Drumsticks (12 page)

“You're not serious,” I said.

“Yes. And I can even top that—he's a sister.”

“Shut up,” Justin said, waving Kenny off.

I put my glass down and grabbed Kenny by his coat sleeve. “You're not fucking with me, are you?”

“No, I'm telling you. There's a guy comes in here a lot. A real closet case. Says he's not
personally
queer—he just hangs in here because he's got an office up the block and this place is so convenient. He comes here for the french fries. Right. Look around you, this place is like the Grand Central Station of fags. He's always chatting some young thing up, passing his business cards around, telling people he's a producer—a music promoter. He's got a bigger line of bullshit than J and me put together.”

“And you're telling me this gay producer is the man in this picture?”

“No, no, no. Listen a minute. The guy I'm talking about is white, and he can't be more than thirty-five. His name is Lyle. Lyle … Something. The thing is, he brought this man in the picture in here—I'm almost positive it was him—two or three times. A great-looking older black man. They sat right there at the end of the bar and they were talking mighty close. Real intense. I couldn't hear what they were saying. And believe me, I tried.”

“Is this possible?” I asked no one in particular.

J shrugged, staring at Kenny as if still trying to determine whether he was putting us on.

He wasn't. The bartender with the gym body had one of those business cards. I grabbed Kenny roughly.

The office was one cramped windowless room on a high floor of a commercial building on 43rd between Ninth and Tenth avenues.

Lyle Corwin was standing behind his desk talking on a cordless phone. He waved at us and gestured that he'd be done in a minute. White-bread hip. That was his look. Black Levi's, Fruit of the Loom vee-neck, J. Crew blazer. And, unfortunately, a ponytail.

He was alone in the office. That made sense. I wouldn't imagine he'd have the money to pay a receptionist.

Lyle recognized Kenny right away. The two of them shook hands warmly. He was every bit as cordial to me when we were introduced.

“How're things in Miss Mary's today?” he asked.

“You know,” said Kenny, “popping as ever.”

Things remained friendly indeed until Kenny stated our business. It was he who presented the photo to Lyle and asked if he knew where we could find the gentleman pictured. Since he had been seen in Lyle's company, we thought he might be a client of his.

Lyle looked down at the photo and said, “I don't have a clue what you're talking about, man.”

Silence fell in the dusty room.

I spoke up then. “Really?” I said. “Would you mind taking another look? This is an old shot of him.”

He merely shook his head. “No. Like I said, no idea.”

Kenny laughed nervously. “But I saw him up close, Lyle. He almost brushed past me when he left Mary's that last time.”

“No, he didn't. Because there was never anybody like that in Mary's. At least not with me.”

Kenny's hand went to his hip then. “Oh, I'm just a dizzy queen making this shit up, right?” he said belligerently.

Lyle turned to me then. “I'm pretty busy here. Thanks a mil for dropping by.”

I took Kenny's arm and led him toward the door without another word.

“Maybe you ought to get a new scrip, Kenny,” Lyle said as we crossed the threshold.

Kenny tensed and turned back to him. “What did you say, Miss Thing?”

“A new scrip,” Lyle repeated at high volume. “For your eyeglasses.”

“I do not wear glasses, you clueless fairy.”

“Nice to meet you, Lyle,” I called, and slammed the door shut behind us.

Justin was waiting for us back at the bar.

“No good, huh?” he said.

“No good,” I echoed.

“Well, lover?” he asked Kenny. “Did we get a wrong number or what?”

He hesitated before answering. “I don't know. Maybe. I can't be a hundred percent sure. But the next time that punk shows his face in here I'm going to read him like a family Bible.”

“You do that,” I said. “Read him for me, too.”

“What do you think, Smash-up?” Kenny asked. “I say he's lying. Even if I did make a mistake about that man, Lyle didn't act right.”

“I know. I'm with you there, Kenny,” I said. “But I don't know what we can do about it now.”

“We can order crab cakes,” Justin said. “We never got around to eating.”

“I know. But I've got to go, fellas. Catch you later.”

