Jade in Aries (4 page)

She said, “Then what do you think happened?”

“I think he was hit on the head,” I said. “While he was in the store, probably. Then he was carried up to the roof. The murderer didn’t take him to the front because he was afraid somebody in the street below might see him. That’s the only explanation for Cornell’s body going off the back.”

She said, “But couldn’t it be one of those cases where somebody tries to kill himself but doesn’t really want to? Doesn’t that happen?”

“It happens more often than real suicide,” I said. “It’s a way of getting the world to pay attention to your problems. But that false-start kind of thing is done under completely different circumstances. You don’t really hurt yourself, for one thing, and you make sure there are people around to rescue you in time, for another. If Cornell had gone up on the roof and sat on the edge with his feet dangling over and shouted that he was going to jump, that would be a different thing. But to make a jump like that? No. Because you
might
get killed, jumping four stories onto the wooden roof of a storage shed, no matter if the shed is full of mattresses. And even if you don’t get killed, you could get very severely injured. You could break bones, you could lose an eye. The sidewalk would be a cleaner and surer death, if you really mean to die, and the storage shed is too dangerous if you just want to call attention to yourself.”

“But the police think it was suicide,” she said.

“They won’t for long. When Cornell comes to, he’ll tell them what happened. With any luck, he knows who did it to him.”

“What if he doesn’t come to? What if he dies?”

“There are too many things obviously wrong with a suicide verdict,” I said. “The fact that his partner was just killed a week and a half ago, in addition to everything else. They’ll come around to murder.”

“What if they don’t?”

I shook my head. “Then I don’t know,” I said. “It won’t be the first time anyone got away with murder in this city. But I don’t think it’ll happen.”

“You won’t do anything?”

“Me?” I frowned at her. “Why me?”

“He came to you for help,” she said.

“And I helped him.”

“And he sent you that beautiful scarf.”

“Kate, he didn’t buy me with that scarf. I didn’t ask for it, he sent it as a thank-you for what I’d already done. He hasn’t asked me to do anything else, and there’s no need for me to do anything else. He’s in a hospital now, the killer won’t be able to get at him again, the police are on the job. If he comes to, he’ll tell them what happened. If he doesn’t, they’ll investigate anyway.”

“What if they don’t?”

“It isn’t my responsibility, Kate,” I said.

She looked at me, and I could see her carefully not saying several different things. I am frequently amazed that she goes on putting up with me as I am now, and every time we come to a moment like this I feel a sudden pillar of cold in my chest, thinking, This is the time she leaves.

But it wasn’t. She folded the paper, looking away from me, and in a neutral voice said, “Will you be working downstairs today?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’ll be going shopping later on.”

“All right.”

She still hadn’t looked at me. She got to her feet and carried the breakfast dishes over to the sink.

I wanted to say,
We know who I am, Kate, why be disappointed in it?
But I didn’t say anything, and a little later I went down to the basement and went to work.

T
HREE DAYS LATER, FRIDAY,
they delivered the first load of building supplies for my sub-basement. Lengths of two-by-four, a bag of cement, two different sizes of concrete block; the bill was higher than I’d expected. It bothered me to write out the check, particularly when I was bringing no money into the house myself. This was Kate’s money I was spending, more than mine, and though I knew she wouldn’t grudge me, I didn’t feel right about it.

The two men from the lumberyard weren’t happy about delivering everything to the basement, but I worked with them and it didn’t take that much time or effort. Then I paid them and they left, and I went back downstairs to go to work.

All I had done so far was dig. I had first used a sledge to break through the concrete floor in an area against the rear wall that extended ten feet along the wall and three feet out into the room. The broken pieces of concrete I had piled in a corner, after straightening the edges of the opened area as much as possible with a chisel and a smaller hammer. Then I’d started to dig, shoveling the dirt into empty cement bags, of which I had six. Whenever all six bags were full, I left off digging long enough to carry the bags one at a time upstairs and empty them in the back yard along the wall, the dark mounds looking odd surrounded by snow. All of this made for slow going, but that was, after all, the object.

