Park Lane South, Queens (20 page)

“Christ,” she answered the phone.

“Hello? Zinnie?”

“Hello? Oh Jesus, I just almost got killed. I'm sorry. Who is this? God!”

“Hello? This is Emil … you all right there?”

Zinnie's enamored young doctor. “Yes. Yes, Emil, I'm fine. I just had a terrible close call. The radio fell into my tub and,” she shuddered with goosebumps, “and I think if you hadn't called at that moment and wakened me out of my reverie, I'd be dead. Do people die from radios in bathtubs?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, then you just saved my life.”

“Fine,” he surprised her by saying. It always astonished her with what nonchalance the medical profession greeted life-and-death drama. “I was hoping to catch Zinnie in,” he continued.

“No. No, she's on overtime, I think. I don't know. I get so mixed up with her schedule.” She continued to look at the tub. “I think it blew the fuse. The overhead light is out as well.”

“That's good. Just make sure it is blown before you take the radio out of the tub.”

Claire followed the wire with her eyes. It was plugged into another wire that went out into the hall.

“All right then,” said Emil. “Tell her I called. And I hope you're all right.”

“I'll write it down.” She heard the Mayor running down the hall and wondered where he was off to. “Good-bye,” she said, “and thanks.” Gingerly, she tried the light switch. It didn't work. She pulled the radio out and let the water out of the tub. How easy it is, she thought to herself. You're here one minute and gone the next. Just like that. She remembered Johnny. The best way to begin, she'd heard it said, was to start. All right. She'd give up procrastination for action. She toweled off hurriedly. Where to begin? Call? She had his address. Why not drive directly to his house? He lived in South Ozone Park, three or four miles away. It was still early in the afternoon. If he wasn't there, she would leave a note. “You'll come with me,” she said to the Mayor, who'd just come up the stairs. “Let me just go and look at that circuit breaker first. We'll bring back the camera at the same time.” Johnny might even persuade her to keep it, she realized hopefully.

See that? remarked the Mayor to himself. She didn't even miss me. Just as I'd suspected.

Claire's heart leapt at the thought of keeping the camera. She'd be right back in business. She dressed quickly, with a light, happy heart. She dried her hair with Zinnie's dryer and brazenly stole Carmela's car.

Once you got past Liberty Avenue, Lefferts Boulevard was chock full of Indians. This didn't bother Claire. She felt right at home. Purple and pink flower beds grew in whimsical tufts across the little front yards. They'd torn down all the German fir trees, the Indians, so they would have more light. Mighty sunflowers loomed with determined cheerfulness between the garbage pails. There was a wedding going on, the dark, plump bride just coming out of the rented white limousine. She wore a Western wedding gown and her bridesmaids their traditional saris. The young men stood about with shy, expectant, self-important gestures. “It's good luck to see a bride,” Claire told the Mayor. He enjoyed a ride in a car, as long as they weren't on their way to the vet.

On Rockaway Boulevard Claire turned right and drove through a visible cloud of gasoline fumes. She God blessed American shampoo with its vivacious redolence. Now they were in the Italian sector: pizza places, gas stations, hubcap specialty lots. She drove along putting rouge on in the rearview mirror. When she decided she looked all right, she made a left at the Aqua Motel and cruised down the row of blocks. She liked to drive. As soon as she could get her hands on some money, she'd buy herself a nice little used car. Here the houses were semiattached brick with geranium pots on perfect cement stoops. There were several grottos to the Virgin and one black-faced jockey, still carrying that years-ago burnt out white lantern. On the right side the houses' backyards faced the racetrack and you looked right across the field to the distant bleachers. The last house on the last block was Johnny's. It was just a plain old house, she reasoned, but even so, her blood pounded through her temples. He probably isn't even home, she sniggered wildly to herself. She checked her purse to make sure she would have pen and paper handy for a note. If she had it, she calmed herself superstitiously, she wouldn't need it. The Mayor leaned against her, panting reassuringly. His breath, she noticed, was atrocious.

Johnny's lawn was parched and uncared for in this quarter of Italian husbandry. Prickled hoses spurted up and down the block. There were grape arbours and tomato plants in every backyard. Johnny seemed to be cultivating a bevy of Coke cans in his. And car skeletons. It looked more like a car cemetery than somebody's home.

