Authors: David Stukas
Biceps Of Death (14 page)
“I like to keep busy. Weird, huh? I’m a white bread Midwesterner who should come no closer to a real murder than Laura Bush to a gay-pride parade. But there it is. I blame it on an evil vortex that I picked up on a trip to Sedona, Arizona, years ago.”
“The vortexes there are supposed to be about energy, not good and bad.”
“That’s what they tell you there, but they saw me coming. They had this bad vortex they wanted to get rid of, and they attached it to me on my disastrous trip there with a crackpot boyfriend by the name of Fuckhead. I think this witch put the hex on me when I complained that she overcharged me for a crystal I bought for Monette in a shop in town. I knew something was up when all the photos I took of the area came out blank. On the trip back, the baggage door on the plane opened on takeoff and we had to abort and return to the terminal. Seven hours later, we left Phoenix and the skywaitress spilled a tray of drinks on me and I flew back to New York wet with Sprite. I rest my case.”
McMillan snorted a short, gruff laugh at my theory. “I guess I shouldn’t be standing next to you now. A meteorite might come crashing through the ceiling and hit the both of us.”
“I wouldn’t kid about that if I were you. That’s my number one fear. There’s a meteor out there and it’s got my name on it. So, changing gears here, why in the world would Chet try something so stupid as to break into my apartment?”
“Desperation,” McMillan said without skipping a beat. “People do stupid things when they get desperate.”
“So why do it yourself?”
“Again, desperation. And being a WASP.”
“What does being a WASP have to do with it?”
McMillan looked at me like I was born yesterday. “I can’t imagine that this guy knows anyone who would pull off a burglary for him.”
“No, but I bet he knows plenty of people who can make paper-thin cucumber sandwiches. Anyway, I get your point, Luke.”
“Exactly. So let’s go somewhere and you can tell me what you’ve found out,” McMillan said, grabbing me by the arm and ushering me out of the room and out of the building. “The City of New York will pay for your cup of coffee.”
Why not? The only thing I had to look forward to at work was the package brochure for the new feminine hygiene pad our agency was helping our client launch. Nobody came into our agency to work until 10
A.M.
anyway, and after that, it was catch as catch can to find people who seemed to drift in and out the agency on spurious missions. (“I HAD to go to Bloomingdale’s to check on their window presentations,” a TV producer would protest. “The reason I was at the Armani boutique all day was because I was looking for some sweaters for my models in an upcoming photo shoot,” another art director would offer.) So, I went and flirted with disaster again.
A.M.
anyway, and after that, it was catch as catch can to find people who seemed to drift in and out the agency on spurious missions. (“I HAD to go to Bloomingdale’s to check on their window presentations,” a TV producer would protest. “The reason I was at the Armani boutique all day was because I was looking for some sweaters for my models in an upcoming photo shoot,” another art director would offer.) So, I went and flirted with disaster again.
W
e sat in a Starbucks as McMillan paid for my grande iced coffee of the day. We sat down, surrounded by kids pecking at the keyboards of laptop computers or reading cryptically named novels written by unpronounceable authors.
e sat in a Starbucks as McMillan paid for my grande iced coffee of the day. We sat down, surrounded by kids pecking at the keyboards of laptop computers or reading cryptically named novels written by unpronounceable authors.
I told McMillan about our questioning Frank Addams; Chet Ponyweather; Eric’s girlfriend, Adrianne; and even David Bharnes, whom I covertly referred to as Marvin Gardens to protect his identity.
McMillan then told me what he knew, and it was the choicest piece of information I could have hoped for. Of all the clients on the CD-ROM I received, only four had questionable alibis at the time of Cody and Eric’s death. Frank Addams was one: He told police what he’d claimed during our visit—that he was alone, chain-smoking Marlboros on his balcony and watching
Valley of the Dolls
on videotape. Chet Ponyweather said he had taken a long walk from his Fifth Avenue apartment and returned several hours later. Allen Firstborn, who visits sinful New York City regularly, claims he was praying to the Lord at his
eight-room
pied-à-terre on Central Park West. Another suspect was the Republican mayoral candidate, George Sheffield. Besides having a fondness for wearing infant clothing as part of his fantasy, he claimed he was doing a political fundraiser dinner which, it just so happens, he didn’t attend. The only suspect that wasn’t under a cloud of suspicion was John Bekkman, who was out of town backpacking and whose story checked out.