I don't know who gave me the stronger hug—Justin or Kenny. But, just as I left, the latter gave me a big smile and mouthed the word “Sorry.”

It's a long walk from Hell's Kitchen to my place. But I needed the exercise. I walked fast.

If only my brain could have kept pace with my feet as I hustled along in those ugly old-lady shoes I love so. I was thinking, to be fair about it, but just not fast enough. And not far enough ahead.

Was it PMS?

Who can say why we fixate on a particular thing at a particular time?

All I wanted was a tuna sandwich. A huge smelly one, made with Italian tuna packed in high-quality olive oil, dripping with mayo, bursting with chopped onion and hard-boiled egg and chunks of tart green apple. And a ripe tomato sliced really paper thin; it could have tomato, but no lettuce. I wanted that on a hero, see, along with the giant size bag of potato chips, the bag that's so big you're ashamed to meet the checkout girl's eyes, and, oh yeah I was getting my period all right, a Coke. I never drink Cokes.

Of course the corner deli didn't have such a sandwich. Nor did any of the cool new minimalist cafés. So I was forced to shop for all those ingredients before coming back to the apartment, where there was next to nothing in the refrigerator.

What was there was one message from Leman Sweet and one from Dan Hinton.

Leman wanted to meet at Aubrey's place again that evening. Only he didn't say he “wanted” to and he didn't ask if I was free. He said, “I gotta” and “you gotta.”

Dan's message walked the thin line between cuteness and genuine pornography. It looked like it was going to happen between us. Only a matter of when. Soon, I estimated. Not tonight, but soon.

I satisfied my shameful lust for that sandwich, put on some music—eight lamentations by Abbey Lincoln, including an excoriating “Love for Sale”—and worked my way down to the bottom of the chips. Then, tired as hell, I went to bed. It was only 3
P
.
M
.

It was a deep, worried sleep running riot with dread-filled dreams. The clock showed six when I pulled myself awake.

A quick shower. Fresh shirt. Grab Dilsey and Mama Lou. Out the door.

The doorman at Aubrey's knew me. He only tipped his hat as I rushed by him. I used my key to get inside the apartment. It was one of
the
surprises of my life to find Leman waiting for me on the sofa, stuffing his face with Famous Amos reduced-fat chocolate chips.

“You gonna stand there all night, girl? Come on in,” he said, beckoning me.

“Well, thanks so much, Leman. Nice place you have here.”

He snorted. “Aubrey had to leave. She said I could wait for you.”

Holy mackerel. Was everybody insane? Or was I? Aubrey let Sweet remain alone in her apartment? I couldn't quite wrap my mind around it. Yet, here he was. Okay, Ernestine, I thought, enough said. Yes, I had used my friend unconscionably in asking her to be bait for the lovesick Leman Sweet; I wanted her to string him along, keep him from being so hard on me. But this was too much to ask.

“Well, what you looking at?” Leman asked resentfully. “Let's get to work.”

“Work? Just a second, Sweet. I've got to tell you something first.”

“What?”

“It's about you—about you and Aubrey. The thing is, if I were you, I'd forget about trying to get with her. You know?”

“I don't know what you talking about, Cueball. But skip it for now. I've got to talk to you about something.”

“Ida? They know who killed her. Is that it?”

“Just sit down and shut up for a minute. Just listen.”

I reached for the cookies.

“I told you what happened to that boy Black Hat, the kid caught in the crossfire of all that rap war shit. The theory of the case is, the money people at the big labels are feuding, eliminating each other. It's a solid theory. Like I said, he was small potatoes, so that lets him out as the intended target of a hit.

“But we have to run down every possibility—every angle—before closing the books. At least, that's what my squad is trying to do with the pitiful resources we have. Black Hat had parents with bucks so you can believe we're under some pressure to find out who killed him.

“But we're doing the same kind of thorough probing and prying number for all the victims. Not just following the main theory of the case but checking out any kind of off-the-wall angle we can think of. Interviewing family members. Checking out any big debts the vic might have had. Drug dealers. Jealous girlfriends. Jealous former boyfriends of girlfriends. Whatever.

