A Long Line of Dead Men (17 page)

"And if he's an outsider?"

"Then it's a little less likely they'd get him. I would think the investigation and the attendant publicity would scare him off, though, and keep him from killing anyone else."

"For the time being, you mean."

"Well, yes."

"But the bastard's in no hurry, is he?" He leaned forward, gesturing expansively with his long-fingered hands. "My God, the son of a bitch has the patience of a glacier. He's been doing this for decades if he's been doing it at all. Scare him off and what happens? He goes home, pops a tape in the VCR, brews up a pot of coffee, and waits a year or two. The media has the attention span of a fruit fly. Once the story's died down, it's time for him to arrange another accident, or stage a street crime or a suicide."

"If the cops got on to him," I said, "he might be scared off permanently, even if they never had enough to bring charges against him. But if he never even got scooped up in the net, I'd say you're right. He'd just bide his time and start in again."

"And even if he didn't, he wins."

"How do you mean?"

"Because the club's over. The newspaper stories would be enough to kill it, don't you think? It's anachronistic enough, fourteen grown men assembling annually to see who's still alive. I don't think we'd be able to find the heart for it after a little attention from our friends in the press."

He got up and fixed himself a fresh drink, just pouring the whiskey straight into the glass, sipping a little of it on his way back to the couch. The Chinese food had cleared his head. He wasn't slurring words now, or showing any effect of the alcohol.

He said, "It can't be one of the fourteen. Are we agreed on that?"

"I can't go all the way with you. I'll say it's unlikely."

"Well, I have an edge. I know them all and you don't." A rope of gray curls had fallen across his forehead. He brushed it back with his hand and said, "I think the club ought to convene. And I don't think we can afford to wait until next May. I'm going to make some calls, get as many of us here as I can."

"Now?"

"No, of course not. Monday? No, I may not be able to reach some of them until Monday. This time of year people get away for the weekend. Tuesday, say Tuesday afternoon. If I have appointments I can clear them. How about you? Can you be here Tuesday afternoon, let's see, say three o'clock?"

"Here?"

"Why not? It's better than my office. Plenty of room for fifteen people, and we'll be lucky to get half that number here on such short notice. But even if you just have five or six of us all here in one room-"

"Yes," I said. "It would be useful from my perspective."

"And from ours," he said. "All of us ought to know just what's going on. If we're in danger, if somebody's stalking us, we damn well ought to be aware of it."

"Is there a phone I can use? Let me see if I can sell this to my client."

"In the kitchen. On the wall, you'll see it. And Matt? Let me talk to him when you're done."

"Hildebrand went for it," I told Elaine. "He seemed relieved."

"So you've still got a client."

"I did as of a couple of hours ago."

"What did you think of Gruliow?"

"I liked him," I said.

"You didn't expect to."

"No, I brought the usual cop prejudices into his house with me. But he's a very disarming guy. He's manipulative, and he's got an ego the size of Texas, and his client list adds up to a powerful argument for capital punishment."

"But you liked him anyhow."

"Uh-huh. I thought he might turn ugly with drink, but it never happened."

"Did his drinking bother you?"

"He asked me that himself. I told him my best friend drinks the same brand of whiskey he does, and drinks a lot more of it. And when it comes to killing people, I said, his score is somewhere between Warren Madison and the Black Death."

"That's a good line," she said, "but it doesn't really answer the question."

"You're right, it doesn't. If I was going to take his inventory-"

"Which of course you're far too spiritually advanced to do."

"- I'd have to say he's a drunk. I'd say he knows it, too. He controls it, and obviously he can keep it together enough so that his life still works. He gets the big cases and he wins them. Incidentally, I learned something. I always wondered how he made a living representing clients who haven't got any money."

"And?"

"The money's in the books and lectures. The defense work's almost entirely pro bono. But there's a lot of self-interest operating, because by getting the hot cases he's hyping the book sales and goosing the fees for his public appearances."

"That's interesting."

