Текст книги "On the Other Hand, Death"

Автор книги: Richard Stevenson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

I shrugged.

"Then you climb back in that piece of Jap junk of yours and drive on out of here."

"It's German," I said. "And they make them in Pennsylvania now."

He looked as if his sense of humor was about to fail him. I said, "Y'all have a real good day now," and acted on Wilson's suggestion.

Heading on back into the city, I wondered again how Bill Wilson planned on making his wife rich any time soon. I could only be certain it wasn't going to be in the diplomatic service. But whatever Wilson's shortcomings– and I'd have to use other means for looking into them—I had to concede that he was an excellent judge of character.

Tad Purcell's address, as listed in the Albany phone book, was on Irving Street just off Swan. The block was a peninsula of gentrification jutting west from the South Mall renewal area. In another five years the orderly plague of marigolds in window boxes and white doors with brass knockers would likely spread as far as Lark Street, and where the dispossessed poor would go, no one knew. The local machine was preoccupied with obscure larger matters, and UNICEF was busy in Somalia.

"Hi, I'm Don Strachey, a friend of Peter Greco's. Could I talk to you for a few minutes?"

A quizzical look, not entirely friendly. "I've seen you somewhere recently," he said. "Where was it?" A cloud of Listerine breath hit me in the face like a visit to New Jersey.

"Last night at the Green Room," I said. "I was with Peter."

He tensed up, glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at me, undecided about something. He ran a well-manicured hand through his freshly blow-dried black waves that were touched with white.

"Oh. Sure. I guess that's where it must have been.

What was it you wanted to talk about?"

"Peter. He might be in trouble."

I watched him. His faintly creased oval face, on the brink between youth and whatever was coming next for him, was aglow with after-shave, and the pink now deepened. He pursed his lips, lowered his head as if to consult the alligator on his polo shirt, then looked at me again.

"Any friend of Peter's is a friend of mine," he finally said with a nervous laugh. "I have to go out in a couple of minutes, but I've got a second. Sure. Why not? C'mon in. You said your name was Rob?"

"Don. Don Strachey."

"Take a load off your feet, Don."

I followed him into a small living room decorated with menus from famously expensive local restaurants, and lowered myself into a canvas sling chair. To my left was a large console color television set with a framed photo of a young Peter Greco resting atop it. Purcell perched on the edge of the couch and lit a Kool. Somewhere above us water was running.

"Well, I must say, I'm not completely surprised to hear that Peter is in trouble," he said. His tone was sarcastic, but the apprehension came through. "Is he in trouble with the law?"

"Maybe. In a way. The thing is, Peter never showed up at the house where he was staying last night. Dot Fisher's farm, out on Moon Road. His friends are pretty worried about him."

He blew smoke at the ceiling and thought about this. "Is that right? Well. Where do his friends think he might have spent the night?"

"I thought you might know."

"Ho, really? Well. How about that. Now, where would anybody ever get such an idea?" He colored and bit the inside of his cheek, making it look as if he wanted to

smile but was trying not to. Either he knew something and was acting coy, or he was simply enjoying the idea that I might think Greco had spent the night with him and was going to insist that both of us savor the fantasy, however briefly.

"Peter had been speaking with you just before the time he vanished," I said. "You asked him for three thousand dollars. Demanded it, he told me."

A jittery laugh. "Did he say that? God, Peter didn't take that seriously, did he? He must have known I was just bitter about . . . what happened between us." He went all pink again, bright as Dot's phlox, and rocked on his hams. "After ten years! God. You'd think he'd have remembered how I get after a drink or two. I mean, you know how it is."

I thought I was beginning to see how it was with Tad Purcell, but I wasn't sure yet. He dragged deeply on the cigarette, then flicked the ash several times, even when it was no longer there. "You know, Peter and I used to be lovers," Purcell suddenly announced with a proud, shaky half-smile. "Did Peter mention that?"

"He did," I said. "Peter spoke well of the time you two had together."

