American Sextet (22 page)

"Fuckin' A," the eggplant sneered.

"Who?"

"Why the fuck do you think we're here?" He sucked
in the smoke so deeply that half the cigarette in his mouth turned to quick
ash. "You tell it, baby," he said, the smoke curling into the man's
face. He began to cough again. Then he gagged and seemed to fight down the urge
to heave.

"Not one's worth protecting," the eggplant said
quietly. He was calm now.

They waited for the man to recover. Dr. Benton brought him
coffee but the man was trembling too much to lift the cup and Dr. Benton had to
literally spoon some into him. He breathed deeply, trying to recover himself.

"Which one do you think?" the eggplant said.

He turned his face toward Fiona, squinting in confusion,
spent now. Instinct, she thought. The things he always accuses me of. Pure
instinct. But there is no evidence of a crime. None at all, unless he was
holding something back and she doubted that. When the smoke cleared, she
suspected, he would be in bigger trouble than all of them.

"I want it all," the eggplant said. "All of
it."

"I..." The eggplant inexplicably grabbed the
man's shoulder and pressed it. Was it a gesture of manly affection? Were they
allies now? The confessor and the confessed. She knew what that meant in a
religious way.

"It's all down," Martin mumbled. "I can't
speak it. Hear it for yourself. I have tapes."

My God, she thought, comprehending none of it.

They were speeding through the streets again, Martin
between them on the front seat saying nothing, trancelike, periodically
dissolving into deep sobs.

As they walked up the steps to his apartment, they heard
the telephone ring. It stopped when they went in.

"There," Martin said, opening a drawer. Fiona
noted the packed bags. The apartment was neater than when she had first seen
it, obviously battened down for a long stay away.

"I was going to Switzerland. To write a book."
His voice caught in his throat.

He opened the envelopes and put the tapes into six neat
piles. She noted the names on the piles of tapes. Hurley. Senator Charles
Hurley. The sudden revelation rooted her to the floor.

Martin got his tape recorder and brought out a bottle of
Scotch and three glasses. He had begun to recover now, his relief palpable. The
unburdening had been therapeutic, a reaction she had seen many times after a
confession.

"Hear it in sequence," Martin said, placing the
first of the tapes in the recorder. Before he could switch it on, the telephone
rang.

"Not now," the eggplant said, looking at the high
pile of tapes. The phone rang persistently, and they tried to ignore it as they
sipped their Scotch.

"You know who that is?" the eggplant asked.

"Yes. He'll call again.

When it stopped, the eggplant took the instrument, opened
it and muffled the ringing device. Then they began to listen to the tapes.

The effect on Fiona was awesome, appalling, beyond belief.
To hear that voice, girlish, innocent, despite the bizarre circumstances being
related, was as if a ghost had joined them. Fiona had to look around the room
to see if Dorothy was present, dreading the possibility of seeing her
resurrected. She felt chilled, as if a ghost had touched her. The eggplant's
hooded eyes could not hide its effect on him as well. Strange sounds emitted
from him, groans, sighs. Dorothy's voice sounded eerie, as if it were emanating
from some intangible source. They listened throughout the morning and on into
the afternoon.

Martin sat quietly, offering the tapes selectively, so they
could get the full picture. It would take days, perhaps weeks, to hear them
all. It crossed her mind that perhaps they were faked, preconceived scenarios,
but it soon became evident that it wasn't possible.

Occasionally, they heard the muffled sounds of the
telephone's ring, but they ignored it and sipped the Scotch slowly. It had
little effect. By midafternoon they hadn't stirred. Martin rose from his chair
only to change the tapes, sometimes hiding his eyes and sobbing uncontrollably
when something in Dorothy's voice struck him. For hours, not a word passed
between them. Only once, late in the afternoon, Martin spoke, after the muffled
telephone persisted for nearly five minutes.

"He knows I've got tickets on SwissAir tonight at
ten."

The eggplant looked at his watch and turned his eyes to the
tape recorder again. Listening had, by then, become an addiction to both of
them. Dorothy's awesome innocence had set the stage for the public destruction
of six men. When she heard Dorothy talking about Senator Hurley, Fiona's
stomach tightened. His dancing nude for the benefit of this strange but
powerful woman astounded her. This was the man whom both Clint and his wife feared.
It was impossible, after all, to live totally without guile.

Her mind whirled with questions. The problem now was to
absorb all this information. It stunned her, made her giddy. It both revolted
and fascinated. At times, she would look at the eggplant, whose skin shone like
a cue ball. What they were hearing was beyond their experience. Perhaps beyond
their comprehension. She wondered if even the logic of Martin's explanation
could be understood. So why did she die? She shivered and took a deep sip of the
Scotch.

