Death trick

15

During breakfast the phone rang, Timmy was sitting beside it and answered it.

"It's Harold," he said. "I think you've made a friend."

Harold made complimentary and affectionate comments that were good for my ego but not for my conscience. My brief responses were friendly but vague. Then Harold got to the point.

"Donnie, I really shouldn't be telling you this, and you must never, ever tell Mike I told you. Will you promise me that?"

"I promise."

"Donnie, I–I really can't tell you what Steve saw that upset him so much, 'cause I don't think you'd believe it. I saw it with my own baby blues, and I could hardly believe it! So if you must, doll, you'll just have to see for yourself. He doesn't meet them at the side door anymore, it's somewhere away from the place. You'll have to follow him somewhere. Tonight, after closing.

He goes Wednesdays, and either Fridays or Saturdays."

"Meet who, Harold? Who does Mike meet?"

"You'll see, baby. You'll see."

"Does Mike know that you know this, whatever it is?"

"Ohhh, no-o-o-o, Donnie, and you mustn't tell him. Mike's so liquored up and crazy these days he'd fire me, and I might be forced to hit Hollywood and break into the business. And, God, it's such a debilitating experience out there in these crude times we live in-air pollution, dyke agents, Joan Crawford's shoes getting sold off like scrap metal. Within ten years I'd marry a degenerate disco franchiser and OD on Baskin-Robbins and heart-attack pills. Donnie, I have to stay in Albany, where I can be me. In a place where a certain amount of class is still respected.

No, I can't-I cannot afford to lose my job, Donnie. You do understand, don't you, bunny?"

I said, "I won't tell him, Harold. But I might want to talk to you again. After tonight."

Huff, huff. "Well, I should hope you'll want to speak to me again. Now that we're lovers. Bye the bye, love-buns, who was that who answered the phone just now?"

"That was my houseboy."

"Ha, I should have known! You older guys! Is he Filipino?"

"Eskimo."

"And you told me you weren't queer!"

"I swing both ways, remember?"

"You're a flawed masterpiece, Donnie, that's what you are. But what's a woman to do?"

"Tell me another thing, Harold. Did Mike know that Steve saw whatever he saw?"

"Yes, it was horrible. Steve confronted Mike the day after-Steve told me-and Mike was sloshed, as usual, and started screaming like a bitch. He even fired poor Steven-but then he changed his mind five minutes later. See, that's why I'm so scared; Steve was the hot jock, and Mike needed him, and anyways Mike always had a soft spot for Steven even after they broke up.

Me, lovable as I am, I'm just a charwoman to Mike, and I can be replaced by any sleazy slut who walks in the door."

"Where were you when you saw-it?"

"In the DJ booth with Steve. It was a quarter to five, and Mike thought everyone had left for the night. But I was depressed about one thing or another, and I was hoping Steven might cheer me up-he had once before. But he wouldn't this time, the little faggot. Anyway, we did get to talking, though- Steven was a dear, dear man-and then we looked out and saw it. We just sat there then, scared half to death, until Mike turned the lights out and left, and we got out with Steve's key. It really blew our minds, Donnie. The pits, the absolute pits."

I said, "Thank you, Harold. You've done the right thing telling me this. But you mustn't tell anyone else, okay? And I won't either."

"My lips are sealed, lover. Except when I'm with you. Then they are parted."

"Good. Thank you. One last thing, Harold. Do you know a guy named Frank Zimka? He's a hustler I think Mike has done business with."

"I know who he is, yes. He's weird. I've seen him around. Once with Mike."

"When did you see him with Mike?"

"Last summer once. Or twice maybe. I don't like him. When Zimka's down, he's a real depresso, and when he's on speed, he gets crazy. I heard one time he bounced a toilet seat off a guy's head.

Some other whore who'd turned on to Zimka's trick."

"A toilet seat? Does he carry one with him, or what?"