He relaxed a little and sat back, gazing at the photo on the TV set.

"Peter was a very, very important part of my life," Purcell said softly. "My memory of him is something I cherish deeply."

"I can see that."

"You see, the thing is, Peter was mostly on the streets before he met me," he said with a look of distaste. "Running around with hippies and flower children and so forth. But by the time we met, Peter was really fed up with street life. All that pointless rebellion and immaturity. We all have to grow up sometime, am I right?"

"Right."

Clearly grateful to have a new audience for this old story—his only one, I was afraid—Purcell warmed to the topic. "Well, I could tell immediately that first night I picked him up while he was crossing the park that Peter had just about had it up to here with his rather juvenile lifestyle. Peter was really disillusioned, ready for a change of course into something safe, and comfy, and sensible. He'd had a bad bout of hepatitis, and maybe that had something to do with it too. But I mean, not that the hepatitis was the most important thing."

"It would have been chastening."

"Anyway, we ran into each other and—can you believe it?—we just fell in love on the spot. Bingo! God, I was so head-over-heels nuts about that guy that I just went ahead and– Well, I did something, something reckless and foolish, I suppose you could say. Something that I hardly ever do. What I did was, I offered Peter the kind of life I could see he needed. I offered him my home to share with me. My home, and my love. I mean, every once in a while you just have to throw caution to the winds and take a chance in life, am I right?"

"Right. Once in a while."

"Well," he said with a nervous grin, "for once in my life, my kindheartedness—which is my biggest weakness—actually paid off. Peter agreed to stay with me. To accept my offer of stability, a home, someone to depend on to be there when you needed another human being. Except"—his face fell—"except it didn't work out. I mean, it did last eleven and a half fabulous months. But then, well, you see, the thing was, Peter had not really changed. No. Peter, as it turned out, was not ready to grow up. He was still too immature to accept my gift."

He sighed again and gazed at Greco's photo. "Oh, God, Peter was so sweet. So beautiful in so many ways.

But you know," he said, pursing his lips and leaning toward me confidingly, "I realize now that it wasn't just immaturity. There was something else Peter lacked. I can see that now. Do you know what I mean? Something missing in his upbringing, I suppose. A psychological type of problem that prevented Peter from learning to appreciate the true pleasures of hearth and home. Which is such a terrible shame. Poor Peter. I'm sure he's had his regrets. Missing out on such a golden opportunity. I know I have."

I nodded lamely. Purcell looked at me as if he were hoping for a more expansively sympathetic reaction, but I was unable to summon one up. Finally, I said, "You and Peter must have gotten to know each other pretty well, Tad. It seems odd that Peter would have misunderstood your statements last night about the three thousand dollars."

"Absolutely! That's what I think. How could he have taken me seriously about that silliness? Except ... I guess it is true that I could handle my liquor a little better back when Peter knew me. Back then, I didn't used to get quite so . . . hyper. Not so sharp with people sometimes. I guess I got that way later, as a matter of fact, after Peter. And after a couple of other relationships that didn't work out. Relationships with people who were sort of like Peter. I'm sure you know the type I mean. People who can't appreciate what you have to offer. A lot of faggots are like that, I've noticed. Oh, well. What can you do? I suppose it's just my fate in life to be . . . unlucky in love."

The water upstairs was shut off with a clank. My mind attempted to construct a coherent thought, but again it failed. I said, "Sorry to hear about your run of bad luck, Tad. Good luck in the future. So. Tell me this. When did you last see Peter?"

"When? Last night. What do you mean?"

"I mean, what time? Did you speak with him again after your conversation at the bar, when I was with him? That was around eleven-forty."

He laughed dryly and tapped another nonexistent ash into a blue ceramic ashtray the size of a hubcap. "Well, I wasn't really keeping track of the time last night. Anyway, not until desperation hour rolled around. But, no. I didn't see Peter again after our . . . initial discussion."

