Too Old a Cat (Trace 6) (7 page)

Razoni and Jackson learned, from Detective Gault and Gorman at the local precinct, that more than fifty persons had watched Swami Salamanda eat the poisoned rose and that the other eleven roses brought out to the stage were also poisoned. The young dark-haired girl who brought in the roses had vanished after Salamanda collapsed; no one knew her name or where she lived, and no one had yet come up with a line on her.

Additionally, Razoni and Jackson learned that Detectives Gault and Gorman were not especially pleased about having two other detectives intruding on “their” murder investigation, even if those two other detectives did work right out of the commissioner’s office, because this was a page-one case and a chance for Detectives Gault and Gorman to get some publicity and perhaps get a leg up on the ladder toward promotion.

In return, Detectives Gault and Gorman learned that Detective First Class Edward Razoni did not give a shit about their feelings, because how did he feel being dragged out of his house on a Sunday, and that if he were running the police they would both be promoted the day after the last of the new police cadets had made deputy chief inspector, and even this would be too soon because Detectives Gault and Gorman had made “the worst mistake detectives can make” and did they ever think of finding a new line of work?

“Ed,” said Jackson later in the car, “what’s the ‘worst mistake detectives can make?’”

Razoni shrugged. “I don’t know. I just made that up to make them feel rotten.”

“Do you know that for the rest of their lives they’re going to be wondering what terrible mistake they made?”

Razoni covered his eyes with both hands as Jackson slalomed his way through a busy intersection against a red light. When he heard no crash, he uncovered his eyes and said, “Serves them right. Anybody stupid enough to be a cop deserves misery in his life.”

“You’re a cop,” Jackson said.

“That’s right, and I’ve got you for a partner.”

“That’s misery?”

“That’s right. Misery. Who ever heard of a black detective? Who ever heard of a black who wasn’t a criminal? And here I get one who thinks that a guru’s a person who eats roses,” Razoni said.

Jackson swerved around three pedestrians stepping from between parked cars. They were crossing the invisible dividing line into Alphabet City, a particularly degenerate sprawl outward from the eastern part of Greenwich Village.

“Who drives like a maniac,” Razoni said.

Jackson laughed and stepped hard on the gas.

“And who’s arrogant.”

Jackson drove faster.

“And pushy.”

Jackson skidded around a corner.

“And arrogant.”

“You already said arrogant,” Jackson said.

“Did I say pushy?”

“Yeah, you said pushy too.”

“Shit,” Razoni said. “Drive slow and give me a chance to think of something else.”

“Nobody drives that slow,” Jackson said. “We’re here.” He skidded the car into the curb in front of a fire hydrant and turned off the motor.

“We’re where? The city dump?” asked Razoni as he lowered the window and gazed down the garbage-bedecked street.

“The scene of the crime,” Jackson said.

“I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

“They’ll have one inside.”

“Why should they? When they’ve got the whole outdoors?”

Two young uniformed policemen stood near a wooden barricade in front of the heavy planked door of one of a pair of matching long, low buildings. The building on the left seemed to be some kind of food market; the one on the right had old-fashioned glass store windows, but covered with heavy draperies. Jackson waved his badge at the two police officers as he and Razoni went into the second building, where a young man sat at a table just inside the door, dressed in a white robe.

“Welcome to Salamanda Ashram,” he said.

Razoni moved from side to side like a little boy trying to control his bladder by making it seasick.

“Good afternoon,” said Jackson, moving up to the table, which was covered with a white cloth. The young man looked past him at Razoni, who stood rocking in place.

“Is there anything wrong with your friend?” he asked pleasantly.

“Just tell me where the men’s room is,” Razoni growled. “Emphasis on men.”

The young man pointed to a door at the end of a small corridor. Razoni brushed past Jackson, whispering loudly, “Don’t give this twerp any money.”

As Razoni vanished down the corridor, the young man at the table looked up expectantly at Jackson.

“We’re here to see Mr. Gildersleeve,” Jackson said.

“Brother Gildersleeve is busy inside with Sister Glorious. Your business is…?”

“We’re detectives.”

