Murder by Candlelight (37 page)

"A party."

"What kind of party? We got parties with
girls in the cake. Also machine guns in the cake, depending on what
kind of surprise you got planned. We got necktie parties. Where the
prize is getting to wear a necktie attached to a tree. There's your
crack parties. Hooker parties ...."

"
That
kind."

"What kind?" Z had long been under the
impression John talked mostly for others. That he didn't listen to
himself all that much.

"Hooker party."

John paused. Then giggled. "I'm shocked!" he
continued, in mock surprise. "You, an upstanding member of the
community? But maybe that's what's wrong. You got an upstanding
member that's giving you trouble. What's the matter? Not knocking
enough pieces of ass off that sexy girl of yours?"

"For a friend."

"Lemme get this straight. You're using your
favor to stage a party for a friend?"

"Sure."

"A party where you need some 100% race
horses."

"Don't have to be of that quality."

"Fifty-dollar whores do you?"

"Fine."

"How many?"

"How about five."

"How many to be served at your party?"

"Three."

"If you'll listen to somebody more
experienced in the ways of the world, let me make a
suggestion."

"Sure."

"I'd say six at a minimum. You got five to
service three and somebody's got to make do with only one girl.
Bound to foster resentment. Sure, they'll be trading off. But
still, two on one is better. Even better with a spare pair to liven
up the action."

"OK. If it's not too expensive."

"For you, after what you did for me, no
problem. I'll be gettin' off cheap, to tell the truth."

"The kind of party I have in mind ...."

"Go on."

"... is what's called S and M."

"Ah .... Not to my taste -- though being
tied up with the right girl can be downright interesting. But not
for me. Being tied up makes me nervous. Maybe, because of the kind
of business I'm in."

"Trouble is that the ... guys ... like to
pretend they don't enjoy that kind of thing."

"Scream a lot, do they?
Threaten to call the cops? Don't you pay that no never mind, Z. I
got a quiff name of Francis Kim. Knows karate. All that kind of Jap
shit. A man don't stand a chance against her. Twist a guy in knots
and tie him up as pretty as you please. Anyway, that's what the
girls have gags for. Cuff a man to the bed, pop in the gag, then
work him over till
he
pops -- if you know what I mean."

"Don't know just when and where, yet.
Sorry."

"No problem. I got spare girls I can use any
time. That's my business, after all. Just give me half a day and
I'll have them there in a party mood. Whips and chains, I throw in
for free."

"Great."

"After this," John said, more seriously,
"you and me are even-Steven once again. Like old friends oughtta
be."

"Sure."

"That is good to hear. John Dosso does not
like to be in anyone's debt. Anyone."

"Right."

"Call the same way."

"Right."

And that was that for the time being.

Also for the following day.

Two days passing, today's sun ironing
yesterday's rain to steam, Z was at his desk again, reading a
sci-fi novel while cursing the building's balky cooling system, his
bad leg propped on his scarred desk.

A boring book; though any book helped to eat
up time.

Just as a squad of Zebron Y-wing fighters
were making a suicidal attack on planet Bema's interceptor
satellites, the phone rang. Four o'clock, said Z's watch.

"Z."

"Detective Assistant Calder reporting."
Plainly, the Bateman psychologist was enjoying himself. Which was
OK, if he'd picked up the information Z wanted.

"What have you got?"

"What you asked for."

"Go on."

"The party in question," Calder said, trying
for mystery, "lives at 1256 White in Liberty. Single-story house.
No wife or children. Lives alone."

"Good, Z said," the number and street fixed
in his mind. "The phone number?" Calder had that, too.

"He's a worker. I'll give him that. Stays
late every night. Works on Labor Day, even. But packs it in at
seven P.M. sharp. Goes out for a couple of drinks and something to
eat. Then heads right home. Arrives at eight-forty-five and stays
put for the night."

"How do you know this?"

"I've been following him."

"He see you doing it?"

"No." Said with some doubt. "Well ...
maybe," Calder admitted, the professor sounding like a naughty
child caught in a little kid's lie. "Not when I've been shadowing
him from my car. But he looked at me funny when I asked him about
his birthday."

"You
asked
him about his ...?"

"There was no other way. I
can't go to records and demand to see a dean's résumé, after all.
Anyway, I thought I was being subtle about it. I ran into him in
the hall of the Administration building. I was there, of course, to
try to get some information about him. Normally, I stay away from
that place as much as possible. Anyway, I ran into him. Sort of
struck up a conversation. The weather, the progress of the school.
You know. What people talk about when they have nothing to say to
each other. Then, I said my birthday was coming up. And that I
enjoyed reading the strip in the FYI section of the
Star,
giving famous
people's birthdays on that day's date. I said I'd heard a rumor
that someone was planning a birthday party for one of the deans.
Asked Ashlock when his birthday was, making it seem like I thought
the party could be for him." Calder caught a breath. "I've got to
report that he didn't tell me. Instead, gave me that 'It's none of
your business' look. Ashlock probably thinks I'm trying to suck up
to him to get him to vote for my professorship." Z could imaging
the psychologist shaking his head in disgust. "But I haven't given
up. There's got to be another way. For instance, if I could get a
peek at his driver's license, it's on there."

"You did well," Z said, meaning it.

"Really? I ... pass? That's what my students
are always asking me. If they passed."

"You pass. Got an A."

"Great! Because this is
really fun. As a psychologist, I know that most people -- and I'm
no exception -- enjoy snooping on their neighbors -- but feel too
guilty to do as much of it as they'd like. It's a
joy
when you've got
a
reason
to
spy."

"Good."

"If that's all you want from me at the
moment ...?" Z not answering, the chubby prof continued, "then I'll
let you go."

"Goodbye."