Footsteps sounded above us.

Purcell said, "Would you excuse me for one minute. Back in a sec."

He bounded up the stairway behind the couch. There were muffled voices. I flipped through a copy of Food Product Management. I learned about the development of a square tomato to cut down on storage and shipping costs. Purcell bounded back, all pink again, like a winter tomato. What was making him blush?

I said, "Tell me this then, Tad. What time did you leave the Green Room last night?"

He lit another Kool. "Why do you ask that?"

"I thought you might have run into Peter later."

"Hah. If only. But no such luck. For what it would've been worth, of course. No, I hung around the Green Room till three-thirty, thinking Peter might come back and try to make me feel better. He always hated ending things on an unpleasant note. God, he was such a sweet person. But I guess he's changed. Gotten old and cynical like the rest of us, ha-ha. Anyway, about three-thirty I gave up on Peter and drove down to the Watering Hole. Last-chance gulch, right? Thought I might get lucky and fall in love again. It's been known to happen."

"I've heard. Peter said you told him you haven't been making out well lately. Had a bad year financially. I'm sorry to hear that."

He blinked, made a face, dragged on his Kool. "I lost

my food supply business last year. Reaganomics did me in. And I voted for that phony. But what I've got now isn't bad," he said with a tentative shrug. "I'm in food services at Albany Med. The money there's not too bad. Maybe I'll be out of debt by the time I'm eighty." He smiled sourly.

More footsteps above us. "It sounds as if you did get lucky last night," I said, glancing up. "Or do you not live alone?"

He shifted and looked embarrassed, with a touch of irritation. "Oh, you noticed. He heard your voice and he's waiting for you to leave. He says he doesn't want to be seen. He's cheating on his lover and doesn't want word to get back. I can't stand people who do that. I say either you're committed to another human being or you're not. There's no in between. Even though he says it's the first time he's done it in six months, I still hate it. The guy's really the dregs anyway. God, I must have been really plowed last night. My standards are not exactly what they used to be. Five till four at the Watering Hole. God. And I have this awful feeling the guy even has herpes."

I checked my watch. Eleven-fifteen. "Well, I hope your luck isn't quite that bad, Tad. You mentioned earlier that you weren't surprised to hear that Peter might be in some kind of trouble. Why?"

"Because," Purcell snapped, his face suddenly tightening, "Peter uses people. Sooner or later, treating people that way is going to get you into trouble. Your chickens come home to roost. You just don't get away with it forever. Squeezing what you can out of somebody and then dropping that person as if they have leprosy. Some people get mad. Very mad. Of course," he added with a tremulous sigh, "I got over that a long time ago."

I thought about telling him that Greco had been with Fenton McWhirter in an apparently mutually satisfying and entirely healthy relationship for nine years. But Purcell must have known that already and chosen not to accept what it signified. He was going to believe what he wanted to believe.

"Just do me a favor and call me if Peter shows up here or contacts you." I gave him my card and headed for the door. "Hope you don't come down with herpes, Tad. I hear it's murder."

He glanced up the stairwell and winced. "The pits," he said. "The absolute pits. Miss Sleaze of Eight-two. Ecchh."

I closed the door with the brass knocker behind me, thinking, Prepare. Prepare.

I walked up Irving to where my car was parked in front of a house with petunia-filled window boxes under every sill. From a little two-by-five patch of marigold-bordered lawn, a wrought-iron post rose up to hold a bird-house, under whose single round opening was attached a miniature window box containing two tiny Johnny-jump-ups.

I unlocked my car and climbed in. The thing was ovenlike, hot enough to bake a quiche in. I rolled down the windows and sat there watching Purcell's house twenty yards down the street. The windshield was clouded from my breath and I turned on the defogger. Although Purcell's bitter stew of a biography had been just confused, self-deceptive, and sad enough to sound drearily plausible, I still wanted to witness who his overnight guest had been, or hadn't been.