“You’re too late. Detectives have already been here. The press too.”

“I know. We’re just following up a few things,” Jackson said.

Razoni reappeared. “Hey, Tough,” he whispered. “This is a junk joint, I think.”

“Why?”

“There’s a whole bunch of guys in the men’s room and they’ve all got this retarded look on their faces. Like they’re on something.”

“I think that’s called peace,” Jackson said. “Could you call Brother Gildersleeve?” he asked the young man.

“Brother who?” Razoni said.

“Brother Gildersleeve should be free any moment,” the young man said. “Please—”

He was interrupted by a bustling sound behind him as double doors that led to a meeting room were pushed open. A small man wearing a conservative brown suit strutted through the door. He had slick black hair and the chesty walk of a bantam rooster who had just demolished the barnyard’s last virgin hen. Under his arm was a thick roll of paper. A half-dozen young people straggled after him.

Without looking toward Razoni and Jackson, the little man walked toward one of the walls of the anteroom. He put his pile of paper down upon a desk where it rolled itself flat into a stack of heavy paper posters.

“That’s Brother Gildersleeve,” the young man told Jackson.

Gildersleeve held one of the posters against the wall with his left hand as if measuring its location, then slid it upward a half-foot and anchored it there with masking-tape strips that he tore from a roll of tape with his teeth.

In the center of the poster was a color photograph of Swami Salamanda. Atop the picture, the poster screamed in black, still-sticky end-of-the-world type: SWAMI LIVES!!!!

Under the picture, the legend read:

Gildersleeve backed off to inspect his work. He smiled, baring oversized discolored teeth spaced like loose Chiclets.

“That guy doesn’t look like he belongs here, Tough,” Razoni said.

“I think he tried to sell me swampland in Jersey once,” Jackson said, moving toward Gildersleeve. He touched the small man on the arm, gestured toward the poster, and asked, “What’s that all about?”

“The Swami Lives,” Gildersleeve said in a vibrato voice that sounded as if it belonged to the town crier of Munchkinland. “His voice shall not be stilled.”

Young people drifted out of the meeting room behind him toward Gildersleeve and the two policemen. From the corner of his eyes, Gildersleeve saw them. “The Great Swami Lives,” he said, louder this time. “His work shall never die.”

One young woman brushed past him to the poster and kissed its face. She began to sob gently. More and more people poured through the double doors, wearing white robes with black patches pinned to the sleeves. Many wept; soon the room was filled with the sound of choked crying. Gildersleeve kept barking: “The Swami Lives. This weekend. The Swami Lives.”

“This is like a goddamn carnival,” Razoni said. He watched disgustedly as two young women, weeping, put their arms about each other. Two young men embraced and cried openly on each other’s shoulder.

“I told you this was a fag joint,” Razoni told Jackson.

“They’re just expressing themselves,” said Jackson. He looked down onto the shiny top of Gildersleeve’s head.

“We’re detectives, Mr. Gildersleeve. Could we talk to you?”

“I guess so,” he said. He raised his voice to a shout. “All right, everybody. Take a poster. Put them up around town. We’ll have more tomorrow. The Swami Lives. The work goes on.”

The downtown streets were always crowded and Sarge had to park his old Ford relic two blocks away from the House of Love and walk to Salamanda’s headquarters. He noticed that it was appropriately enough located in an area of the city dedicated to love, of the rough-trade kind. He passed a handful of leather bars with names like Bull’s Pizzle and Tunnel Traffic and Coal Chute.

As he approached the building, passing the almost empty food store alongside it, he saw a group of young people in white robes exiting. Most held posters, many were weeping, some mumbled, “The Swami Lives.”

His old gold badge from the New York police got him past the two patrolmen who were lounging around at a barricade out front. He passed the empty desk just inside the front door and walked into what seemed to be a large meeting room. There was a purple cushion on a low stage at the front of the room and on the floor was a chalked outline of a body. This was where Salamanda had died.