Calder
had
done well. Going further, that
bungled business about a birthday party was
inspired
, the mention of a possible
party tying Calder to the plan! If Z could fit the last few pieces
of the puzzle together, Z might actually pull off this stunt -- a
"caper" that Calder-the-Romantic would probably call
body
-
snatching
!

No time to waste, Z dialed again.

"American Insurance. Serving you, our only
thought." Just the latest -- most insincere -- slogan of Susan's
disreputable insurance company. Nauseating!

"Susan Halliwell."

"One moment."

Elevator music.
Just
once
, Z
would like to slip into the American building and substitute the
funeral march for the canned music they always played. Or maybe put
on a Halloween record. The kind featuring groans and screams --
echoing the sounds made by American's customers when discovering
that American had no intention of paying on their
claims.

"Susan Halliwell, speaking." The rich, sexy
voice of the longest-legged erotic dream he had ever .... but Z had
to get down to business.

"Z."

"Hi, Z." Normally, Susan didn't like to have
her phone tied up with private conversations. This afternoon,
though, she didn't seemed to be stressed out by Z's call.

"Your boss gone for the day?"

"How did you ....?" Susan's hesitation was
her attempt to figure out how Z could possibly know about her
boss's itinerary.

"Yeah. Listen, Susan, you said you liked
D.J. Jewell. The talk show guy?"

"I don't listen to that garbage very often,"
Susan said: the ritual protest of someone found out to have a taste
for trash, "but the girl close to me does. Yeah. I guess he's
OK."

"Remember the interview he did with me?"

"Of course!" Susan had
thought Z had done right when he dumped on Captain Scherer in that
disastrous interview. Susan, like most people, became crazed from
time to time. "I have a chance to pay him back." Z was counting on
Susan's misunderstanding what he meant by
pay
Jewell
back
.

"As a thank-you for having you on his
show?"

"Ah ...."

"How?"

"A tip."

"Oh."

"But there's a hang-up. I don't want to do
it personally. Don't feel right about it."

"You're too modest. He should know it's you
doing him a favor."

"All the same, I thought you might help
me."

"Me help?"

"Sure. I give the tip to you. You phone it
in to Jewell."

"I couldn't do
that
."

"You wouldn't have to give your name.
Anyway, you're always complaining I shut you out. Here's your
chance to be included."

"Well ...."

"You tip Jewell about a drug party. Say he
can be there to witness the bust and break the story."

"I ... guess. What would I have to do?"

"Phone the station. Say anything, but make
them bring Jewell to the phone. Personally. Then tell him what I'm
going to tell you. It'll have more impact if you suggest you're a
policewoman. Say that a policeman has supplied the drugs. That if
Jewell checks this out, you'll have other info for him."

"Too modest," Susan said with a sigh. "OK.
I'll do it. When is this to happen?"

After Z had given Susan a time and address,
Z had to hope the rest of the plan would fall in place. That was
the worst thing about the scheme. It was complicated. Z much
preferred problems that could be solved simply: with the tap of a
blackjack. Not that he wouldn't get a chance to ....

As it was, the sooner he made a few more
calls, the more likely he'd be able to tie up the loose ends.

Putting up his leg again, rubbing his knee
with one hand, he reached for the phone.

"Bud's."

Z had thought he'd get Bud's counterman, but
was pleased to be talking directly to Bud. The fewer people Z
contacted, the better.

"Bud. Z."

"Hi, there." Somehow, Bud's cheerfulness
sounded forced.

"Something wrong?"

"Wrong!?" Bud was alarmed, his voice
squeaking even higher.

"You don't sound ... right."

"Oh ... that. The truth is I'm a little
pissed. My barman -- you remember him, Olin ...?"

"Brainbridge," Z finished.

"Right. You
do
remember him. Anyway,
he quit."

"Why?"

"Said he found a better job. I believe him
'cause this is a crappy place, when you come to think about
it."

What did Z say to that?

"Sorry if I caught you at a bad time."

"That's all right. Anything for you, Z. You
know that."

"I thought you might do me a favor."

"Favor?" Though Bud had
been eager to
promise
Z anything, Bud wasn't too happy to deliver. Just the way
people were.

"Nothing much. I need you to tip off the
police."

"What!?" Bud didn't much
like cops, either. Not that
anyone
did.

"I'd like you to call the Gladstone fuzz.
Ask to talk to the captain. Name of Scherer. Direct. You won't
spill to anyone else."

"So?"

"You'll get him eventually, no matter what
they say to you. Tell them anything. Matter of life and death. When
you get him, whisper you got a hot tip for him, you being a
public-spirited barkeep. Something you overheard about a drug
delivery in Liberty -- out of Scherer's jurisdiction, but he won't
care."

"I don't like to get connected to
drugs."

"Say it's something someone said at the bar.
Two men who were never in your place before. Tell Scherer a time
and a place the drugs are to be delivered."

"What time and place?"

"Will you do this for me?"

"I got to give my name?"

"No. On second thought, you don't have to
say you own the place. Don't have to say what bar, even. Though
Scherer is going to want you to identify yourself."

"But I don't have to." Bud
had never been that
bright
.

"Right. Just hang up after the message is
delivered."

"OK."

"I'm going to give you a time and location
now. Give Scherer the tip tomorrow afternoon."

"Sure."

"I appreciate it."

"Anything for you after what you did for
me," Bud said, sounding more sincere than he had at any time in the
conversation.

The information told to Bud, it was --
"Goodbye." "Goodbye."

Leaving two more details to wrap up before
the day was done.

First, a drive into that late steam bath of
an afternoon to buy a camera at the photography store on the square
in Liberty. Poor excuse for a camera. Used. Flash, of course.

Z would have Jamie Stewart pick the camera
up tomorrow. Tell her what he wanted her to do with it.