The Last Dance (25 page)

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“And she knew this
before
the old man got killed,” Meyer said.

“When did she find out?”

“In September sometime.”

“And she sold the rights two weeks after he died,” Kling said.

“For how much?”

“Three thousand bucks plus …”

“Give me a break.”

“Plus
six percent of the show's gross, split four ways.”

“What does that come to?”

“One and a half percent each,” Brown said.

“How do you do that?”

“Smart,” Brown said, and tapped his temple.

“How much is the weekly gross?”

“On a hit musical? Enough,” Carella said.

“Papa wouldn't let the rights go,” Byrnes said. “The producer went to see him three times, finally asked the daughter to step in.”

“Still said no.”

“Why?”

“Protecting the original playwright.”

“Nice.”

“Or dumb, depending how you look at it.”

“I say nice.”

“Anyway,” Carella said, “she
knew
she was going to inherit something that might bring in a whole lot of …”

“How do you
know
she knew?”

“She admitted it.”

“So she killed him. You're saying.”

“Yes. Well, she
hired
someone to kill him.”

“Same thing. How was the old man's health?”

“Two heart attacks in the past eight years.”

“Couldn't wait for him to die of natural causes, huh?”

“The show was already in progress. They'd hired a songwriter, a bookwriter …”

“She saw the thing slipping away.”

“So she hired this Jamaican to kill him. You're saying.”

“That's what we're saying.”

“Went all the way to Houston to hire a hit man, is that it?”

“Well …”

“He's from Houston, isn't that what you said?”

“That's our information, yes.”

“A Jamaican,” Nellie said. “From Houston.”

“Yes.”

“Didn't know there
were
any Jamaicans in Houston.”

“Apparently, there are.”

“My point is … this woman's a housewife, right?”

“Yes.”

“How the hell would she know how to hire a hit man? In
Houston,
no less.”

“Well …”

“Yeah, tell me.”

“Well …”

“I'm listening.”

Nobody said anything.

“Tell me about this second murder. You think the housewife arranged that one, too?”

“No.”

“Just the first one.”

“Yes.”

“So tell me about the second one.”

“The Jamaican went partying before he flew home,” Brown said. “Got into some kind of scuffle with this little girl does occasional tricks at a go-go joint downtown.”

“What kind of scuffle?”

“Don't know. But he stabbed her.”

“Why?”

“Some kind of scuffle.”

“The old man was hanged, right?”

“Right. But Rohypnol figures in both cases. And we've got a witness who saw the girl with this Jamaican. He's got a distinctive knife scar on his face, he's easy to spot.”

“So,” Nellie said, “what we seem to have here is an old man killed for money, in effect, and a snitch killed for the same thing, in effect, and a go-go girl killed for we don't know what, but if she
was turning tricks, we can euphemistically say love, which are two pretty good motives for murder, wouldn't you say, love and money? I would say so.”

The detectives said nothing.

“All we need now is a
fourth
murder,” Nellie said.

“Bite your tongue,” Meyer said.

“You think the housewife's only behind one of them, huh?”

“Yes.”

“She hired this mysterious Jamaican to kill her father …”

“He's not so mysterious, Nellie. We've got clean descriptions of him from two different people.”

“Scar on his face, you said.”

“Yes.”

They were all wondering who'd tell her about the tattoo on his penis. They let it slide. Carella sort of smiled.

“But you can't find him,” Nellie said.

“Not yet.”

“Not here, and not in Houston, either.”

“That's right. But we've got him linked to the father, and also the go-go dancer.”

“He branched out, right? Started free-lancing, so to speak.”

“Nobody likes a smart-ass, Nellie.”

“Sorry. I'm just trying to see how I can possibly go for an indictment on this without making a fool of myself.”

“We think it's strong, Nellie.”

“I
think it's pie in the sky. I thank you for the journey uptown,” she said, and picked up her handbag. “It's always a pleasure to see how the other half lives. But if you want me to bag this lady for you, here's what you'll have to do. One, it would be very nice if you could find the Jamaican with the knife scar and whatever other identifying mark you're all smirking about. But that would be too good to be true. Lacking the trigger man himself—so to speak, since what we're looking for is a hangman and a knifer—I suppose you'll have to find some evidence that shows how a housewife with
a lawyer husband, God forbid, could have got in touch with a Jamaican hit man. Did she phone him in Houston? Or perhaps Kingston? Did she pick him off the Internet? Did she pick him up in a bar? Did she write to him in prison? Show me some evidence that
ties
her to him, whoever he may be—and don't tell me he isn't so mysterious, Steve, I think he is very damn mysterious. If you guys
really
believe he got the rope from this guy in Hightown—and really, that sounds so far-fetched—then find
out
if he did, and get some better information on him than you already have, something that'll
lead
you to him. When you have all that, you know where to reach me. Toodle-ooo, fellas,” she said, waggling her fingers at them, and then tossed the hood of her parka up over her head and walked out.

Lorraine Riddock could hardly contain her excitement.

She was nineteen years old, a redheaded sophomore at Ladd University, not two miles uptown, working part-time for the Reverend Foster since the beginning of the school term. What she did, mostly, was stuff envelopes and run the postage-meter machine, but she'd taken the job because she was a political science major who strongly believed in the reverend's program of Truth and Justice. During the past two days—ever since the brutal beating of Hector Milagros—Foster had allowed her to sit in on some of the strategy meetings, and so she truly felt she had contributed to the plan he was about to announce this evening.