Valley of the Dolls
on videotape. Chet Ponyweather said he had taken a long walk from his Fifth Avenue apartment and returned several hours later. Allen Firstborn, who visits sinful New York City regularly, claims he was praying to the Lord at his
eight-room
pied-à-terre on Central Park West. Another suspect was the Republican mayoral candidate, George Sheffield. Besides having a fondness for wearing infant clothing as part of his fantasy, he claimed he was doing a political fundraiser dinner which, it just so happens, he didn’t attend. The only suspect that wasn’t under a cloud of suspicion was John Bekkman, who was out of town backpacking and whose story checked out.
McMillan’s cell phone rang. From what I could overhear, someone else had attempted to break into my apartment and the scoundrels had been apprehended. Two of them. It was officially open season on my apartment. Monette and I figured that only someone desperate enough to kill would be desperate enough to break and enter someone’s apartment. We were tragically wrong. McMillan hung up.
“Two amateur thieves hired to do the job by none other than Frank Addams, the designer. They were paid ten thousand each.”
SHIT! For fifty thousand, I would have gladly given the pictures to Frank myself and he wouldn’t have put himself at risk. But kind, considerate, moral Robert tries to do the right thing and ends up with nothing. Once again, life had confirmed the fact that bad guys finish first—and richer.
McMillan’s phone rang again. He answered it then handed the phone to me.
“For me?” I asked.
“It’s Michael Stark.”
I looked at the detective quizzically and shrugged my shoulders.
“Michael, why are you calling me on Detective McMillan’s cell phone?”
“Because you refuse to get one.”
“Yes, Michael, but how did you get the detective’s number?”
“I went through all your personal things and found his business card.”
“Of course,” I replied. “I forgot that my personal belongings are yours by divine right.”
“I wouldn’t say it exactly like that, Robert. Oh, by the way, you’re getting low on razor blades. And condoms. You know, Robert, you should check the expiration dates on your rubbers. It looks like you’ve had them in your shaving kit for a long time. Funny thing, the box has never been opened.”
“Michael, is there a reason you called me on an official police phone?”
“Yes, could you meet me for lunch?”
“I’m downtown, Michael—talking to the detective about the latest tour bus that tried to break into my apartment.”
“Great, you’re close by to me. We could go to Assembly.”
Considering the day I’d been having, I decided that at least I could go to lunch and treat myself. Or rather, work a miracle and have Michael pick up the tab.
“Okay, Michael, I’ll meet you there at twelve-thirty. Now I have to get off the phone.”
I hung up and was about to hand the phone back to McMillan, but asked him if I could make one important phone call.
McMillan nodded and told me to go ahead.
“Hello?” I spoke into the phone when someone picked up on the other end.
“Lisa, this is Robert. Robert Wilsop. I’m really feeling crummy, so I’m going to take the rest of the day off and get some sleep. Would you see that everything’s covered? Oh, and one last thing, could you push the rack of clothes for my next photo shoot into my office and shut the door?”
14
Robert and Michael Get Taken for a Ride
I
met Michael and we had a great lunch. We had great service, wonderful food, saw Diane Keaton sitting at a nearby table, and even treated ourselves to a great bottle of champagne. Everything was going so well. All was right with the world—until I tried to get Michael to pay.
met Michael and we had a great lunch. We had great service, wonderful food, saw Diane Keaton sitting at a nearby table, and even treated ourselves to a great bottle of champagne. Everything was going so well. All was right with the world—until I tried to get Michael to pay.
“Robert, I’m running short until the end of the month. Could you pick up the tab and I’ll pay you back?”
