Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

Chapter 36

IT WASN’T UNTIL BLACKIE PULLED A pair of handcuffs out of his back pocket and slapped them on Binky’s wrists that I began to realize what was going on. Blackie was friend, not foe. Protector, not stalker. Cop, not killer. And any doubts I may have had on this score were quickly eliminated when, just a few seconds later, four uniformed policemen rushed into the small apartment, crowding the narrow living room beyond capacity.

“Step over here, please, Mrs. Turner,” Blackie said, maneuvering me toward the bedroom doorway, out of the way of the other cops who, in spite of the strict space limitations, immediately launched into their prescribed police routine. One officer began patting Binky down, one started searching the apartment, one got to work bagging and labeling the knife, and one escorted Abby to the rear corner of the room for safe-keeping. (Abby was feeling just fine, you should know. I could tell by the way she was flirting with her handsome young caretaker.)

“That was a close call,” Blackie said, tucking his gun in his belt and scowling at me. “Are you okay? You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“No, I’m okay,” I said, even though I wasn’t. My nerves were jangling, my teeth were rattling, and my knees were shaking out of control. In the interest of appearing cool, however, I chose to withhold that information. “Thanks for saving my life,” I said instead.

“Glad to be of service,” he replied, still scowling but extending his hand for a shake. “I’m Detective John Dash. NYPD. You may have seen me around. I’ve been following you for the past four days.”

“Yes, I believe I did catch a glimpse of you here and there.”

His frown deepened. “Guess I got a little careless.”

“I thought you were the killer,” I confessed, “looking for a good opportunity to kill me.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just doing my job.”

“Speaking of jobs,” I said, “what happened to your busboy position at Stewart’s Cafeteria? Did you quit or get fired?”

He smiled. (At least I think that little upward twitch of his lips was a smile.) “I was on assignment at Stewart’s,” he explained, “working undercover. I was put there to spy on the Village homos-find out everything I could about the chicken run.”

Ugh. I wished I hadn’t asked.

“But after you got involved in the Gordon murder,” he went on, “they took me off busboy duty and sent me to spy on you.”

“Why? Did they actually think

I was the killer?”

“Can’t answer that,” he said, scraping his fingers through his wavy hair and giving me a tired look. “And I’m supposed to be asking the questions here, not you. So, whaddaya say you quit grilling me and start telling me what went on here today? Keep it short and sweet. Detective Flannagan will get all the details later.”

I gave him a quick rundown of the afternoon’s events, then led him into the bedroom where Gray’s shirt and boots were scattered on the floor. Blackie-oops, I mean Detective Dash-picked up the boots, wrapped them up in the shirt, and then gave them to one of the other cops to bag. “Okay, that’s it,” he said, taking the gun out of his belt and sticking it into the slim holster hidden under the leg of his long black pants. “Let’s round up the horses and head for the stable.”

THERE WERE TWO SQUAD CARS PARKED at the curb. Binky was ushered outside and deposited in one of them, accompanied by the three officers who had attended to him inside. Sullen, silent, and still in handcuffs, he sat with his shoulders hunched and his head hanging low until the car pulled out and sped away, disappearing in the shadows beneath the doomed elevated train track.

Barnabas Kapinsky had taken his final bow. There were no bravos; no standing ovation.

After an argument between Abby and Blackie about Fabrizio’s bicycle (she wanted to ride it back to the Village, he wanted her to ride in the car and come back for the bike later), Abby and I were chauffeured to the Sixth Precinct station, with Fabrizio’s Schwinn Jaguar Deluxe strapped to the trunk of the car. It was a fast trip and a quiet one. Even Abby didn’t feel much like talking.

Once we were taken upstairs to Homicide, however, and seated in the hard wooden chairs across the desk from Flannagan, we both had plenty to say.

“I

told you Willy Sinclair wasn’t the murderer,” I said to Flannagan the second Blackie finished briefing him on the afternoon’s events. I lit up an L &M and spewed the smoke out in an extra loud whoosh. “If you had listened to me, you could have saved us all a lot of trouble.”

“Yeah!” Abby said. “A

whole lot of trouble. We nearly had our throats slashed, you know!”

Flannagan glared at us and let out a gruff

harrumph. “You can’t blame that on me. If you had kept your snotty little noses out of the case to begin with, none of this ever would have happened.”

“Right!” I cried. “And instead of having the

real murderer in police custody, you’d have poor Willy behind bars-set to go on trial and maybe even receive the death sentence-for a murder he didn’t commit!” (I don’t often break society’s strict gender rules and speak so boldly to men in authority-no matter how stupid they happen to be. But in this case, I simply couldn’t help myself. I was mad.)

Flannagan’s boyish, clean-shaven face turned an unusual shade of purple. “How dare you speak to me that way!” he spluttered, banging his fist down on top of the desk. “I’m the homicide detective in charge of this case, and you’re just a two-bit pencil-pusher for a smutty crime magazine! You think you know everything about the way I’ve handled this investigation, and you don’t have a clue.”