It started to grow dark, but no one reached for the lights
and the telephone rang again. The eggplant stirred, sighed and reached for
another cigarette. The mound of butts had grown and when he crumpled the empty
pack, he searched the pile, found a useable butt and lit it, inhaling deeply.

"Answer it," the eggplant ordered.

Martin stood up, wobbly, glass in hand. Apparently, he was
the only one of the three on whom the liquor had any effect. He reached for the
instrument and suddenly the eggplant jumped up and stayed his hand. When he had
placed himself beside Martin, he nodded. Fiona noted that his shirt was bathed
in perspiration. Martin picked up the phone and the eggplant positioned himself
so that he could also hear.

"Where the hell were you?" Arthur screamed.

Martin cleared his throat and grunted. He was beyond caring
now. He glanced at the eggplant and shrugged.

"I tried all day," Arthur Fellows screamed
hysterically. "They have nothing. Absolutely nothing. No evidence of
anything. That's straight from the mayor."

"What?"

Martin's reasoning was sluggish. In the quiet of the room,
Arthur's voice carried as far as Fiona's ears.

"They have nothing." He was screaming into the
phone. "Don't you understand? It's over. Over. And the cops who leaned on
Tate and you are suspended."

The eggplant pinched Martin's arm, who reacted with a
grunt.

"You bring the tapes to Dulles," Arthur said,
"I'll meet you."

Martin started to speak. But it was too late. The eggplant
had already broken the connection.

Martin looked inexplicably at the mouthpiece, then at the
two of them.

She had never before seen such hatred in the eggplant's
eyes.

The eggplant's car sped along the Dulles Access Highway.
They had repacked the tapes in the envelopes and he had thrown them into the
trunk of his car.

After his conversation with Fellows, Martin had collapsed
on the couch like a cast-off puppet, his expression empty, his eyes glazed. As
they gathered the tapes, they ignored him. And each other. They seemed to be
sharing some mutual embarrassment, like being forced to stand naked in a room
together.

At first, she thought they would be heading back to
headquarters. Then it became apparent that he was on his way to Dulles Airport.
She wanted to question that course of action, but held her silence, knowing she
was following him into an uncharted wasteland.

Occasionally she glanced at him. He didn't acknowledge her
sudden attention, his eyes flickering in the glare of oncoming headlights. Yet
she knew that a volcano was seething beside her. A question had nagged at her
all day as they listened to the tapes, but somehow she couldn't find the
courage to ask it: Who'll punish them?

He was answering it now. "I will," he was saying.
His silence could not disguise it.

In the distance, she saw the blaze of light over the trees
and soon the white cantilevered marvel of the main airport building, looking
like a lit-up cake.

She knew she couldn't stop him now. Hell, she hadn't been
able to stop herself. She felt a little like Cates must have felt in the
beginning not knowing why, but going along. Maybe Dorothy had found her way
into the eggplant's gut as well. Face it squarely, she told herself. She agreed
with what he was doing. She was going along because she believed in it.

He swung the car into the winding embarkation road, pulling
up to the curb. She followed him blindly, a spectator. The eggplant's bulky
figure moved into the building. The hooded eyes were alert now. Predatory.

The large glass-walled building was filled with overseas
travelers standing patiently in ticket lines for the evening flights. He strode
toward the SwissAir counter, surveyed the crowd, then moved to a deserted area
at the end of the bank. Reaching over the counter, he picked up a telephone.
His physical actions were surprisingly economical. He knew exactly what he was
doing.

"This is Captain Greene, MPD. Would you page..."
He looked briefly at Fiona, flashing a tight thin smile. "A Mr.
Fellows."

A voice crackled over the speaker as his eyes searched the
crowd near the SwissAir counter. A man who had been leaning against a window
wall moved suddenly, hesitated, looked about him, then furtively approached a
counter and picked up the phone. The eggplant moved with the stealth and speed
of a leopard. He was next to him in a moment. Fiona followed close behind.

The man was slack-jawed, his eyes burning with fear as they
searched for escape. The eggplant flashed his shield. Without a word, he placed
his big hand under Fellows's arm, leading him forward. Fellows tried to resist,
looked into the eggplant's determined face, then yielded. They moved through
the detection counter to a deserted part of the airport. A plane took off in
the distance.

"What is it?" Fellows asked. His skin had mottled
with anxiety. The eggplant watched, calmly assessing him.

"Arthur Fellows?" the eggplant said softly.

The man nodded.

