Jade in Aries (2 page)

“He said—” Cornell looked down at his twitching fingers again, and talked to them. “He said it happens all the time. He said a sailor gets off a ship in New York, he’s been weeks or months at sea, he’s only got one night on shore, and he wants a woman. So he goes to bars, and he drinks, and he doesn’t find a woman, and finally a—someone tries to pick him up. Some boy.” A quick look at me, and away. “Some homosexual, you see.”

“Yes,” I said. I knew where the story was going.

“And the sailor,” he went on, “decides to go with the boy. Because he can’t find a woman, and he doesn’t want his time on shore to be a complete waste, and something is better than nothing. And they go to the boy’s place, or somewhere else, somewhere private, and then the sailor changes his mind and gets mad because things didn’t work out the way he wanted, and he takes it out on the boy. He beats up the boy. And sometimes he kills him.”

“Yes,” I said.

“That’s what he called the Changeable Sailor,” Cornell said. “Manzoni did.”

“A good enough name for him,” I said. “That kind of thing does happen.”

“But not to Jamie!” Cornell cried, and was suddenly staring directly at me, all his pain on the surface. “To
me,
that could happen to
me
if I didn’t have—if Jamie hadn’t come into—But not to
him.
” He scrabbled into his inside jacket pocket, saying, “Here, look at this. You’ll see. It isn’t possible, it just isn’t possible.”

He came out at last with a page torn from some glossy magazine, folded over twice. Hurriedly, but almost reverently, he unfolded it and handed it over. His eyes were shining.

I took the page and looked at it. It was a full-page ad from a clothing manufacturer, for the same style of apparel as that being worn by Cornell. The bottom quarter of the ad had copy, black lettering on white, but the top three quarters was a full-color photograph of a young man standing in a dramatic pose on a huge boulder in a field. In the background, a herd of horses was running pell-mell from right to left.

The young man was a Negro, with very light skin: milk-chocolate. He was lean and graceful, with the body and stance of a dancer. His face was handsome, firm-jawed, strong-looking, and at the same time quite obviously homosexual. His hair was worn in the natural style lately popular, but not to any wild excess.

This was the Creative Queen, this was the one for whom this clothing was made. The difference between Ronald Cornell, fidgeting awkwardly and looking both forlorn and ridiculous in his finery, and the young man in this photograph, who wore the equivalent finery as naturally and appropriately as any cavalier, was cruel and complete.

I looked up from the picture to see Cornell gazing hopefully at me, his expression for some reason expectant. Then I understood; the lover awaiting admiration for his beloved.

I said, “This is Jamie?”

“You see it’s not possible,” he said. “You see he wouldn’t pick up a
sailor.
”

“Or anyone else? Did he never do anything like that?”

“Jamie?” I handed him back the picture; he turned it so he could look at it, and said, “Jamie could have anybody he wanted. He didn’t have to go after strangers, they all wanted Jamie.” He looked at me again and shook his head. “Jamie never cruised,” he said. “He never did.”

“All right.” I thought I knew now what it was all about, and I said, “But I suppose this Detective …”

“Manzoni.”

“Yes. I suppose he’s satisfied with his sailor theory, and isn’t looking around for anybody else.”

“He isn’t doing
anything.
He says it’s hopeless, and he isn’t even
trying.
”

I took a deep breath, and said, “Before you go any further, let me explain a couple of things to you. I used to be on the police force, I’m not any more.”

“I know that.”

“I don’t have a license to practice as a private detective,” I said. “If I were to try to do Manzoni’s job, I could get into very serious trouble.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “That isn’t what I want. No, that’s up to me. I wouldn’t expect anyone else to do it. I have to find Jamie’s murderer myself.”

I frowned at him. “Then what do you want from me?”

He got fidgety again, but this time it seemed to be more embarrassment than emotion. He said, “I don’t know if you put much credence in astrology.”

“Astrology?” Now what?