I was digging a hole ten feet long and three feet wide, and I was digging steps in as I went, making the first step a long one because I would later cover these steps with the smaller concrete blocks. I had now dug to a depth of about four feet, and had four steps. I could begin at once to use some of the building supplies I’d bought.

From the beginning, I’d been digging wider than the opening I’d cleared in the floor, removing dirt from under both the exterior wall on the one side and the floor on the other. Now I began by building walls on both sides of my steps, one under the existing exterior wall and the other under the basement floor. I used concrete blocks, the larger ones, filled in crannies with smaller pieces of broken concrete from the pile in the corner, and used plenty of cement for mortar. I didn’t want to finish with a wet cellar, nor did I want to weaken the structure of the house.

I did the walls as far as my fourth step, and was about to start laying the smaller concrete blocks on the steps and cementing them in place when Kate came down the stairs, slowly, looking thoughtful.

It was unusual for Kate to watch me at work, either down here or out in the yard when I was working on my wall. I glanced over at her and saw her sit down on the bottom step, watching me, her expression still distracted. I said, “Something?” and she shook her head, not as though there was nothing on her mind but as though she hadn’t as yet worked out how to talk about it. I went on with my work.

I could feel her there, even though I didn’t look directly at her, and it was a relief when, after about five minutes, she finally spoke, saying, “I went to the hospital today.”

I straightened, a concrete block in my hands. Visions of incurable illnesses flashed through my head. More sharply than I’d intended, I said, “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

She smiled with sudden tenderness—I know she loves me, or why would she imprison herself here, but neither of us very often show our feelings—and said, “No, not about me. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

I felt stupid, standing there holding that heavy block. I half-turned to toss it onto the dirt bottom of the hole I was standing in, and said, “What, then?”

“I went to see Ronald Cornell,” she said. “I called yesterday, and they said he was conscious and off the critical list. There wasn’t anything in the paper about him today, so I went to see him.”

There was going to be something in this I wouldn’t like, or it wouldn’t have taken her so long to get started. I said, “What did he have to say?”

“What you said. He didn’t try to commit suicide. He was knocked out in the store, and didn’t come to again until the hospital, day before yesterday.”

“Did he see who did it?”

“No. He was in the back room of the store, sitting at his desk. He said he was doing some things with astrological charts. Whoever it was, they came up behind him. He didn’t know anybody was in the store at all.”

“It shouldn’t take the police long to work it out,” I said.

“That’s the problem,” she said. “The police aren’t trying.”

So here it was. I said, “What do you mean, they aren’t trying?”

“They insist it was a suicide attempt,” he said. “They’re accusing Ronald of lying.” Ronald. He had found a partisan, obviously.

I said, “That doesn’t make any sense. They have to see he wouldn’t do it that way.”

“It seems mostly to be a detective named Manzoni. Did you know him at all?”

“No. Cornell mentioned him when he was here. It was Manzoni that declared the Dearborn murder unsolvable.”

“Well, he’s the one saying Ronald tried to kill himself. Ronald says he’s well known in the Brooklyn Heights area for hating homosexuals. He’s been accused of beating them up two or three times.”

That also did happen. A cop who hates a specific class or group of people—blacks, homosexuals, Jews, college students, union members, what-have-you—is in a better position than the average bigot to work out his hatred on individuals within that group. Generally, the force tries to avoid that kind of trouble by assigning men away from temptation—keeping the Negro-haters out of Harlem and Bedford-Stuyvesant, and the fag-haters out of Greenwich Village and Brooklyn Heights—but that kind of approach can’t be one hundred percent effective. If Detective Manzoni actually did have a violent antipathy for homosexuals, he had been assigned to just the wrong part of the city; Brooklyn Heights has been a homosexual enclave for years.

I said, “In other words, Manzoni is blocking any real investigation.”

“Yes. And there’s nothing Ronald can do about it.”

“He can go over Manzoni’s head.”