"What is it?" Fellows asked again. The deliberate
suspense was cruel work. She half expected him to read Fellows his rights. But
it wasn't an arrest. Again she asked: Where is the crime?

"We know everything," the eggplant said.

Fellows swallowed, desperately trying to gather the shreds
of his courage.

"Know what?"

The eggplant emitted a croaking, derisive sound. He's
enjoying this, Fiona thought, like holding a butterfly's wings. Fellows turned
to her, pleading. She shrugged helplessly, watching the man's dignity
disintegrate.

"You have nothing," Fellows said bravely.
"I'm the counsel to the President." She sensed the explosion coming,
the spew of lava.

"Fuck you. Fuck the President," the eggplant
said.

Like battering rams, the curses seemed to push Fellows back
against a window wall. Fiona watched, stunned, unable to react. He can't do
this, she thought, yet found herself unable to shake the sense of alliance with
the eggplant's actions.

"If I've done something, charge me," Fellows
said, challenging him.

"Turd," the eggplant said. He looked toward
Fiona. "Like the dogs do."

Fellows turned dead white. She thought he was going to
faint. The eggplant chuckled. "We heard all about it," he said
calmly.

"It's no crime," Fellows mumbled, searching
Fiona's face. "Besides, you have nothing." Fellows sat on the ledge
of the window wall. "The mayor confirmed it. Nothing."

The eggplant watched, lifted his finger, almost touched the
man's nose.

"You're dead in the water, man. And you got three
things to do." He continued to hold his finger taut, like the muzzle of a
gun.

"You can't," Fellows protested. "I can bust
you."

"Three things," the eggplant said, ignoring him.
"First, you're gonna call the mayor. You're gonna say it was all a
mistake. Dig?"

He seemed to be throwing Fellows a bit of flotsam to hold
on to. Fiona felt strangely relieved. "You know what you're gonna tell
him?"

Fellows said nothing, lowering his eyes. The eggplant was
relishing it.

"Then you're gonna fucking resign."

"Resign?"

"As of immediately."

Fellows's face collapsed into his skull.

"You can't do that. I'm the counsel to the
President."

"You were," the eggplant hissed.

"Martin! He was the one. He set us up. What about him?"

What little residual fight was left in the man evaporated.
He looked toward both of them with tired eyes. Fiona braced herself. He had
said three things. What more was there to extract? Surely, it was over now.

"Now there is the matter of the others," the
eggplant said, his words flat and clear. Fellows's body began to tremble.

"The others?"

She could see there was no stopping him now.

"All of them. I want them all to resign. Every last
son of a bitch."

"You can't make me do that."

"Yes, I can." He spat the words, mocking him.
Enough, Fiona screamed within herself, the guilt rising.

"All of them. Do you understand me?"

In her heart, she wanted to intervene.
We
don't
dispense justice. The words tumbled in her head, but she couldn't find her
voice. Wasn't he dispensing her justice as well? Briefly, he turned toward her
and she wondered if he was seeking validation. Was there something he knew that
she had missed? Or was his pain deeper than hers, the product of a thousand
lifetimes in a black skin? Without thinking, she nodded consent.

"We didn't kill her," Fellows gasped.

"Didn't you?" the eggplant said slowly. "She
died for you, my friend. A sweet Jesus lady."

It came to her like the distant trill of a black spiritual
rising from the agony of stifled pain. Was he avenging a race as she had sought
to avenge her gender? Everyone seemed to cry out from the depths of their own
terror.

"You do it, man," the eggplant said softly.

He walked off and Fiona followed again. Then he stopped and
strode back to the broken man.

"The money."

Fellows shrugged and looked at the dispatch case that lay
flat on the floor. Picking it up, he walked off again. This time Fiona caught
up with him.

"Not that," she said. "You can't do
that."

"I can do anything I fucking well please," he
said.

For money? Her mind screamed in protest. All this for
money?

Her stomach turned. So he was just another greedy little
bastard.

That night she couldn't sleep, twisting and turning until
her sheet became a shroud around her. Unwinding herself, she got up, removed
her sweat-matted pajamas and sat naked by the window, watching dawn cast its
amber light over the city.

The eggplant had dropped her off at her apartment, grunting
a perfunctory goodbye. Not a word had passed between them. It was the bottled up
response that was keeping her up now, the jumble of confused thoughts. And the
guilt. Hadn't she put the match to the first batch of dry tinder?

It was always her secret pride that although her job forced
her to step down to the source of human degradation, when she stepped out of it
at the end of the day she was as clean as when she had entered. There were
times when it had taken longer for her to rid herself of the stench, but the
self-cleansing talent always performed and, miraculously, she always became
clean and whole again. Now she wasn't sure the stench would ever go away.