Within two minutes Purcell's front door opened and Peter Greco emerged. I did not fully believe what I was seeing. The slight dark figure moved quickly down the wooden front steps tapping the wrought-iron curlicued hand rail as he went, and turned east toward Swan.

I was out and running.

"Peter! Peter!"

I caught up with him. He turned. He said, "Hey– Ron, was it? How's it shakin', good buddy?"

"Hi. Hi, there. Hi, Gordon."

It was the Greco lookalike I'd picked up in the Green Room and spent twenty-six minutes with the night before. For sure.

He said, "Let's you and me get together again sometime, whaddaya say, Ron? But I can't right now. Sorry. Gotta visit my grandmother in the hospital."

"Oh. Too bad. What's she in for, herpes?"

He glared, then began to look a little worried, as if I might be someone not to be trusted, the Irving Street Toucher or something. He turned and walked quickly away, glancing back once to see if I was coming after him.

I wasn't.

8

The ransom note was discovered just after

eleven.

Timmy had arranged for a tow truck to haul McWhirter's Fiat out to Dot's place until a locksmith could open it and the Fiat dealer could produce a new set of keys. The note, inside a plain white envelope, had been stuck under the Fiat's windshield wiper. The tow truck operator hadn't noticed it, but Timmy, always on the lookout for out-of-place objects, spotted it as the tow truck pulled in at Dot's. The envelope, which had not been on the Fiat at five in the morning when Timmy and I first discovered the empty and abandoned car, was addressed to Dorothy Fisher.

I heard about it from Timmy when I checked in at Dot's from the Price Chopper pay phone two blocks from

Tad Purcell's house. I bought a bag of ice and sucked on a cube while I drove straight out to Moon Road. The sun was brutal in a blinding white sky, and a puddle formed on the car floor where the ice bag leaked.

At Dot's I read and reread the note, which was handwritten in an inelegant, almost childish script that none of us had seen before. It definitely was not the same handwriting as in Friday's threatening letter to Dot.

The note said, "Pay one hundred thousand dollars if you want Pete to live, we will contact you Mrs. Fisher."

McWhirter was dazed. He paced back and forth across Dot's kitchen looking enervated, helpless, alone. As the rest of us moved about the room we had to bob and weave awkwardly to keep out of McWhirter's path.

I phoned the Spruce Valley Country Club and had Bowman paged from the locker room.

"Greco's been kidnapped. Dot Fisher received the ransom note. They want a hundred grand."

"You're making this up, Strachey. You'll go to jail for this."

"No. It's the truth."

"Kee-rist. On a Saturday. All right, all right, I'll be there in twenty minutes. This had just better be for real, Strachey, or you are up shit creek with me, you get that?"

'"Up shit creek with Ned if not for real.' Noted."

I reached Crane Trefusis at Marlene Compton's apartment at Heritage Village. "One of Dot Fisher's house-guests has been kidnapped," I said. "There's a ransom note. They're asking a hundred. Do you know anything about this, Crane?"

"Did you say kidnapped?"

"Uh-huh."

A silence. Then: "I know nothing about this, no, of course not. Have the police been notified?"

"They have."

"Who is the victim?"

"His name is Peter Greco. A friend of Dot's who happened to be staying with her for a few days. Maybe you'd like to put up the hundred, Crane, to get Peter back. Dot hasn't got a hundred grand. All she's got is a schoolteacher's pension and Social Security. Plus, of course, a house and eight acres."

A pause while the wheels turned again. Then, calmly, he said, "No. You are mistaken."

"Mistaken about what?"

"That Millpond has anything to do with this."

"Uh-huh."

"We have our limits, Strachey."

"Right. We are not a crook."

Another silence. Then: "I—I'll go so far as to put up a reward for the safe return of this young man. From my personal accounts."

"How much?"

"Five."

"This is a human life we're talking about, Crane."

"Of course. Seventy-five hundred."

"You're paying me ten to catch somebody who wrote on the side of a barn."