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “I wouldn’t try to convert anybody. The point is, what I need to know is people’s birthdays. And not just the date, but the exact
time of
their birth. It’s on everybody’s birth certificate, what time you were born.”

“I’m not following you,” I said. “What do you need this information for?”

“Well, if you don’t believe in astrology you’ll probably think I’m foolish.”

“I won’t think anything,” I said. “I just want to understand what you have in mind.”

“Well,” he said, “it will be in the stars, won’t it? I mean, if all the important things in our lives are in the stars, recorded in the stars, then the murder will be there too, won’t it?”

“You’re going to find the murderer through astrology?”

“I have to try,” he said. “What else can I do?”

I shook my head. What he was saying was nonsense, of course, but what else
could
he do? The New York City Police Department, like every other facet of municipal government, is understaffed and overworked. Detective Manzoni was merely following the line of least resistance in assuming that a normal pattern of violence held true in this case. If what Manzoni called the Changeable Sailor really was the murderer—as in most cases like this he in fact was—then there was nothing Manzoni could do, and he would be justified in filing the case in the Open file and forgetting it. I would be tempted to do the same thing myself, were I still on the force.

So what were the choices open to Ronald Cornell? There’d be no point in his trying to get any more action out of the police by going over Manzoni’s head; the detective on the case wasn’t likely to be reversed by his superiors without a great deal of solid evidence against him, and particularly not when the complainant was an obvious homosexual, against whom official bias would be subtle, unacknowledged and inevitable.

Jamie Dearborn had obviously been vitally important in Cornell’s life; no doubt Cornell had never expected to land so enviable a “partner,” and knew it would never happen to him again. There would be no more Jamies in Cornell’s life. So how could he do nothing about the loss of Jamie? And where there was nothing rational to be done, that left only the irrational. He would find Jamie’s murderer through astrology; the name would be found written among the stars.

It wouldn’t be, of course, and eventually Cornell would have to give up the idea. In the meantime, though, it seemed harmless. It would give him something to do while learning to forget, and it would keep him from a futile assault against City Hall.

So I didn’t argue with him about his plan. Let him occupy himself in busywork; wasn’t my own life built on the same irrational soil? Wasn’t I digging this sub-cellar? Wasn’t I, when the weather was better, working on my wall?

I said, “I still don’t see what you want me to do.”

“I asked around,” he said. “I was told about you, that you used to be on the police force. I thought you would know how I could find out the birthdays. I don’t know how to go about it.”

“You need date and time of birth?”

“Yes. It’s always on the birth certificate.”

“I know that. How many people?”

“Six.”

I looked at him in astonishment. “You have it narrowed to six?”

“Yes. I made a list of the suspects, and found out who had alibis, and these six are left.”

“How did you make a list of suspects?”

“Well, it had to be somebody that Jamie knew. He was very careful about letting people into the apartment, he would never have let a stranger in. Not even the grocery boy, he’d make him leave the package in the foyer. He’d put the chain on the door, and open it just enough to give him the tip.”

“So you made a list of people Jamie would have let in.”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Fourteen.”

“And eight of them had alibis.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve done all this in four days?”

“Two days, actually,” he said. “I didn’t start until Monday, when I finally saw that Detective Manzoni wasn’t going to do anything.”

I was taken aback. Cornell had gone about his investigation in the most professional way possible; listing the potential suspects on the basis of the habits of the victim, eliminating from the list on the basis of alibi. And now he was going to make a direct about-face into the irrational.

I felt the terrible temptation to become involved. But I wasn’t going to, I was going to stay completely out of it. Not only because of the problem of a private detective’s license, but also because I had enough pain of my own, I didn’t need to envelop myself in someone else’s agony.

What Cornell hadn’t realized yet was this: Even if he did find Jamie Dearborn’s murderer, even if he managed to obtain convictable evidence (as astrological charts, of course, would not be), even if he somehow got the murderer arrested and convicted and jailed, even then Jamie Dearborn would go on being dead. Cornell didn’t really want vengeance, I could see that in his eyes. What he wanted was his partner back, alive and well. But that was the one thing he was not going to get, no matter what he did, and when all the activity was done, he was going to have to face it. That moment would be terrible, and I had no desire to be present.

