Vermilion (16 page)

It was with even greater difficulty that Valentine picked out Mark's partner from the crowd of men near him, but finally he settled on a short Italian with curly dark hair, wearing an open denim work shirt and faded jeans. Valentine knew the record would go on for five more minutes and he would have that much time to formulate the kind words that would give Mark the permanent brush-off. He stared at Mark's chest and couldn't think of any words at all.

Turning to the bar, he ordered another rye and tried to concentrate on the problem at hand; but rather than Mark, his thoughts ran to William Searcy, Frank Hougan, Boots Slater, and William A. Golacinsky.

He wondered how Searcy had been caught up with Hougan. It did not seem possible that a man as uptight as Searcy—and one with a professional reputation to protect—would answer an ad in the
Phoenix
that talked about shackles and pain. It was more likely that Searcy had come across the couple in the line of duty. Golacinsky wasn't the first dead boy who had hung about the Block and the Block was only a few numbers down from Hougan's apartment; perhaps Hougan and Boots had been involved in another case. Searcy had given them the rough-cop routine, had found out from Boots, say, what the two got up to in the back room with the beams, and then had said something like, “Well, I ought to run the both of you in, but maybe we can work something out…”

What intrigued Valentine most, however, was that Searcy had taken part in the little games that Frank Hougan was playing up there on Commonwealth Avenue. It seemed impossible that a man as homophobic as Searcy could overcome his fear of his own attraction to men to allow Frank Hougan to come near him. On the other hand, it made a lot of sense that if Searcy were involved with any man sexually—even if it were in so peculiar a manner—it would be with a man like Hougan.

The Donna Summer ended and without allowing himself to think, Valentine hurried forward to catch at Mark. He and the short Italian had left the floor and stood in the farthest, darkest corner of the room. Mark was rebuttoning his shirt when Valentine came up before them.

“Oh, hi Daniel,” said Mark, grinning sheepishly. “I'd almost thought you had decided to stand me up.”

Valentine smiled and glanced at the shorter man. He had slipped his arm about Mark's waist, hooking his thumb into a belt loop. “I had to protect Clarisse against a roving band of dissatisfied apartment-dwellers. Introduce me.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Mark, evidently having hoped that Valentine would not ask. “This is Joseph.”

Valentine and Joseph exchanged polite nods, and the silence that ensued would have been awkward had it not been overlaid with a hundred decibels of Grace Jones.

Joseph took a hint and unhooked his thumb. “Who wants a beer?” he asked, looking from Valentine to Mark. Valentine held his glass up to show that he was set.

“A Busch,” said Mark, and Joseph moved off toward the bar. Valentine smiled at Mark, without the least idea in the world of what he was going to say.

“You're not upset, are you?” asked Mark, biting his lip in apprehension.

“Does it show?”

“Oh!” cried Mark, “I'm so sorry, Daniel. I know we had a date, but the music got to me, and Joseph asked me to dance, and—”

“I'm not upset about Joseph,” interrupted Valentine, “something else entirely. Something that happened a while ago, something that doesn't have anything to do with you. In fact, I was coming here to tell you how glad I was that you came down to see me this weekend, and that nothing makes me happier than being able to give you a place to crash…Do you understand?” Valentine smiled and touched Mark's arm affectionately.

For a moment, Mark said nothing, thinking hard. Then he smiled. “I know,” he said at last. “I guess I expected more, but I'm glad to see you again too. I guess when I was up in New Hampshire, I had some funny ideas. I was thinking about you all the time, I was always thinking about coming down here to see you in Boston…”

“You weren't thinking about me,” said Valentine, “you were just thinking about
men
.”

Mark nodded. “I guess so.”

“I'll tell you something,” said Valentine, “when you were down here last summer, I think I fell in love with you a little bit…” Even beneath the harsh red light that flooded them, Valentine thought he could detect a blush suffusing Mark's face.

“Oh yeah?” said Mark softly.

Valentine nodded. “But I'll tell you something else: bartenders make lousy husbands.”

Mark laughed shortly. “I guess I knew that, and if I didn't, I should have. Is everybody from New Hampshire as much of a hick as I am?”