"Eight."

"Ten, at least."

"All right, ten." He sighed. "You're an extremely hard-nosed man, Strachey. You'll go far in this business, I'm sure." This business? "You know as well as I do that you are the man who's probably going to bring about an arrest and collect the reward. You play all the angles, don't you? My sources were correct in their assessment of your abilities. I'm impressed."

I'd been playing games with him over the reward money and hadn't, in fact, thought ahead to who might collect it. But the idea of an additional "ten" dropping my

way for a particular purpose did not fill me with repugnance. It seemed, as I thought about it, that the ten could become useful, even necessary. The thing that scared me was the thought that the reward money would not be collected at all.

"I'll donate the money to charity if I'm the one to collect it," I lied. "Meanwhile, Crane, one question: Is Bill Wilson working for you in any capacity?"

"William Wilson of Moon Road?"

"Right. Kay's hubby."

"No."

"Kay told me you said you were keeping your eye out for the right spot for Bill."

"Yes, well. Regrettably the position of vice president for community relations at Millpond is occupied at the moment. But I'm certainly keeping Mr. Wilson in mind. Why do you ask about Wilson?"

"He was on your list of suspects, remember?"

"That was for the vandalism, not the kidnapping. Do you think the two are connected?"

"Could be. The motive for both appears to be forcing Dot Fisher to sell out to you, Crane."

He said nothing.

"Crane? Are you there?"

"I was just thinking."

"What did you think?"

"I was thinking, Strachey, that you and Mrs. Fisher and her friends might be—how shall I put it?—engaged in an unethical act? Is that possible? An act calculated to elicit public sympathy and bring pressure to bear on Millpond to increase its offer to Mrs. Fisher? Of course, it was just a thought."

"Think again, Crane. I work for you, don't I? I'm doing that because our interests have happened to overlap in a limited way, and of course I'm thrilled to be able to

make off with your 'ten.' At the point where our interests diverge and I can't work for you anymore I'll let you know fast. Meanwhile, be assured that I will not plot against you. And I'm confident that your thinking vis-a-vis me is likewise. Am I right?"

"Of course," he said emphatically, hollowly. "What kind of man do you think I am?"

"Swell. I'll expect the ten-grand reward to be announced as soon as the news of the kidnapping is made public. For now, I think that the police, if they know what they're doing, will want to keep it quiet. But your offer, if I understand you, is in effect immediately. Agreed?"

"Agreed. And . . . meanwhile, you can inform Mrs. Fisher that Millpond is willing to raise its offer for her property by another ten percent."

"I'll pass along your timely point of information, Crane."

"Thank you."

A sweetheart.

I dialed the number on outer Delaware Avenue of a man whose family conducted games of chance in a well-organized way throughout the capital district. We'd enjoyed a couple of personal encounters seven years earlier, but broke it off over a conflict stemming from the disapproval each of us strongly felt over the other's way of looking at the human race. Vinnie and I still kept in touch from time to time, though, and exchanged confidences.

I asked Vinnie about Crane Trefusis's connections with the mob.

"Lotta dough. Crane makes it squeaky clean. Why do you wanna know this, Strachey?"

"I'm on his payroll for a couple of days. I like to know who I'm working for. But what I'm really interested in, Vinnie, is who Trefusis's muscle is. When he wants to make a point with somebody he considers dumb, who does he send out to make it?"

"I'd hafta check, but I think maybe it's one of his own. A guy in his security office. Dale somebody. Ex-cop. A boozer. You want me to find out for you for sure?"

"I do. Don't let anybody at Millpond know you're asking. But check."

"For you, I'll do it. Half an hour."

"I'll phone you back. Hey, Vinnie, who was that fair-haired boy I saw you with on North Pearl Street last month? Your pop know you're dating the Irish?"

"Heh-heh." He hung up.