“Oh, really?” I said, with a sniff. “Then perhaps you’d better

tell me how you’ve handled it, Detective. A two-bit crime reporter can’t afford to be clueless.” (Okay, maybe my tone was a tad sarcastic, but not totally. I swear! I was truly curious to hear what Flannagan would have to say for himself-and I wanted to collect all the dirty details for my smutty story.)

But I was losing him and Abby knew it. “Oh, yes, Detective Flannagan, please tell!” she warbled, batting her lashes like crazy, striving to soothe his disgruntled male ego with an ooze of feminine charm.

It worked. Flannagan’s face turned from purple to pink. He smirked, loosened his tie, leaned way back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk, filthy shoe soles facing me. “In the first place, Mrs. Turner,” he said, “I never even came close to arresting Willard Sinclair for the murder. We didn’t have enough proof for that. A matching blood type is strong, persuasive evidence, but it isn’t conclusive. So, however low your opinion of the NYPD may be, your precious faggot friend wasn’t in danger of going to prison or receiving an unjust death penalty. That’s not the way we do things around here.”

“Oh, no? Then why were you constantly harassing and abusing Willy-calling him a queer and a pervert and a psychopath, and insisting that he was the one who killed Gray? Is that just the way you get your kicks?” I took one last drag on my cigarette and angrily crushed it in the ashtray.

Flannagan jerked himself up straight and put his feet back on the floor. “You have no right to question my methods, Mrs. Turner,” he said, speaking through clenched teeth. “And you’re wishing on a goddamn star if you think I’m going to explain my investigative procedures to you.”

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. “But will you at least tell me why you put Black-I mean, Detective Dash on my tail?” I went on. “Did you really believe that

I was the murderer? I know that the person who discovers the body often turns out to be the killer, but how could you possibly think-”

“I didn’t!” Flannagan interrupted, unaware that the hasty placement of his words made his response very funny (to me, at any rate). “I never for one moment thought you were the killer,” he grumbled. “I had you followed for different reasons entirely.”

“Oh?” I said, curiosity mounting. “And what would those reasons be?”

In spite of his vow not to explain himself, he did.

“I had a hunch you were going to snoop around on your own,” he began, obviously eager to reveal and extol his own skills of detection. “I had heard about the other murder cases you meddled in and wrote articles about, and I figured you would try to do the same stupid thing in this case-especially since you and your friend discovered the body.

“So I decided to have you followed,” he continued. “I called in Johnny Dash and told him to stick to you like gum, for two simple reasons-one, to see if you might turn up any good clues or actually track down the killer-and two, to protect you if you did. And considering the fact that Dash saved the lives of you and your friend today, I’d say my decision was a damn good one.”

He had a point.

A damn good one.

“I see,” I mumbled, staring down at the floor, ashamed that I’d been giving Detective Flannagan such a hard time when he’d been doing such a good job (or so it seemed).

If it weren’t for Flannagan and Dash, I humbly admitted to myself, Abby and I would be on the way to the city morgue right now-or in transit to the Staten Island landfill. I was trying to find the right words to express my heartfelt apologies and gratitude when Abby jumped in and saved me the trouble.

“Hey, bobba ree bop!” she whooped, catapulting out of her chair and darting over to Johnny Dash, who was standing to one side of the desk, leaning against a wooden file cabinet. “You’re my hero!” she cried, flinging her arms around his neck and planting a huge (and I’d be willing to bet openmouthed) kiss on his unsuspecting lips. Then she hopped over to Flannagan, threw herself down on his lap, pulled his face down close to hers, and repeated the procedure.

Both men were shocked, but pleased. Breathless and blushing. And for several long minutes after Abby danced away and returned to her chair on the other side of the desk, their chests were so puffed up with pride I thought they’d pop.

I hated to put a damper on the friendly fireworks, but I was still curious about the case. “Was Detective Dash following me the night of the Fourth, when I went to the party at the Keller Hotel?” I asked. “The night I got hit on the head?”

“Yes, of course he was,” Flannagan answered. “Who do you think called us when you were assaulted? How do you think we got there so fast?”

“So Blackie… I mean, Detective Dash was the anonymous caller you told me about?”

“Right.”

“That settles it then,” I said. “The man who knocked me out was Aunt Doobie.”

“The one and only,” Flannagan said. “But his real name is Christopher Dubin. He’s a thirty-four-year-old lawyer with a wife and two kids. He’s also a covert homosexual who was so terrified you would find out who he really is and expose his sordid secret to the world and his wife, that he bashed you on the head with a rock and took off like a bat outta hell.”

Christopher Dubin. Married. Two kids. “How did you get all this information?” I sputtered, begging for more. “Did you find him at the Mayflower Hotel? Did he confess to hitting me? Did he admit that he was Gray’s lover?”

Blackie, not Flannagan, answered my first question.