She parked the car in his driveway, then backed it out and parked parallel to the curb. No sense being presumptuous. With studied calm, she got out. The Mayor flinched at the low-flying 747 that roared darkly through the still-bright light. That's what you got when you lived near the airport. A timid team, they climbed the steps. She pushed the bell. It chimed out the theme from
The Godfather
. Good Lord, she thought. She waited. She tried the knocker. Still nothing. What did she want with some slobby detective, anyway? she thought, taking in the rumpled pile of laundry in there on the porch floor. She turned to go. It was a good thing he wasn't at home, she realized now. She wouldn't even leave a note. “Look at this.” She heard a voice and her heart stood still. He was at the upstairs window, peering out of the screen. She could hardly see him but she knew he was scratching that furry chest.

“Hang on a second,” he said and she followed the Mayor back to the stoop. When he turned the lock and opened the door she forgot for a moment why she'd come. He looked like a film star. No shirt. Just a pair of navy blue sweatpants.

“Come on in.” The sudden dark made her temporarily blind. He'd been conked out, he said. This overtime had him all banged up. “Siddown, siddown.”

She took in the room as her eyes adjusted to the light. Here was a rollicking carnival of kitsch. Rubber carnations, enshrined in glass, were shamelessly exhibited upon the dusty coffee table, which was made up of artificial marble itself. Psychedelic flower decals from the sixties peppered the wall. And a touch of glamor: plastic logs blazed in the grate with their own make-believe orange flames. Aesthetically, it couldn't have been worse. And yet, the whole thing broke her heart. He didn't know about those things. How could he? Where had he traveled in his life? To Atlantic City? She couldn't not love him for his lack of opportunity. And she admired the way he didn't seem to mind her catching him in a mess. Unless of course he didn't realize it was a mess.

“You got that vest on,” he popped open a Coke and passed it to her.

“Yes.”

“I mean, you had that on the first time I saw you.”

“Yes.” He must know that she was after him. She wished she could float away. This looks, thought the Mayor, like it's going to be a long one. He made himself comfortable in the shadow of a plastic tree. “Back then,” Claire nodded. “Before the murder.”

“Same day.”

“Right. Yes, it was, wasn't it?”

“You like Frank?”

“Sorry?”

“Frank. Frank Sinatra.” He waved a battered album.

“Oh. No, I uh … prefer Billie.”

“Billie?”

“Holiday.”

“Yeah? What's he, new?”

“No.”

“So. You wanna get in the air conditioner with me?”

Claire laughed politely. She straightened her spine. “Actually, I came here to discuss the murders. I had the feeling I ought to tell you what I thought.”

“Oh yeah? Is that why you came here? All right. So discuss.”

She cleared her throat. “Well. Both murders took place in a circle. A circle. Nobody seems to have made anything of the idea of the circle itself. And I just thought … I don't know … maybe somebody could look into that aspect of it. You see, nowadays, cultists seem to go in more for the pentagram, but traditionally it was the circle used in all diabolical ceremonies … in occult ceremonies.” As she spoke she realized that what she had said would certainly implicate Iris von Lillienfeld. Everyone in Richmond Hill knew that Iris was known as a witch. All Claire could see was Iris's poor white face. Oh, she didn't want it to be Iris. Still, it was her duty to tell. “You see,” she continued, “babies have always been used in black magic ceremonies as sacrifice … often eaten … or … or parts of their bodies made into unguents or soups … to be drunk or used later to cast spells. Please don't look at me so disbelievingly, it's quite true. The principles of evil have always fed on innocence … literally. It's recorded word for word in the
Malleus Maleficarum
, in the report to Peter the Judge in Boltington concerning thirteen children devoured in the state of Berne. You can read it for yourself if you don't believe me.”

“Sounds like the third shelf at the video rental.”

“Yes, doesn't it? Because there are still so many people who are fascinated with that sort of horror. And always will be, I suppose. All that I'm trying to say is this: instead of a murderer working impulsively, chaotically, perhaps what we have here is a thought-out plan of treachery. A person consumed with power … satanic power. I mean, if there is a sort of system here, one could conceivably figure out what might happen next.”