"Isn't it? I asked him if there was anyone he wouldn't represent. Mafia dons, he said. White-collar sharpies, like the Wall Street insider-trading guys and the savings-and-loan swindlers. Not that they were necessarily the worst human beings in the world, but he had no affinity for them. I asked him if he'd represent a Ku Kluxer."

"What did he say?"

"He said probably not, if it was your basic Dixie segregationist or some White Power type from the Midwest. Then he said it might be interesting defending those skinheads they arrested in Los Angeles, the ones who wanted to start a race war by killing Rodney King and shooting up the AME church. I forget how he got there, but he had them all established as disenfranchised outsiders. 'But,' he said, 'they probably wouldn't want a lawyer named Gruliow.' I still haven't answered your question, have I? No, his drinking didn't bother me. He didn't get sloppy or nasty, and once we'd eaten he didn't even show the effects of the booze. On the other hand, I'd been planning to drop in on Mick at Grogan's tonight, and I think I'll put that off until tomorrow or Saturday."

"Because you've been around enough booze for one day."

"Right."

"I never met him myself," she said thoughtfully, "but I could have."

"Oh?"

"He's a big john, or at least he used to be. All that New Left rhetoric, well, he was certainly a staunch supporter of the working girl. You know who had a whole string of dates with him? Connie Cooperman."

"Of blessed memory."

"She said he was a real nice guy, fun to be with. Kind of kinky."

"I thought call girls never talked about their famous clients."

"That's right, darling. And if you put your tooth under your pillow, the Tooth Fairy will come and leave you a quarter."

"I think I'd rather keep the tooth."

"Well, you're just an old bear," she said. "Anyway, he liked leather, and he liked to be tied up."

"We tried that."

"And you fell asleep."

"Because I felt safe in your presence. Look, I'm sure it's interesting that Ray Gruliow's a bondage queen, but-"

"Not to mention golden showers."

"Golden showers?"

"I told you not to mention them. I bet he'd take a girl to Marilyn's Chamber."

"Huh?"

"Formerly the Hell-Fire Club," she said. "We were talking about it the other day, remember? That's its new name, Marilyn's Chamber. As in torture chamber, I guess, and as in the former porn star. See Mick tomorrow night and you can take me there on Saturday."

"You really want to go?"

"Sure, why not? I checked, and it's fifty dollars a couple and there's no pressure to do anything. And the price includes soft drinks, and that's all they serve, so you won't have to be around booze."

"Just whips and chains."

"There's a body-piercing exhibition scheduled for Saturday. You're fifty-five years old. Don't you think it's about time you witnessed a body-piercing exhibition?"

"I don't know how I lasted this long without it."

"I tried on the leather outfit and I think it looks hot."

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"But it's the least bit tight. I found out it looks better if I don't wear anything under it."

"Be awfully warm," I said. "In this weather."

"Well, the club's probably air-conditioned, don't you think?"

"In a basement on Washington Street? I wouldn't count on it."

"So? If I sweat, I sweat." She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "You don't mind a little sweat, do you?"

"No."

"I think I'll try that outfit on again," she said, "and you can tell me what you think."

She took my hand, drew me willingly to my feet. At the bedroom door she said, "You had a couple of messages. TJ wants you to beep him when you have a chance. But he didn't say it was urgent, so I suppose it can wait until morning, don't you think?"

"It'll have to," I said.

In the morning I beeped TJ and met him for breakfast across the street at the Morning Star. He was wearing the same shorts and cap, but in place of the vest he wore a denim shirt with the sleeves and collar removed and the three top buttons unbuttoned. I had already ordered and been served when he got there. He dropped into the seat opposite me and told the waiter he wanted a pair of cheeseburgers and a large order of well-done hash browns.

I said, "No french fries?"

"For breakfast?"

"Forgive me," I said. "I lost my head."

"Yeah, well, you lost it earlier, sendin' me up to the Bronx chasin' down shit happened three years ago. Neighborhoods I had to go, how you gonna find anybody remembers anything? Be like tryin' to find a needle in a crack house. An' if you did, why'd they want to talk about it?"