“It just so happens that before he joined up with that crew of rappers Black Hat had a bad falling out with his parents over money. Black Hat wanted them to bankroll his career as a songwriter and performer. His daddy has plenty of green, but not for that. He told Black Hat to forget it, in no uncertain terms. Jacob and Lenore Benson had given that boy a million-dollar education and he was an honor student at a fancy music school in Boston. But he wanted to hang with Phat Neck and them and be a rap star. His daddy wasn't having it. Finally Black Hat dropped out of school, which made Jacob and Lenore Benson even madder.

“Black Hat turned his back on Jacob and Lenore and they turned away from him. Okay. A falling out between a son and his folks. Nothing unusual in that story. But it usually doesn't end in murder. They were still feuding when he was killed. The Bensons never saw him again.”

He stopped the story just long enough to go into the kitchen for something to drink.

“That is a sad story,” I remarked when Leman returned with his glass of milk. “It doesn't really explain those things Felice said to his parents about getting revenge. But surely that's what she was talking about—their disrespect for his music, for what he wanted to do.”

“I guess. But like I told you before, she was so upset nobody knew what she was talking about. At any rate, it don't matter no more what she meant. That's not what we're here for,” Leman said.

“What are we here for, now that you mention it?”

“Just keep listening. We asked the families of the victims to provide us with all kinds of personal things connected to the victims—like date books, old address books, bank deposit slips, diaries, tax records—stuff like that. Any kinda thing they can think of. One thing we got from the Bensons was a videotape of the last family party Black Hat went to. Some of his school friends were there. So was Felice. I want you to take a look at it.”

“What for? I don't know any of those people.”

“Just take the tape and put it in the VCR.”

I took the video he thrust at me and dutifully powered up the VCR and the TV set.

“Nice little apartment,” I said, in a massive understatement. The place looked damn deluxe. The amateur cinematographer did a pan of the living room windows. A mighty fine view of the East River. A buffet table laden with fantastic looking food. Magnificent baby grand with candelabra. Various groups of well-heeled folks posed in front of a baronial fireplace, waving congenially at the camera.

“Is that Black Hat?” I asked Leman.

“Yeah. That's him.”

“Looks like a sweet boy. That must be Felice next to him.”

He nodded. “And over there on the left is Jacob and Lenore.”

“All very nice, Leman. But I don't get it.”

“Hit the Pause button,” he commanded.

I did.

“Look up there, near that white-haired dude's head. See there? On the mantelpiece?”

I got up from my seat and walked close to the set. I stared where he had directed my eye—and stared, and stared.

Oh, yeah. That was the money shot all right.

At last I returned to my chair, too shaken to talk.

On the vast mantelpiece in the Benson apartment were exact replicas of Mama Lou and Dilsey, along with at least half a dozen of their cousins.

Ida Williams's dolls were decorating the majestic home of Jacob and Lenore Benson.

“What the fuck does it mean?” I asked when I got my breath back.

“It means,” he said, “that you and me ain't looking into two different crimes anymore, Cube—two different cases. It means we're on the same case. God help me.”

“Yeah,” I said, “God help us. What now?”

“I gotta find Felice Sanders. Now. And you gotta help me.”

CHAPTER 11

It Shouldn't Happen to a Dream

And so it appeared that voodoo, like the blues, would always be with us.

Try as I might, I couldn't seem to get away from Mama Lou and Dilsey and this whole world of mad synchronicity.

Everywhere I turned, Event A segued into Event B. Individual X, as unlikely as it seemed, was somehow connected to Individual Y.

And the further away I was pulled from the Ida Williams case, the closer I was to it. It was all a strange circle.

“I want to meet the Bensons,” I had told Leman as we sat in Aubrey's living room with the telltale video still in the machine. “I mean, I don't
want
to, but I think I need to. Can I?”

“Why? You think they know where Felice Sanders is?”

“No, it's not that,” I said, fidgeting. I opened the glass cigarette box on the coffee table and helped myself to one of Aubrey's vile menthols.