Next I dialed a number in Latham belonging to a man I'd once helped out. Whitney Tarkington, fearful that his grandmother, a straitlaced Saratoga grand dame, would discover his homosexuality and disinherit him, had hired me five years earlier to take care of a blackmailer. I'd done the job, discreetly if a little messily, but Whitney's accounts were closely monitored by a committee of bankers and he hadn't been able to pay me an appropriate amount for my fee. Instead, he had promised me the assistance of his wealthy circle of gay friends if and when I thought they could be useful in a particular way.

"Hel-ooo-ooo."

"Hi, Whitney. It's Don Strachey. The day has come. I have a favor to ask of you beautiful upscale guys. I want to borrow a hundred grand."

"Good-bah-eye."

"Wait, don't hang up, Whitney! You'd have the money back within . . . three days. I guarantee it. And the trustees of your zillions, Whitney, will pin a medal on you. Because—now get this, Whitney—I'd be paying ten percent interest. Ten percent in three days."

"At the sound of the tone, you may repeat that last part. Beep."

"Ten percent in three days. That's what I said, Whitney baby. What a killing you'd be making! And if you haven't got a hundred grand in your wallet, you just ring

up some of your railroad-and-real-estate-heir-type jerk-off buddies and collect, say, twenty grand each from five of 'em. And Tuesday noon, or thereabouts, I repay the hundred, plus an additional ten. In cash. Even a Pac-Man franchisee doesn't rake in that kind of money in three days."

"Donald, my dear, I must confess that you have piqued my interest. But really, Donald, haven't you heard? Wholesaling cocaine is against the law in the State of New York. We'd all be found out, and when word reached Saratoga, what would mother say? I have promised her, you know, that I would never embarrass her in public. And my getting dragged off to Attica in chains by some humpy state trooper in a Gucci chin strap would be a bit of a social blunder, don't you agree? And grandmother! Why, I'd be finito with Grams!"

"I can promise you that there is no dope involved, Whitney."

Except, possibly, me. My palms were sweating, my pulse interestingly elevated and erratic. I explained about the kidnapping, and he listened, uttering occasional little ooohs and ahs.

"Taking a bit of a gamble, aren't you, Donald?"

"Uh-huh. But don't mention the kidnapping to anybody, Whitney. Not yet. Just say it's a sure-fire investment opportunity that came up. Hog bellies from a freight train that derailed on Gram's croquet court or something."

"Well, my dear, this is simply dreadful. And even though, as you well know, I have precious little time for starry-eyed radicals, under the circumstances I suppose I have no choice except to—"

"Could you just hurry it up, Whitney? The banks in the shopping malls close early on Saturday. Now, here's where you can drop off the hundred. . ."

I went back to Timmy and Dot, who were attempting to calm McWhirter down with a cup of herb tea.

Timmy said, "Who was that?"

I said, "Manufacturers Hanover Trust. Saratoga branch."

"Oh, swell. They should be helpful. Did you open an account?"

"Nope. Just made a withdrawal."

9

Bowman sat scowling at the ransom note

for a long tense couple of minutes, as if the mere passage of time might cause the letters on the sheet of paper to rearrange themselves into this is all a crazy mistake,

LIEUTENANT. YOU CAN GO BACK TO THE GOLF

COURSE now where you belong. But it didn't. They didn't.

"This isn't the same handwriting as on the other note, is it?"

"No," I said. "It's different, messier. And the syntax and punctuation are even worse."

"Who here has handled this piece of paper?" he snapped. Four of us raised our hands. "I'll need prints from all four of you. You haven't made matters any easier for me, that's for damn certain. I suppose yours are already on record, Strachey, you being a famous certified pain in the ass and all."

"For sure, Ned."

Glowering, he went to the phone, called his bureau, and asked that two of his assistants be sent out to the Fisher farm.

"Now tell me again," he said, seating himself wearily, "what this Greco fellow was up to yesterday and last

night. Take your time, and don't leave anything out. Where, when, who, and what for."

Very slowly, through clenched teeth, McWhirter said, "We have already explained that."