“Manzoni is trying to get Ronald committed to a mental institution. Because he tried to commit suicide, of course, and also because he’s an admitted homosexual. Mitch, you know Manzoni won’t have trouble finding some old-line judge to go along with him. And how can a certified lunatic complain to anybody and be listened to?”

“All right,” I said. “He can’t. But if you want
me
to go talk to Manzoni’s superiors, believe me, I could only do more harm than good. I’m not the right kind of advocate for Cornell, what he needs is a good lawyer.”

“Of course he needs a lawyer,” she said. “But you know the kind of person he has for a lawyer. He’s using the same lawyer he’s always used in the past, for the store and whatever.”

“You mean another homosexual.”

“Yes. A man named Stewart Remington.”

Stewart Remington? The name surprised me; it was one of the six I’d read to Eddie Schultz over the phone last week. So Cornell’s lawyer was one of his suspects.

I said, “He should get another lawyer.”

“I suppose he should. But he doesn’t know how to tell Remington he wants somebody else, and he doesn’t know any other lawyers.”

“He’s helpless, in other words.”

Kate frowned at me. “You say that as though you think he’s being a weakling or something. He really
is
helpless. He’s in the hospital with half a dozen broken bones, there’s a police guard on him, there’s a detective with a vendetta against him, and he doesn’t know what to do next. He
is
helpless.”

“There’s nothing for me to do,” I said, because I knew that was the question behind all this:
Will you do something, Mitch?
“With my background,” I said, “if I went to Manzoni’s captain, it would just put the icing on the cake. Cornell would
really
be in the soup.”

“He’s really in the soup now.”

“Well, what do you
want
from me?” I was getting exasperated. She clearly wanted something, she had it in mind there was something I could do, but she wouldn’t come out and ask me. She just kept on describing Cornell’s predicament. It was true that he was in deep trouble, but it was also true there was no sensible way I could help him.

So she said, “I want you to find the killer.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Are you out of your mind? Do you know what someone like Manzoni would do to me if he found me poking around, trying to open a case that he wants shut?”

“I hadn’t expected an answer like that from you, Mitch. I expected you to say no at first, but not for that reason.”

“I have my moments of bravery,” I said, “like any other man. But I also have my moments of prudence. I don’t see where this affair is any of my business. I want to stay away from it.”

“It’s a terrible miscarriage of justice,” she said.

“Kate, there are terrible miscarriages of justice every day, in every city under the sun. There are three billion people on earth, and most of them will be treated shabbily and cruelly and even violently at least once in their lives. That isn’t a
reason,
Kate, for me to stick my neck out.”

“He needs your help, Mitch. He asked for your help. He has nobody else to turn to.”

I could feel it closing in on me. “Kate, what on earth could I do? Even if I tried, what could I do? I can make some phone calls and find him a good lawyer, that would be the best thing.”

“A lawyer won’t beat Manzoni,” she said, “not if Manzoni is determined. You know that, Mitch.”

“Eventually—”

“Eventually? After a year, two years? Even six months, Mitch. Put someone like Ronald Cornell in an asylum for six months? What do you think it would do to him?”

I said, “There’s no reason to believe I’d succeed, even if I did try.”

“That’s the worst excuse of all,” she said.

I looked down at the hole I was digging, the concrete blocks I was putting in place. I didn’t want to leave all this. I didn’t want to expose myself to anybody like Detective Manzoni, I didn’t want to pry into the unhappy world that Ronald Cornell lived in, I didn’t want to go out of this house at all.

Kate said, “I talked to him about money.”

I looked up at her in surprise. “Money?”

“He wouldn’t want you to do it for nothing,” she said. “And we could use more money.”

Neither of us looked directly at the new stacks of supplies that had just been delivered, but all at once I was almost painfully conscious of them; in the corner of my vision.

I said, “What kind of money were you talking about?”

“He told me his store has been averaging a profit of about twenty thousand dollars a year, but they’ve been putting a lot of it back into the business, for a wider stock and redecorating the store and advertising and so on. So they don’t have a lot of money in cash. But now that his partner is dead, Ronald owns the whole business outright, so he offered us a part ownership. Fifteen percent.”