There were twenty young people kneeling around the room, humming to themselves, eyes fixed and glazed as if they were in trances. The sound they made was like a low-intensity dentist’s drill. Sarge walked to the side of the room and then approached the platform where Gloria Alcetta and a small man in a conservative suit were talking to two other men who were obviously detectives. Once again, Sarge was impressed by the woman’s beauty. Her figure was lissome and full, her hair flowed softly about her face, and she had that rare ability to look smart and nice at the same time. That the other two men were detectives Sarge knew beyond dispute. One was a black giant with a gentle face and soft eyes; the other was not quite so tall, not quite so burly, but big enough to justify his face, which seemed all angles and wedges. There were scowl lines by the side of his mouth and his suit looked very expensive.

Sarge took a seat up front, close, and heard the white man say, “I’m Detective Razoni and this is Detective Jackson. Christ, it’s noisy in here.”

“Why are you detectives here after the other detectives?” the small man said. “Does this go on forever?”

“Just talk to us,” Razoni said wearily. “See, we’re like Hallmark.”

“What’s that?” the little man said.

“When the department cares enough to send the very best, they send us. Tough, show them now good you are. Whistle or something.”

He turned to the tall redhead. “Who are you?” he said.

“I am Glorious,” she answered.

“No, lady. Just your name, not description.”

“Sister Glorious,” Gloria Alcetta said with a sad smile. “I am…was the Swami’s assistant.”

“If she’s the assistant, Gildersleeve, what do you do around here?” Razoni asked the small man.

“I am the national director for the City of Love,” Gildersleeve said.

The humming in the room grew louder.

Razoni said, “Do you have someplace else where we can talk? All these June bugs are making me nuts.”

“We can go to one of the offices in the back,” Gloria Alcetta said.

“Lead the way,” Razoni said.

The four started toward the white drapes at the back of the platform, and Sarge got to his feet and tried to look busy in case one of them should glance his way and wonder who he was. He waited a minute, then walked across the platform and into a corridor lined with rooms on each side. He could hear voices coming from one of the rooms at the end of the hall, and he latched on to a push broom that leaned against the wall and with it walked quietly to the end of the corridor.

He heard Razoni say, “Okay. This is more like it. Tough, are you taking notes?”

“No. I’m writing my autobiography.”

“Well, interrupt it for a while and take notes,” Razoni said. “Now, Gildersleeve, this girl who slipped the lizard the mickey, what do you know about her?”

Sarge peered around the corner of the door. Gildersleeve looked pained. “As I told your colleagues earlier, I know nothing about her. There are many people in here all day long, seekers of truth. One girl does not stand out.”

“You must have her name on a record somewhere. Doesn’t she pay dues or something?”

Gildersleeve looked at Gloria Alcetta, who shook her head. “We charge no dues; we keep no records. The Swami’s movement is open to all.”

Sarge noticed a faint crack in her voice.

“No records?” Razoni said disbelievingly.

“No, dammit, no records,” Gildersleeve snapped. “Sister Glorious just told you that. This isn’t the FBI, you know.”

“Would either of you recognize her if you saw her again?” Razoni asked.

“I wouldn’t,” Gildersleeve said. “You, Sister?”

Gloria Alcetta shook her head.

“Damn curious,” Razoni said. “The other detectives talked to everybody that was here. Nobody knows nothing, nobody knows anybody, nobody ever saw that broad before.”

“She was a new member,” Gloria Alcetta said. “No one had a chance to know her.”

“How’d she happen to bring in the flowers, then? Who picked her for that?”

“That, Officer, is part of our custom,” Gildersleeve said. “Each Sunday, a new group of followers goes into meditative discipline. One of them is picked, usually by the Swami himself, to handle the roses for the initiation ceremony.”

“The initiation ceremony. That’s what was going on when the lizard ate the flowers, right?” asked Razoni.

From his vantage point in the hallway, Sarge saw Gloria Alcetta’s lips tighten in anger. Gildersleeve snapped angrily, “I will not have you calling the Swami any such obscene name.”

“But he ate the rose at the ceremony, right?”

“Yes,” Gildersleeve said.

“Tough, I hope you’re getting all this down,” Razoni said. “Now, Brother Throckmorton—”

“Brother Gildersleeve,” the small man corrected, his face reddening.