maybe he'd drive out to the Valley
Green and have a cup of coffee with Catherine Poydras. Someone
friendly to pass the time with.

* * *

Queenie, a duke’s mixture of terriers and pet of
the McClains on Livesey Street, was making her way toward the Valley
Green bridge. She’d been doing this for over a year. No matter how
the family tried to keep her in, she would find a way to get out and
head for the Maison Catherine, where the kitchen staff would pet her
and give her the best leftovers in town. In her mind it was like
having her own refrigerator.

Near the bridge, from the woods, she heard a soft
whistle.

She stopped, perked up her ears, looking around for
the source. Finally she spied it, a fair-haired man in darkling
clothing at the edge of the woods. The whistle came again, and
playfully she headed over to investigate . . .

The man turned and went deeper into the woods,
Queenie following. Out of sight of the road, the sound of a loud
crack rang out, like a stick breaking, then agonized whimpering, then
silence as Queenie's blood seeped into the leaves from the gaping,
ragged hole in her throat.

Satisfied, the shadowy figure rose to his feet,
dusted off his knees, and moved deeper into the darkness of the
woods.
 

CHAPTER 7

MARGARET PRIEST was aware of Loring’s eyes on her
as he followed her into the office. She didn’t have to turn, she
could feel it. An unspoken communication, intimate, and forbidden.
The feeling bothered her.

Even though they had not talked openly about his sex
life, from the way he said things she knew he had had little
experience with women, and the way he looked at her had an innocence
about it. Unlikely as it was in this day and time, she felt it a
distinct possibility he was a virgin. Not a homosexual. Asexual was
more like it. A sublimation of his sexuality. Why, she didn't know
but she hoped to find out. Needed to.

They took their respective seats and he said, "You
look . . . lovely today." The sincerity of it touched her, and
for a moment she almost admitted to herself that he had been
somewhere in her thoughts when she had chosen the Calvin Klein blouse
and pleated, gabardine trousers to wear today. Certainly Adam hadn’t
been, not now that she was certain of his affair with his student.
The nightly anonymous phone calls had cleared up any doubt about
that.

For the first time in her life she really hated
someone. You couldn't always be a professional. A nameless, faceless,
nineteen-year-old who she was sure had better breasts and a tighter
body than hers. When she looked in the mirror she could see herself
beginning to lose it . . . her skin, her hair, her juices, it made
her want to scream. Only then did she allow herself to think of
Loring and the way he looked at her. No harm in it, she told herself.
They weren’t together. He would never know. It was just a moment of
innocent solace for her. Call it harmless compensation. .

She looked across her desk now at Loring. "Today
I want to begin a little differently. With an exercise. I'd like you
to describe yourself physically."

The word "physically" obviously embarrassed
him. He laughed nervously. "You make it sound like an obscene
phone call."

She didn't reply, and Loring felt his stomach begin
to tighten. Although he looked forward to these moments with her,
each session was more difficult for him than the last. Several times
she had assured him they were making progress. He took that to mean
he was getting better. Except from what?

She refused to name it, other than to refer to it as
his "conflict." Well, he didn't feel better. lust the
opposite.

Right now the last thing he wanted was to describe
himself. He could refuse, of course, or try to steer the conversation
onto things like art, music, man's fall from grace, but he knew it
wouldn't do any good. He’d tried it in their second session. All
she did was sit there, silent, staring, smoking until he gave in.
 
"I’m lean, small-boned, blond . .
. I look like my mother," he said, thinking there was more she
wouldn't hear. He was also an inkwell, an aging brandy, the eye of a
gnat, a pinprick of darkness in the light . . .

Margaret nodded. There it was again, the family
reference. It kept coming up over and over in different ways. Today
she was not going to let him dodge it.

"
You hesitated before you said you looked like
your mother. Would you rather look like your father?"

Pain crossed his face. Look like . . . what
difference does that make, he thought, allowing himself for once to
consider his mother, father, stepfather together. The question is,
which one do I act like . . . the good, the bad, or the ugly . . . or
even which is which. His sister didn't enter his mind. He knew she
was immune. It was a plague visited on the eldest.

"I guess most men would rather look like their
father, but it’s okay. My mother is a fine woman . . . Besides,
looks aren't something you have a choice about anyway . . ."

"Tell me about your mother."

He crossed his legs and picked at the crease of his
trousers, ignoring the tingling of his fingers. He tried not to think
about how his hands had been getting worse. Now most of the time they
were almost numb. They still worked. He’d lost none of his grip,
only the sensation. That’s why he hadn't been to the doctor. There
was nothing a doctor could do. He was sure it was just the cold
weather irritating the damaged nerves from the bicycle wreck when he
was young. Usually the belladonna helped, if he took enough. Several
times he had thought of mentioning it in one of the sessions but
hadn’t because he didn’t want to . . . to worry Margaret
pointlessly.

"Tell me about your mother/’ she repeated. At
the sound of her words he looked up but did not meet her gaze. Why
did she always try to do this to him? The question made him resentful
but he pushed back the feeling. He couldn't be that way with her.

"
I'd rather not. I want to concentrate on my own
problems."

Margaret pursed her lips slightly, deciding what to
say next. Should she go to "my own problems"? The word own
showed he felt his problems weren't the only ones in his family. She
decided not to. To zero in on a word or two like that at this early
stage would only make him more guarded. Instead she chose to go
abstract, give him some breathing room.

Over their sessions she'd tended to speak clinically
to him, he seemed to take comfort from that, find it reassuring. In
any event, the depersonalizing of it tended to make him more
responsive. As for herself, it was important she admitted to herself
that their use of given names and their exchanges did draw her to him
more as a patient, as a human being. Nothing wrong with that. He was
highly intelligent. Sensitive. Decent and very troubled.

"Most everything begins in childhood, as I'm
sure you've heard. Experiences then tend to shape us . . ."

"I do know all that," he snapped. "Do
you think I've been living in a vacuum? I took psychology courses.
I've gone to the library and read since I've been coming here. I can
quote you chapter and verse on all the disgusting stuff like the
Oedipus complex. You're not fooling me, I know where all this is
leading. You're trying to say the episode in the fitting room when I
thought I was shrinking was caused by a desire on my part to return
to my childhood — "

"Or a fear of it . . . ?"

His anger made her feel she'd done something. She
knew he'd been researching. His responses in earlier sessions had
told her that. She also knew it was because he wanted her to think
well of him, to hide what he thought were the bad parts from her. A
lot of patients did that. Early sessions were often a game of hide
and seek, but this was an honest emotional response. She was at least
beginning to be able to draw him out. It was a good feeling to be
able to help him do that.