Valentine smiled, leaned forward and kissed Mark hard on the mouth. “Thanks for the jacket. It's going to mean an improvement in my love life.” He glanced behind him and saw that Joseph was making his way back with two beers. “Has he asked you home yet?”

“Well, he wanted to, but—”

“He doesn't have a place?”

Mark shook his head. “He's in town for the weekend.”

“Where's he from?”

Mark grinned. “New Hampshire…”

Valentine's eyebrows rose slowly.

“Laconia. About half an hour from me. He drives an oil truck.”

“Good God,” said Valentine. “Aren't there any faggot hairdressers in New Hampshire?”

Mark thought a moment. “No,” he said.

Joseph came up hesitantly. Valentine smiled at the small man warmly. “Mark, you have the keys to the flat. Crisco's under the sink, poppers are in the freezer.” Joseph giggled.

“Got your rig outside?” said Valentine, turning to Joseph with a smile.

“No,” said Joseph. “I came down in the pickup.”

“A lumberjack and a truck driver in a pickup, and in my bed. It's so butch I can't stand it. You two get out of here.”

“Daniel, we can't make you sleep on the sofa.”

“You don't think I'm going to try to sleep while you two are going at it in the bedroom, do you? I can't sleep when I'm jealous. I'm going over to Clarisse's.”

“Oh,” said Mark, “that's really inconveniencing you, though. I can't—”

“Yes you can,” said Valentine sharply. “I couldn't live with myself if I thought I was keeping you two apart. Besides, Clarisse likes to wake up with a man in her flat.”

Mark leaned forward and embraced Valentine warmly. In Valentine's ear he whispered, “No wonder I'm in love with you.”

Valentine broke the embrace. “Have a good time. Come and go as you like. I have an extra set of keys.” He pushed away into the crowd.

In the darkness at the edge of the dance floor, he was grabbed. The taxi driver had him fast by both arms. “No shrink. You leave your girlfriend for a threesome…”

“No group therapy for me,” laughed Valentine, “at least not tonight. But I could be up for a little one-to-one.”

“You want a ride to my place, then?”

“Sure,” said Valentine, “for an hour or two anyway. Then I got to get back to my girl, she's so lonesome without me.”

Friday, 5 January

“G
OD,” MOANED Clarisse as she buried her face in her hands. Her elbows propped on the table began to slip forward. “I could kill you for pushing those Black Russians on me, Val.” She looked up suddenly, tossing her hair back from her face. “You don't look particularly hung over,” she said accusingly. “What time did you come in?”

Valentine sat on the other side of the small walnut table that was nestled in the bay window of Clarisse's apartment. A few inches from them, on the other side of the glass, the morning was cold and bleak. Slate-gray clouds billowing across the sky threatened more snow and a steady frigid wind blew down Beacon Street. The limestone townhouses across the way, housing for the students of a junior college, were a lifeless and depressing backdrop.

“I got in at three. I'd have been in earlier but I had a run-in with a taxi driver. And I don't have a hangover because I took two aspirin before I went to sleep. And you needn't envy me because I paid my dues last night sleeping on your Castro Convertible rock.”

“Don't blame me. My bed sleeps two.” She looked askance at the cup of coffee that he poured for her and pushed across the table. She took a deep breath, grimaced and pushed it away, and then leaned back in the cane chair. She crossed her legs and rearranged the flaps of her rust-colored velour robe. She glanced at the coffee cup again, picked it up, waved it beneath her nose, and set it back down on the table.

“Yeah,” said Valentine, slow on the uptake, “you and Veronica Lake.”

At the sound of her name, the tawny afghan padded eagerly into the living room and nuzzled against Clarisse's thigh. Clarisse ran her fingers through the dog's silky hair.

“Good girl,” Clarisse said, “go shed on Valentine.”

Valentine had moved to the sofa with his coffee. Veronica Lake obediently went over to him and thrust her head familiarly into his crotch.

“You teaching her tricks?” said Valentine.