I should have known better. Michael did this all the time. What was worse, I fell for it all the time. No matter how you looked at it, I was the worst codependent personality since Patsy Cline. Instead of considering myself as being self-contained and having all that I needed to be a whole human being, I hung around Michael because he did exciting things. At least that’s what my therapist Bethany said. And she was right. If only she had given me some more sensible advice. If she had told me to leave my wallet at home when dining with Michael, I would have put her in the category of genius.
Speaking of wallets, the thought that mine had been stolen by some reporter a few days ago just occurred to me. I had spent the last of my money taking a cab to the restaurant.
An hour later, Michael had managed to cajole the president of the Stark Foundation into paying the bill with his credit card. The president had to, in a way. Although Michael had a terrific no-show job at his family foundation, the president was supposed to keep tabs on Michael’s work hours and report them to Michael’s scheming mother at her lair in Newport, Rhode Island. But Michael, who resented anyone telling him what to do, had turned up some dirt on the president after hiring a detective firm to have him followed. From that moment on, Michael had the president in his coat pocket.
Although the bill was paid, it didn’t solve how we would get across town to Michael’s apartment. There was no choice but to walk. Michael, who spent forty-five minutes every day, five days a week, on the treadmill at the gym, howled like a banshee when he found out that we would have to hoof it. As a last resort, I suggested going into the subway and illegally hopping the turnstiles, but I realized how far-fetched my idea was the moment it left my lips. I had known Michael for a long time and he had never taken the subway in his life. In fact, he said that the only thing that should be running through tubes under the pavement is sewage. So we walked and Michael made what could have been a very nice trip across town in the spring sound like the Death March to Bataan. As he went on and on about the indignity of having to walk like a proletarian, I noticed a long, black limousine that was crawling along the street, matching our walking pace. In New York, where limousines are a common sight, you don’t pay attention to them, unless, that is, they come to a stop thirty feet ahead of you and two guys built like linebackers in suits get out to beckon you to come closer. Were they the two guys who had chased Eric off the balcony of his apartment a few days ago?
“Mr. Sheffield would like to talk to you,” one of the men yelled to us.
I thought about turning around right then and there, but Michael grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the car.
“C’mon, let’s see what this is all about. The one on the right is hot,” Michael whispered in my direction.
From the time that I was old enough to go outside by myself, my mother warned me not to go near cars with strangers in them. This sage advice has guided me past danger from the time I was a child to the time a man circled my car in Grand Rapids, Michigan, flashing a fan of five hundred dollars at me—indicating my minimum wage for a night’s pleasure. But for Michael, the danger suggested by something hidden behind tinted windows was too alluring to him not to resist—not that we had much choice. The two suited men stood like Spartan sentinels channeling us in the direction of the open door. I suppose that we could have made a run for it, but the suits looked like they might not only be powerful, but quick on their feet.
We approached the car and Michael got inside with not even a second’s hesitation. Me, I bent over to look inside to figure out what I was getting into. Sitting inside was none other than George Sheffield, the Republican candidate for the mayor of New York City.
“Get in, Robert,” he beckoned. Seeing my hesitation, he spoke up gruffly. “Oh, for God’s sake, Mr. Wilsop, I’m a public figure! I’m not going to abduct and kill you two ... especially with the Democrats watching my every move, so get in—I’ll give you a lift.”
I got in and sat down. One of the suited guys closed the door and both got into the front with one driving and the other riding shotgun.
It was the first time that I had seen George Sheffield up close, but I was struck at how sinister he seemed. No spring chicken he, George had that dried, desiccated, rubberized look of Charleton Heston. His frame was lanky and clothed in a conservative pinstripe suit designed not to look too
with it
, but you could tell that it had been made by the likes of Oxxford or Hickey Freeman. No Armani for this guy—Democrats and freethinkers wore that kind of suit. The most frightening feature on George’s face were his eyes; the tiny black pupils were set so deeply inside his red, bloodshot eyes, it looked as if he spent his days laughing as he tossed widows into the snow from the hundreds of apartment buildings he owned. (I imagined that when George had the unfortunate timing of evicting someone in the dead of summer, he probably had snow carted in from northern Canada just so he could throw the unfortunate slob into it.)
with it
, but you could tell that it had been made by the likes of Oxxford or Hickey Freeman. No Armani for this guy—Democrats and freethinkers wore that kind of suit. The most frightening feature on George’s face were his eyes; the tiny black pupils were set so deeply inside his red, bloodshot eyes, it looked as if he spent his days laughing as he tossed widows into the snow from the hundreds of apartment buildings he owned. (I imagined that when George had the unfortunate timing of evicting someone in the dead of summer, he probably had snow carted in from northern Canada just so he could throw the unfortunate slob into it.)