"Ah, so you have, so you have, Mr. McWhirter. And how would you like to run it by me once yet again? Just for old times' sake."

McWhirter was over the tabletop and at Bowman's throat before Timmy could finish shouting, "Holy mother!" Dot jumped up and yelled, "Now you two stop that right this instant!" as Timmy and I grabbed McWhirter from behind, pried his hands loose from the alarmingly empurpled Ned Bowman's neck, and dragged McWhirter thrashing and kicking out the back door.

"Down there!" I sputtered. "Fast!"

Edith was draped in a lawn chair under a pear tree squinting at the commotion, a frail hand raised to her throat, as we heaved McWhirter into the pond.

"I can't swim!" he gasped, flinging his arms and legs wetly about in a series of random and unproductive patterns.

"Oh, shit," Timmy said.

I said, "I don't think Price Chopper watches are waterproof. Anyhow, it's you who's into swimmers."

He was out of his clothes in a trice, or possibly thrice, and then, plunging, signed the vivid air with his bony ass.

McWhirter was dragged ashore coughing and gagging. He lay for a time on his stomach breathing hard. Then he pounded the earth very forcefully with his fist twice. He began to weep quietly.

I said, "I'm sorry, Fenton. Really. We didn't know you couldn't swim. It's just that strangling a police officer in Albany would cause eyebrows to be raised throughout the department. Among Ned Bowman's fellow officers the world would seem suddenly topsy-turvy, and in their confusion they would come and poke your right clavicle down

into the region of your liver. We did you a favor, believe me. And now we're going to get Peter back for you."

McWhirter looked up at me balefully, and I could see his mind working. It was apparent that Ned Bowman's neck had not known the last of Fenton McWhirter's grasp. For the moment, though, McWhirter's rage had been sufficiently dampened. Timmy stayed with him while I made my way back into the house through the lacerating heat. The thermometer by Dot's back door read 99 degrees.

"When this business is finished," Bowman said, "Mr. Fenton McWhirter is going to pay a heavy, heavy price for this, Strachey. As will you yourself. I hold you responsible for what happened to me just now."

Dot was pressing a towel full of ice cubes against Bowman's neck. He looked wan but sounded livid.

I said, "That's an interesting piece of logic."

"For the moment, however, I am simply going to demand that you explain to me what the hell this mare's nest is all about. Is this alleged 'kidnapping' real, or is this some sicko stunt you and your fruit friends cooked up for me to waste my time on? Out with it!"

"Ned, one of the few things I've always admired about you is your Elizabethan felicity of expression. 'Out with it!' That's good. No vulgar street talk from your end of the detective division, and no glib and oily city hall locutions. A plain and forthright 'Out with it!' I like that."

He stood up abruptly and strode toward the door, the ice cubes clattering to Dot's polished oak floor.

"Better not do that, Ned," I said. "This whole ugly business is for real, I'm afraid. The feds will no doubt insist on poking their noses in sooner or later, and my guess is you'll want to have a head start and not end up getting outclassed by a bunch of guys wearing hats. Or were all those fedoras left on Hoover's grave when he died? Or in it?"

He returned to his seat, giving an ice cube a good kick

en route. He showed me a raging look that said, "You later." He barked, "Explain!"

I told him everything I knew, honestly and accurately—a novelty Bowman undoubtedly failed for the moment to appreciate—including the events as I had witnessed them or heard about them for the previous twenty-four hours. I described my relationship with Crane Trefusis, and Trefusis's to Dot Fisher, and how Trefusis stood to gain from Dot's sudden need to come up with one hundred thousand dollars in cash. Bowman allowed as how he had figured out that much for himself. I told him about my evening with McWhirter and Greco, about Greco's unhappy encounter with Tad Purcell, and my own underly fruitful visit with Purcell earlier that morning. Out of deference to Bowman's fragile sensibilities on sexual matters, I did leave out the parts about Gordon and his diseased grandmother.