“She's a natural,” said Clarisse. “I took her out last night when I got in, and we went past Hougan's place. The car was still there, but the lights were out in front. They may have been in the back entertaining another guest, but the alley behind Commonwealth is dangerous at night, so I didn't go back there. Anyway, Veronica Lake ought to be ready to go out again—I don't understand why she's being so calm.”

“I took her out when I got up.”

“Good God,” said Clarisse, “you took out the dog, fixed real coffee, made the bed. As long as you're playing domestic, why don't you get me a couple of aspirin?”

Valentine rose and went into the bathroom. In a moment he returned with his hand outstretched. Clarisse took the aspirin. “God,” she breathed, “I forgot to call in sick.”

“I did that too,” said Valentine.

“Thanks. What'd you tell them?”

“That you had yellow eyes and it was either malaria or hepatitis, the doctor didn't know for sure which yet. How well do you know Boots?”

“Boots?” She looked vaguely under the table at her bare feet.

Valentine sighed. “Miss Lash LaRue. How well do you know her?”

“I don't know anything more than what I've told you.”

“We've got to talk to her.”

“About what?”

“Searcy.”

Grimly, Clarisse swallowed the aspirin with a long gulp of coffee. She looked to Valentine to continue.

“At first,” he said, “I thought he was just another homophobic cop on a routine investigation. But now I think there's something else.”

“Sure, the games that he likes to play with Boots and Hougan.”

“No, not just that. That's interesting, sure, but that's not much more than good gossip. In case you didn't notice, I also bought the paper this morning. Scarpetti told the
Globe
that the police have narrowed their investigation to within the gay community, or as he puts it, ‘the homosexual underground'—as if the light of day injured our eyes…”

“Hurts mine,” piped Clarisse.

“They don't know it was a fag that did it,” said Valentine, ignoring her interruption, “that's just what they want to think. So Searcy is pushing hard. He pushed on Randy Harmon, he pushed on Mack, he's starting to push on me a little too, I think. I want to know why because I want to be able to stop him if he starts to come down any harder. None of us killed that little boy but Searcy might be able to pull out an indictment somewhere. I don't intend to stand around and let myself and my friends get victimized.”

“I think that little bomb we dropped on him last night should slow him up for a bit.”

“I don't,” said Valentine. “That's why we've got to talk to Boots.”

“You mean that's why
I
've got to talk to Boots, right?”

Valentine nodded.

“Sure,” Clarisse shrugged: “But why exactly?”

“I don't know, just talk to her. Maybe it'll help.”

“All right,” said Clarisse, a little less groggily now that she was drinking her coffee, “but how do I go about this? Stiff-arm my way in, and scream, ‘All right Slater, we've got the goods—come clean or it'll go hard with you!'?”

“Maybe something more subtle,” said Valentine.

Clarisse stared out the window a few moments. Then she turned back to Valentine. “Phone book,” she demanded.

Valentine reached over the back of the sofa for the Boston white pages.

“No,” said Clarisse, “my own book.”

Valentine swerved and snatched the thick dog-eared black leather book from the end table, and carried it with the telephone to the table by the window. He returned to the sofa.

Clarisse turned the pages of her book rapidly, apparently not able to find the number she wanted.

“Slater,” suggested Valentine, “or Hougan.”

“No,” said Clarisse, squinting in concentration. “
Remembrance
!” She quickly flipped the pages.

“Remembrance?”

“Of things past. I'm calling Marcel.”

“He's dead.”

“Not Marcel Proust. Marcel
Wave
. Du Côté Chez Marcel. I'm calling Raymond.”

Valentine turned away in disgust. “Look, your hair can wait, OK? Why don't you call Boots?”

Clarisse ignored him and dialed. She fought a yawn just as a female voice on the line intoned: “Du Côté de Chez Marcel.” The accent was less French than Flatbush. “Ici Albertine.”

“Raymond Craven please,” said Clarisse in her smoothest voice.

“Pardon?”

“Swann,” replied Clarisse reluctantly.

“Mais certainement, madame.” The line clicked to hold.

“Swann?” said Valentine skeptically.

“They've all got professional names. Get your hair shampooed by the Baron de Charlus, and your nails trimmed by the Duchesse de Guermantes.”