The three white men on the reverend's tactical committee called themselves “The Token Honkies,” which even Foster found amusing, though normally he avoided any expression, white
or
black, that might be considered racist. There were street blacks who casually tossed around the word “nigger,” as if it didn't carry with it centuries of hateful baggage, using it instead as if it were a salutation similar to “brother” or “sister.” Here in the offices above the church, however, Lorraine had never once heard that word, certainly not from any of the whites but not from any of the blacks, either.
It was a word she herself had never used in her lifetime. She scarcely noticed—and certainly didn't care—which of the men or women here tonight was white or black, misnomers in any case. White was the color of snow. Black was the color of coal. Nobody here even remotely fit either of those descriptions.

“They're ready for you now, Rev,” someone said, and Lorraine turned to see Walter Hopwell walking over from the mobile television crew. He was wearing his trademark black jeans and black turtleneck sweater, a tan sports jacket over them. His bald head seemed scarcely less shiny than the gold earring in his left ear lobe.

“Eleven o'clock news,” someone behind her whispered.

Lorraine glanced at her watch. It was now close to nine, so this had to be a taping. Hopwell handed Foster a hair brush, which he turned aside.

“The flowers look a bit wilted, Rev,” one of his aides said. “You might want to distance yourself from them.”

Foster took a few steps sideward, moving as gracefully as the boxer he once had been, gliding toward where a framed photograph of Martin Luther King hung on the wall. A blonde wearing a dark blue jacket and a gray skirt stepped closer to him, asked her microphone, “Do we need another level?,” and then chanted, “One, two, three, hello, hello, hello, okay? Want my advice?” she asked Foster.

“Always welcome,” he said.

“Lose King. They'll be looking at his picture instead of you.”

“How can we do that?” Foster asked.

“Try this, Will,” she said into her microphone. “On me for the intro, then in close on the picture of King, and slide off it to the reverend.” She waited a moment, and then asked, “How's that look?” She listened to her ear button, said, “Okay, great,” and then told Foster, “You've got both now, Reverend, ain't I smart? Say a few words for a level, could you?”

“One, two, three, four,” Foster said.

“Thanks,” she said. “I'll do the intro, then we'll pan off King and on to you. Say when, Jimmy,” she told somebody.

“Let me put another cake in here,” Jimmy said. “We're almost out.”

She waited while he changed cassettes, and then said, “Okay, ten seconds, please. Standby, people.”

A girl wearing earphones started the countdown out loud, “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six …” and then fell silent as she continued counting down the seconds on her fingers, her hand stretched toward the reporter, five, four, three, two, one, and pointed her index finger directly at her as a red light popped on the camera.

“This is Bess MacDougal here at the First Baptist Church in Diamondback, where the Reverend Gabriel Foster has called a press conference.”

The camera panned past the King photograph and came to rest on Foster in a medium shot, a solemn somewhat angry look on his face. Rivers of rain ran down the window behind him.

“I don't care what color you are out there,” he said, “you have to believe that what the Mayor said today was untruthful and unjust. Truth and justice! That's all there is, and all we need to know!”

“Yes, Rev!” someone shouted.

“The Mayor said that it was not any of his detectives who marched into The Catacombs downtown on Saturday night and beat up Hector Milagros, and that is not truth! The Mayor said that Hector Milagros is a self-confessed murderer and not entitled to the pity of the people of this great city, and that is not justice!”

“Right on!”

“I don't care if you are some kind of belligerent black man, all he needs is a gun …”

“Tell 'em, Rev!”

“I don't care if that's the kind of bellicose person you are, or whether you are an abstemious soul goes smiling at white folks and behind their backs wishes they were dead …”

“Oh Lordy!”

“Whatever kind of African-American you are, rich or poor, whether you a doctor or a homeboy, whether you clever or dim, whether you a telephone operator or somebody scrubs floors on her hands and knees the way my mama done when I was coming along in Mississippi, I know in my heart and in my soul that there is not a single one of you out there tonight—black
or
white—who is not
appalled
by what happened to that man while he was in custody and entitled to protection!”

The cheers were deafening.

Bess MacDougal listened and watched, waiting for her back-to-studio cue.

“So tonight, I am making this promise to you. Starting at eight tomorrow morning, when the shifts change, there will be people marching outside every police precinct in this city! And thousands of us will be marching outside The Catacombs downtown, to raise our voices in protest, and to demand an investigation that will lead to the arrest of the two detectives responsible for this brutal act against a helpless black man in custody! We will not desist until we know the truth! We will not desist until there is justice! Truth and justice! That's all there is, and all we need to know!”

The girl with the earphones pointed to Bess again.

“You've been listening to the Reverend Gabriel Foster,” she said, “here at the First Baptist Church in Diamondback. This is Bess MacDougal. Back to you, Terri and Frank.”

There was the sound of laughter, black and white, the sound of the rain lashing the windows, the noisy swagger of the television crew wrapping up. Bess MacDougal told Foster what a lovely, heartfelt speech that was, and shook his hand, and went to join her crew. Lorraine walked over to where a reporter from
Ebony
was asking Foster if he would mind posing for a photo outside in the rain …

“Under an umbrella, of course,” she said, smiling up at him.
“What I had in mind for the caption was something like ‘Let it come down!'”

“Second murderer,” Foster said at once.
“Macbeth.”

“Referring, of course, to the blue wall of silence,” the reporter said.

“I realize. Give me ten minutes. I'll meet you downstairs.”

Lorraine extended her hand to him.

“That was wonderful,” she said.

Foster took her hand between both his.

“Thank you, Lorraine,” he said.

Until that moment she hadn't even realized he knew her name. She felt a sudden rush of blood to her face, the telltale curse of being a redhead with a fair complexion. Blushing to her toes, she dropped his hand and backed away. Walter Hopwell called her name, “Lorraine? Some coffee?” One of the television crew called to Bess that they had a breaking story downtown, and all the TV people rushed out, leaving only the mere newspaper and magazine reporters, and Foster's people, black and white, and the rain, and the long night ahead.