“Mr. Wilsop,” George began, “I know that you’ve been trying to get in touch with me about some ... uh ...” He looked over at Michael, who was already pouring himself a martini.
“You don’t have to worry about him,” I replied. “He’s seen the pictures and knows all about them.”
George smiled a crocodile smile. “Ah yes, nothing is secret in this town ... unless you want it to be.”
“You thirsty?” Michael asked me, holding up an empty martini glass to tempt me. “It’s Grey Goose Vodka from France. It’s supposed to be pretty good, but I have my doubts about what the French know about making vodka—or a decent car for that matter.”
“No, no thank you ...” I said, then reconsidered—I should profit at least a little bit from the trump card that I still held. “On second thought, Michael, I will have one.”
Another crocodile smile and a knowing glance. If I were a zebra, I would have bolted from the watering hole after a look like that.
Sheffield fixed me with his gaze, and began what I figured was a canned speech used over and over again to intimidate anyone foolish enough to stand between him and something he wanted to possess. “Mr. Wilsop, as you know, I am a wealthy man ...”
“I’m aware of that, Mr. Sheffield,” I replied.
Another interruption from Michael. “A martini, Mr. Sheffield?”
“No, no thank you, Mr. Stark.”
“Mr. Sheffield, if you don’t mind me asking, how is it that you know my name
and
Michael’s? And how did you know we’d be walking down the street at just this moment?”
and
Michael’s? And how did you know we’d be walking down the street at just this moment?”
“As I told you before, Mr. Wilsop, there are no secrets in this town.”
I was beginning to get mad with this cat-and-mouse game. I mean, who did this guy think he was? Goldfinger?
“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Sheffield. I asked how did you know it was us? You’re evading the question like a true politician.”
I got a snort of laughter from George this time.
“Robert, there are a lot of people in this town keeping a watch on you and your movements. That includes Mr. Stark here, too.”
Michael stopped sipping his martini and looked at it closely, trying to determine if it was poisoned. Perhaps it was. I put mine down just in case.
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Sheffield?” I said, anger rising in my voice.
“I am doing nothing of the sort, Mr. Wilsop. I’m just saying that it wouldn’t be a wise idea to try and do
anything
with those pictures. You’d make a lot of enemies in this town if you did.”
anything
with those pictures. You’d make a lot of enemies in this town if you did.”
I thought of throwing my drink in George’s face right then and there, but pity stayed my hand—it would be a pity to waste good vodka.
“Meaning the two guys in the front seat might push me off a balcony without my consent?”
“Them?” George said, pointing with his eyes to his two henchmen sitting on the other side of the soundproof glass behind us. “They wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
Sheffield chuckled to himself again—a chuckle that ended in a phlegmy gurgle deep in his throat. He was clearly enjoying himself.
I again reconsidered the martini glass in my hand. It would make a good missile. No, no, I said to myself—not yet. I decided to take a different tack.
“George, you said earlier that you were a wealthy man.”
“Yes, Mr. Wilsop, what are you getting at?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” I said, forging ahead. Two could play this game. “Several of the men whose pictures are on that compact disk offered me a lot of money in exchange for turning it over to them.”
This time, a great cackle from Sheffield. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”
“No, nothing of the sort. I’m merely telling you that others have made me some very generous offers,” I explained. “Michael! Would you stop tapping on the window, trying to get the driver’s attention!”
Michael looked hurt, but his libido was never bruised.
“I see, Mr. Wilsop. I think that the only thing you will reap from this affair is trouble ... even here in New York City, this bastion of petty little Democrats.”
It was time for
my
crocodile smile.
my
crocodile smile.