"Well, it was a long shot," I said, "but I thought it might be worth a try. I gather it was a waste of time."

"Who said, Fred? All I's sayin' is it be impossible. That don't mean I ain't done it."

"Oh?"

"Went all over the Bronx. Went places the trains don't go. You get off the train, then you has to take a bus." He shook his head at the wonder of it all. "Took a while, but I found folks used to know this Eldoniah. Thing is, that weren't the name they called him by."

"What did they call him?"

"Shy."

"Shy? He sounded about as retiring as a cobra."

"Well, he retirin' now, where he's at upstate. The way he be shy, see, the gang he run with, dudes'll look you right in the eye an' pull the trigger, shoot you while they smilin' at you."

"That's what I heard about Eldoniah."

"No, see, 'cause he too shy for that. That's why he's so happy the day he discovered cabdrivers. No need to be lookin' 'em in the eye, 'cause all you got to do is shoot 'em in the back of the head."

"And that's why they call him Shy."

"Din I just say that?"

"So as far as the street's concerned, he did those cabdrivers." He nodded. "The bust was righteous. But the white dude in the Yellow wasn't one of his."

"They told you that?"

"Didn't have to. The MO was all wrong." He grinned at my expression. "Well, don't that be how you'd say it? I gone be a detective, I might as well get down with the language. What Shy would do, he'd always call a cab from one of them livery services. An' he wouldn't drop it on Audubon Avenue where they found Cloonan, 'cause that be a Spanish neighborhood an' he likely to attract attention there. But just to make sure, I axed people who knew him."

"And they talked to you?"

"Story I told, I had the word from my mama that Eldoniah Mims was most likely my daddy. She just tol' me this right before she died, Clyde, so I was makin' it my business to see what I could find out about him."

"How old is Mims? I didn't think he was old enough to have been your father."

"He ain't, but none of the fools I talked to bothered to run the 'rithmetic. An' I guess Shy wasn't too shy, 'cause this one friend of his took me 'round an' introduced me to this kid and said we's evidently brothers. Kid was twelve years old an' meaner'n cat shit. I don't 'spect he'll live to be voting age, 'less they save his damn life by lockin' him up for the next six years." He grinned. "He glad to see me, though. Likes the idea that he's got an older brother. Someone to pull his coat, teach him the ways of the world."

"You'll be a good influence on him."

He rolled his eyes. "Only way you gone influence him is how Shy influenced those drivers. Shoot him in the back of the head. Anyway, all he told me is what I already figured out. Shy didn't do the dude in the Yellow. But you knew that, too, didn't you?"

"It certainly looked that way."

He washed down the last bite of cheeseburger with the last swallow of milk, pulled a napkin from the dispenser, and wiped his mouth. "Somethin' you don't know, though."

"There's a great deal I don't know."

"Killer was white."

"How do you know that?"

"Girl told me."

"That's damned interesting," I said. "I wonder how a rumor like that got all the way to the Bronx."

"Who said anything about the Bronx? We talkin' Audubon Avenue in Washington Heights where the guy in the Yellow got shot."

"What were you doing there?"

"Same thing I doin' everywhere, mindin' other folks's business. Did I say it a Spanish neighborhood? I didn't blend in too good."

"I guess your Spanish is rusty."

"I best get some of those tapes, learn it in my sleep. But what good's bein' able to talk Spanish in your sleep?" He shrugged. "Don't make no sense. What I done, I was this assistant to Melissa Mikawa, does them features on New York One?"

"I know who you mean. You told them you were her assistant?"

"Why not? I wasn't wearin' these clothes, Rose. Got me some long pants, neat little polo shirt, pair of penny loafers. Put on a Brooks Brothers accent to match the clothes. You think I didn't look like some kind of assistant to a TV reporter?"

"What about the hair?"

He whipped off his cap. His hair was a tight cap of curls that rose a scant half-inch from his scalp. "Got it cut," he said. "What you think?"