So I made no suggestions, I made no offers. I simply said, “All right, you have six suspects. Were they all born in New York?”

He looked surprised. “I really don’t know. Of course, I’ll have to know that too, won’t I?”

“Naturally.”

“Yes, I should have thought of that. Location on the planet is just as important as time, astrologically.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” I said. “Birth certificates are maintained in the county where you were born, so we’ll have to know the counties before we can get the certificates.”

“Oh, of course.” He frowned, and said thoughtfully, “I know some of them. I suppose I might be able to find out the others. Would it be imposing too much to use your phone?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Thank you.” He stepped back to let me go first up the stairs.

I was still wearing my work gloves, which I now stripped off and dropped on the floor before going up. We went silently up to the kitchen, where I said, “I’ll wash up out here. The phone’s in the living room.”

“Thank you very much.” He paused, looking awkward, and said, “I really appreciate this.”

“I haven’t done anything yet,” I said.

“You didn’t dismiss me out of hand,” he said, and flashed his embarrassed smile, and went on into the living room.

I washed at the kitchen sink, fully realizing now what a study in contrasts we must have been down in the basement, he so neat and so elegantly turned out, me in ripped old sneakers, paint-stained trousers, frayed flannel shirt and work gloves, my face and forearms smeared with dirt and perspiration. I felt an urge to go upstairs and change into cleaner clothes, but of course as soon as Cornell left I would go back to my digging.

Above the kitchen sink was a window facing the back yard. Out there it was still grim, snowflakes endlessly dropping like miniature parachutists down through the windless air, making anonymous mounds of my wall and the canvas-covered stacks of matériel waiting for spring.

I have been working on my wall now for close to two years. The work is its own purpose, so I have seen to it that the job goes very slowly. When completed, the wall will be ten feet high and two feet thick, composed of brick and concrete block, built on a solid concrete-block footing that extends into the earth below the frost line. There will be no windows or doors or other openings in the wall, which will completely enclose the yard on three sides. The house itself will form the fourth wall, so that when I am finished the only entrance to the yard will be through the house.

The wall is now about four feet high all the way around. I am progressing slowly, but no matter how slowly I move, the wall continues toward completion. Some day it will be finished, which I don’t like to think about.

Last winter, the second winter since I was thrown off the force and the first winter since I started the wall, was a very difficult time. I couldn’t work on my wall during January and February, and I had nothing else to do but sit in front of the television set all day, hoping the movements on the screen would distract me from thoughts of where I was and how I had put myself here. This winter the idea came to me to give myself a second project, indoors, to carry me through the time of worst weather. So I am digging a sub-basement. Beginning at the rear wall of the house, I intend to first dig a flight of steps down to a depth of eight feet. Then I will dig a room out of the earth under the concrete floor of the basement. I will be careful not to dig under any of the structural supports of the house, and I will erect firm supports for the basement floor as I dig. This project may last much longer than the wall, and give me a much longer respite from myself.

Once, in the first year after I was thrown off the force, I dreamed that Jock called me on the phone. Though he spoke to me at length, I couldn’t seem to make out any of the words. But the astonishing thing was that he didn’t sound angry, and when I awoke in the morning I felt both pleasure and amazement at the memory. I almost said to Kate, “Jock isn’t mad at me, isn’t that incredible?” But I realized in time that it was only a dream.

I find it difficult to describe what I did, to put it in words; I tend to talk in circles around it. How fast can I say it, in how few words? My partner, Detective Jock Sheehan, was shot to death because, instead of being at his side, I was in bed with a woman other than my wife. Oh, but there’s even more to it than that. Jock knew where I was, the affair had been going on for four years and he had helped me keep it going and keep it quiet. And the woman, Linda Campbell, was the wife of a jailed burglar I had arrested. How do I betray thee, self? Let me count the ways.