“I think you oughta have your head examined.”

“Oh, for God's sake! I came here to share my feelings with you, to be helpful if I could, and all you can do is try to make me feel strange. I'll be perfectly frank with you, after you left this morning I felt bad. I started smoking one cigarette after the next and then I thought, great, this is just what I'm trying not to do. It seems everything I try not to do, I do just that. To which you will surely reply, stop trying. Which is, by the way, the essence of Buddhistic thought. Anyway, I stopped smoking only to find myself eating everything in sight. I caught myself and so I naturally thought of you—”

“Naturally.”

“And I … I felt really close to you and I thought I had to come over here and tell you how sorry I was. For the way I behaved. After you went out and got me the camera. So I came and here I am and I don't feel close you at all. I feel as though you're this perfectly horrible person with whom I want nothing to do—”

“‘With whom'? Did I hear you say ‘with whom'?”

“Please don't make fun of me.”

“Oh, I get it. You can come over here and tell me I'm a perfectly horrible person and you don't want to have nothin' to do with me but I shouldn't make fun of you.” Claire watched as the determined upper lip she found so attractive curled inward. “I think you think the whole police force never heard of cult murders. And like it's going to take you to tell us about them. You know what your problem is?”

“I'm sure you'll tell me.”

“Your problem is that you always gotta be the one in control. The minute you feel anybody else gettin' up there with you on your Buddha pole, you go all to pieces.”

“I truly dislike this room. Did you paint it pea green for your own amusement or was it like this when you got here? Or perhaps it's your idea of a political statement?”

He ignored her. “You're scared shit to give anyone power over you because poor little you could get hurt.”

“My, my,” Claire sucked the inside of her cheek. “You figured this out all by yourself, I suppose. A genuine fling into the dizzying heights of psychoanalysis.”

“Oh, come on. Anybody acts that superior has got to have some sort of complex.”

“It might surprise you to know that there's a vast world out there just full of people who function and communicate on levels other than dese, dems, and dose, and they're perfectly happy.” Her eyes bulged. “They're not looking down on anybody. They're just trying to live a gentler life.”

He burst out laughing. “I'm talking about apples and you're talking about oranges.”

“You're the most infuriating person I have ever met.”

“But you're crazy about me. You know you are. Otherwise you never would've come here.” He settled back comfortably on a wedge of foam rubber.

That was the trouble with living on a cop's salary. Even if you knew what was good, you'd never be able to afford it. It made her so mad she could spit. “You haven't heard a single word I've said!” she shouted at him.

“I heard you. What do you think, I'm sleeping? I only ought to follow my brain instead of my heart. You'd be my prime suspect if I didn't keep making excuses for you inside of my head.”

She bolted upright. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. None of this started happening until you got back to town did it?”

Claire was speechless. She stared, paralyzed, into a framed picture of Johnny Walker Black as if it might tell her something.

He squashed his cigarette into a dirty pie plate and looked at his watch. “You could have done them both as far as a jury would be concerned.”

“But my cameras,” she whispered.

He shrugged. “You could have got rid of them yourself. Throw suspicion in another direction. Could easily have been a woman who did it. Not a trace of semen to be found. And sweetheart. While I got your attention, let me tell you something. You're just the type some jury would love to hang. Expatriate. Member of a weird Indian cult—”

“Cult?! that was an ashram … of a very respected guru! And the other an extremely high lama!”

“Try telling that one to a jury. You know what the
Post
would make outa you? With a past like you got? Growin' weird magical herbs in your kitchen? Mincemeat, that's what.”

“You're out of your mind.”

“No, I ain't outa my mind. And I didn't say you did it. Alls I'm sayin is you coulda done it. Wandering around in the middle a the night like you do. Talking to yourself. I've seen you talking to yourself. Wacky broad.” He shook his head. “Shit!” He sprang up suddenly. “Hang on a second.” He jumped from the couch to the window, picked up a pair of binoculars and studied the racetrack through them. He wrote something down on a piece of paper, smiled, and picked up the phone. While it was ringing he looked at her and winked. “Eddie? Yeah. Johnny. Gimmie Four Leaf Clover thirty times in the fifth. That's all. Yeah.
Statta bene
.” He hung up the phone and rubbed both hands together.