“Thank you for saying that, Mr. Sheffield,” came my reply.
“Why would you thank me, Mr. Wilsop?”
I took a sip of my martini.
“Because, Mr. Sheffield, the police have me wearing a wire. Your conversation is now recorded for the police— and the incumbent mayor to hear. Thank you very much for the ride, but Michael and I have to get out now.” I took another sip of my martini, then threw the remaining vodka in George Sheffield’s face. Sheffield looked stunned that anyone would dare do such a thing. And to be perfectly frank, I was stunned, too. It was just that I was getting fed up with this entire ordeal.
Sheffield ordered the car to stop, and Michael and I got out. Michael still had his martini glass in his hand, which I grabbed and carelessly tossed into the backseat of the limousine, contents and all. For my finale, I slammed the door so hard, it sounded like it would come out the other side of the car. The limousine pulled away from the curb and slunk away with its muffler between its wheels.
Michael, stunned that we had to
walk
again, reached out and shook my hand.
walk
again, reached out and shook my hand.
I looked at Michael in equal amazement. “What was that for?”
“For standing up for yourself. The way you talked back to Sheffield, you’d think you had as much money as I do.”
“I’m sure it emboldens you when you have a buttload of money, Michael.”
“Partly, but it also helps to be diagnosed as narcissist-borderline-histrionic personality. But never underestimate the power of having
fuck-you money
.”
fuck-you money
.”
“Is that what you call it, Michael? Fuck-you money?”
Michael looked at me and cracked a big smile. “Can you think of a better name?”
“Frankly, no. I just wish you could tell me where I can get some of that currency.”
“Robert, just because you told off that old coot doesn’t mean you’re going to get me to vote for the Democrats.”
“Michael, your voting is something I will never understand. Why do you do it?”
“I vote with my pocketbook. The Republicans are the party of the rich. I’m rich, so I vote for it.”
“You vote to protect your money?” I asked, aghast.
“Of course, what other reason would there be for voting Republican? Their hypocritical moralizing and social policies are atrocious.”
“Michael, you have an army of tax lawyers and accountants that help you avoid ever having to pay a penny in taxes. What about all the conservative judges the Republicans are getting into federal seats? Laws prohibiting gay discrimination will take giant steps backward. And gay marriage will never be approved!”
“For crying out loud, Robert! What gay man in his right mind would want to get married?” Michael retorted with horror. “The whole point of being gay is that you can sleep with anyone you want, anytime. Why are these politically correct gays always trying to force us into adopting the hetero lifestyle and sell us the virtues of living in cute little bungalows with picket fences and monogamous relationships? I like being able to sleep around and sample different men. Why are people always trying to pee on my parade?”
Overlooking Michael’s unfortunate and pathetic metaphor, you could now guess that Michael’s political leanings were driven by the two great forces in his life: his libido and his checkbook. Traditional political labels didn’t apply here. Michael was what you would call a conservative slut. Because of his beliefs, he was accustomed to offending people in some of the most egregious instances, which, personally, I think he enjoyed. It was the
power thing
. He liked knowing that he could get a rise out of people and it didn’t matter that it sometimes meant occasional hardships for him. For instance, the tires on his Hummer were routinely slashed by eco-terrorists, members of animal rights groups routinely hurled drinks and insults in his face because of the exotic and endangered animal skins that were turned into elegant and expensive footwear on his behalf, and neighbors on Fire Island never forgave him for the time he almost swamped one of the ferries full of queens when he raced past it in a rented yacht at full speed in order to be first into the dock on a Friday night. Let them eat cake.
power thing
. He liked knowing that he could get a rise out of people and it didn’t matter that it sometimes meant occasional hardships for him. For instance, the tires on his Hummer were routinely slashed by eco-terrorists, members of animal rights groups routinely hurled drinks and insults in his face because of the exotic and endangered animal skins that were turned into elegant and expensive footwear on his behalf, and neighbors on Fire Island never forgave him for the time he almost swamped one of the ferries full of queens when he raced past it in a rented yacht at full speed in order to be first into the dock on a Friday night. Let them eat cake.
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