“Never went to the Mayflower,” he said. “Didn’t have to. After Dubin hit you, he took off in a black limo and I memorized the plate number. Then-after I made sure you weren’t hurt too bad-I called the station for help and put out a citywide bulletin on the car. As soon as Detective Flannagan and the boys arrived at the scene, I jumped in one of the squad cars, got a location on the limo from the radio, and then tracked the vehicle to its final destination-an East 65th Street brownstone owned by one Randolph Godfrey Winston.”

“Baldy,” I mumbled.

“Yeah, the guy

is bald,” Blackie said. “Completely. I saw that when he and Dubin got out of the car and went into the building.”

“So what happened next?” I asked. “Did you go inside and question them both together?”

“No, he did not!” Flannagan broke in, obviously annoyed that Blackie was claiming so much attention. “Detective Dash stayed outside and kept watch on the building until I got there-which wasn’t until after midnight since you took so goddamn long to tell me the truth about the attack and your own little private investigation.”

“I’m sorry about that,” I said, really meaning it. “I was wrong. I should have told you everything from the very beginning.”

“You’re goddamn right you should!” Flannagan snapped, tossing me such a gloating, self-righteous sneer I considered retracting my apology.

I didn’t do it, though. I was still aching for more details about the case, and I was afraid Flannagan would clam up if I crossed him again. “So you conducted the interrogation yourself, Detective Flannagan?” I probed. “That night in Baldy’s brownstone?”

“I sure did,” he boasted, sitting back in his chair and lighting up a Camel. Then, snorting two streams of smoke from his nostrils like a dragon, he launched into the longest, most drawn-out, most self-aggrandizing monologue you ever heard in your life. I’m not kidding! He described and explained every single moment of his session with Baldy and Aunt Doobie (i.e., Winston and Dubin), but his focus was on

himself, not the subjects of his inquiry, and his zeal was reserved for his own “extraordinary” (his word, not mine!) powers of discovery. (He determined this, and he uncovered that, and then he established this, and he exposed that, and then he… well, you get the picture.)

After all was said and done, Flannagan had delivered a lot more details than I’d bargained for. (Don’t worry! I won’t make you wade through a word-for-word account of his grandiose dissertation. I’ll edit out all the pretentious stuff and repackage the rest in a nutshell. Am I a considerate writer, or what?)

What it all boiled down to was this: Christopher Dubin and Gray Gordon had been lovers for five months. They’d conducted their forbidden affair in hotel rooms so that Dubin-a successful theatrical lawyer and respected family man-would never be seen in Gray’s company. Because of his fear of being branded a homosexual, Dubin never would have been caught dead at the gay party at the Keller Hotel if: 1) his wife and kids hadn’t gone to spend the holiday weekend with her parents in Canada; 2) his beloved gay boyfriend hadn’t been brutally murdered; 3) his good friend and gay business associate Randolph Godfrey Winston hadn’t persuaded him to meet him at the party for a healing regimen of booze, fireworks, and forgetfulness.

And he never would have bashed me on the head if I hadn’t called him Aunt Doobie.

But once that name escaped my lips, Dubin knew that I had recognized him from our first meeting at the Mayflower-when, if you recall, I had also mentioned the name of Gray Gordon. And since the party at the Keller bar was for gays only, Dubin also knew that I now had ample proof that he was a homosexual. As a result, he went nuts and ran out of the bar, looking to get as far away from me as possible, hoping I’d never learn his real name and expose his secret life, which would destroy his public one.

When Dubin realized that I had followed him out of the bar and over toward the river, however, and that I was standing watch under the West Side Highway-right between him and the limo in which his friend Randy had just arrived-his uncontrollable panic took over. He picked up a rock, snuck up behind me, and knocked me cold. Then he fled the scene in the black limousine.

Toodleloo. Bye bye. Over and out.

“What about Baldy?” I asked, when Flannagan finally stopped talking. “Did you find out anything more about him?”

“Besides his real name, you mean?”

Duh. “Yes,” I replied, “and besides his profession, too. I already know that he’s the producer of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. What I don’t know is why he was pumping the bartenders at the Village Vanguard for information about me. Did you ask him anything about that?”

“Uh, yeah, I did,” Flannagan said, suddenly looking kind of vague, rubbing his pallid, baby-smooth chin with his nicotine-stained fingers. “He said something about seeing you and Miss Moskowitz backstage the night of Gray Gordon’s debut, and again the next day, after the matinee. And then, he said, when he saw you

again at the Vanguard the very next night, he started wondering who you were and why you kept showing up everywhere he went. So he tipped the bartenders and asked them a few questions about you on his way out. That’s all there was to it.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I exclaimed, utterly amazed (and also a bit amused) that a situation I’d thought so sinister could turn out to be so ordinary.

Abby, on the other hand, didn’t even raise an eyebrow. She shrugged her shoulders, gave me an indulgent smile, and said, for the third time that day, “You always make such a

tsimmis.”