For one glorious moment, the eggplant, her nemesis, the
very epitome of cowardice and chicanery, had emerged from the swamp of his own
self-pity and egocentricity and had become ... she groped for the term ... a
man. She shuddered at the thought. Would this experience forever inhibit her
view of men? Males. What she had observed of them in the last week had been a
catalogue of infamy. She ticked off their sins on her fingers.

Hypocritical. Vain. Deceptive. Ambitious. Frightened.
Violent. Lecherous. Manipulative. Cowardly. Undisciplined. Cruel. Needing more
digits, she curled her toes, then stopped. It was too depressing. Better her
mother's world, she told herself, like a horse with blinders, trained only to
run around the accepted track. Perhaps it had been a mistake to intrude on
their world. Evolution had simply conditioned them differently. Her sex was
meant for other work. Home and hearth and children.

She felt chilled and got up to put on her robe. But in the
hanging closet mirror, she paused and observed her naked form in the soft
light. She cupped her breasts in her hands, squeezing their fullness, affirming
her body's difference. Her hands roamed downward over her hips, rounded by
nature, the skin smooth, softer than theirs. Her eyes lingered over the
dark-haired triangle, the harbinger of their sexual difference, which stirred
their blood mysteriously. The curse of Eve, she thought, an image plumbed from
somewhere in the depths of her Catholic childhood. The eggplant had called
Dorothy the sweet Jesus lady and she had thought then, as if by rote, that
maybe Dorothy did die for their sins. If Christ was a man, then where, indeed,
was the daughter of God? Were they unlike Mary, doomed to sin because man had
defiled them? She trembled. Religion was created for men by men. Stop it,
Fiona, she begged herself. Yet, it was against nature to irrevocably hate them.

She put on her robe and went into the kitchen, happy to
tinker with life's more mundane duties, She made herself a cup of coffee and
began to let the real world back into her mind. If she was to walk among them,
she had better learn their ways, she told herself firmly. Or get the hell out.

The sound of the buzzer interrupted her thoughts. She
looked at the clock. It was 6 A.M. on the minute, as if her caller had waited
for that exact hour.

"Who is it?" she asked.

She waited, fearing that it would be Clint.

"Ann Chase," the voice answered.

Her hand reached for the thumblock, hesitated, then turned
it. She removed the chain lock and opened the door. Ann's form was silhouetted
against the corridor's light. She couldn't see her face until she moved into
the dim light of the apartment. Then it dawned on her. This was the enemy. Her
rival. The image had been far more formidable then the reality. She was simply
a rather vulnerable looking, frightened woman on the wrong side of forty.

"I'm sorry," Ann said.

"No. It's all right."

She flicked the switch of a lamp, and the room was bathed in
a soft yellow light. Often in its glare she had seen Clint's face. Is this the
way it ended? she thought. A tacky little triangle.

"I was up. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"That would be kind."

Kind? Was Ann mocking her?

She left her standing in the center of the room. Pouring
out another cup of coffee, her hands shook. She spilled some in the saucer, but
in handing the cup to Ann, her hand was quite steady. It was Ann's hand that
trembled as the cup clattered in the saucer. She had to put it down on one of
the end tables.

"Please," Fiona said, pointing to the couch.

Ann sat down, stiff-backed, her knees pressed primly
together. She was somewhat shorter than Fiona, her hair blonde, trimmed short
with a sweeping wave across her forehead. Her even features were carefully made
up, her high rounded cheeks lightly rouged, her small eyes highlighted with
mascara. Fiona was surprised at the details of her observation. She was
inspecting the woman, comparing. She wore a blue suit with a white-bowed crisp
shirtwaist. Fiona tightened her robe around her. Compared to Ann's clothes, it
seemed tawdry. Worse, it still smelled of Clint. She wished she could shower,
change, dress carefully. The disadvantage annoyed her.

"I was waiting downstairs in my car for nearly an hour,"
Ann said, again reaching for the coffee cup, but the trembling inhibited her
taking it.

"I wasn't sleeping. You could have come up."

"Maybe I needed the time to gather my courage,"
Ann said, folding her hands in her lap to keep them steady.

"I could have used the time myself," Fiona said.

"I'm sorry."

The long wait, Fiona could see, had not done its work. How
could it? If she had been here at five, she must have been up the entire night.
It was a policeman's observation and it steadied her for the moment. She wanted
to say something to put the woman at ease but she couldn't think of anything.

"This isn't easy," the woman began. Fiona felt
her searching look. So she, too, was comparing. Would she pass muster? Fiona
wondered, feeling helpless under her gaze.