"I wouldn't know the answer to that, sweet thing; I'm only saying what I heard. Donnie-Donnie, I had a wonderful time last night. You made me feel like-like-"

A nat-u-ral wo-man-n-n "-like a human being."

A wave of dizziness. I'd made a terrible mistake. This was going to be hard-impossible. I said,

"Um. I'm glad."

"Till the next time, lover."

"Oh. Right. See you, Harold. Thanks again."

"It is I who am the one who is grateful."

"So long, Harold."

I hung up. Timmy looked up from his Wheat Chex, then down again.

I said, "Shit. I am made of shit."

"Come on now," he said. "You have your good points."

'Today my one good point is I'm beginning to understand this whole Kleckner-Blount-Zimka-Truckman phantasmagoria. I think."

"Right. As a detective, you're sterling silver. It's only as a human being that you're made of clay. What do you think you've found out?"

I told him. He didn't finish his breakfast.

Timmy put on some of the clothes he kept in my closet and left for his office. I gathered up my notes, retrieved the two letters for Billy Blount from "I'm Here Again," stuffed everything in my canvas tote bag, and drove over to Central.

In the office I made another appointment with the Blounts at one. Low tea on State Street.

I was going over my notes again when Margarita Mayes called.

"Mr. Strachey, I've been in touch with Chris." "She called me too, as you said she would. Thank you." "I talked to her last night. She said I could tell you she'd be in Albany Saturday night, and would you come for brunch on Sunday? She won't tell you where Billy is, though; she said I should emphasize that. And if you go to the police, she'll deny all of these things. Will you come?"

"Well, that's certainly a lovely invitation. And I'll let you know-by Friday or so, if that's all right."

"That will be fine. Call me at the office. I'm not staying at the house. Someone tried to break in last night, and I'm staying with a friend in Westmere until Chris gets back. There have been so many burglaries lately. It's really quite frightening."

"Margarita-let me ask you a question. Have you been getting any more crank phone calls?"

A silence. "How did you know that?"

"Because another of Billy's friends has gotten them. Describe the calls."

"There's nothing to describe. Someone calls, and then listens, and then hangs up. There have been eight or ten."

"At your office, or just at home?"

"Just at the house. But I'm out of there now."

"Were you home during the break-in attempt? What happened?"

"I'd been asleep for about an hour," she said, "when the burglar alarm went off. I thought I heard a banging or thumping noise out behind the house, and I called the police right away. I was just scared to death, and I locked my bedroom door until the police came, in about five or ten minutes. They looked outside and found that our stepladder had been taken off the back porch and propped up under the kitchen window. The policemen helped me put the ladder away and said I was safe with the burglar alarm working and to keep everything locked up and not to worry. It frightened me, though; I could hardly sleep at all last night, and I'm not going back there until Chris is home."

"Good. Stay with your friend until I've been in touch again, okay? You could be in danger if you're anywhere near that house, so will you stay away from the house until you've checked with me?"

"Yes, but-who's doing this?"

"I don't know. I think I know, but I'm not sure. When I know for sure, I'll tell you. And I'll let you know about Sunday."

"You can reach me at the office on Friday."

"I'll do that."

It was the goddamn phone book. Bowman should have confiscated it. I should have taken it from Blount's apartment before some lunatic with a lethal contempt for Billy Blount's friends had gotten hold of it and used the listings-by-number directory to locate Chris, Mark, Huey, and-Zimka? He hadn't been bothered. I guessed I knew why.

I reached Huey Brownlee at his work number. "Huey, Don Strachey. Would you mind moving into my apartment for a couple of days?"

"Heh, heh."

"No, I won't be there. Sorry to say. It's all those phone calls you were getting-have you gotten any more?"

"Yeah, three last night. I was gonna call you. Fuckin' motherfucker. I'm just waitin' for him to show up, Donald."

"Huey, if you don't get out of there, you could be in for some trouble from a very dangerous screwball, the man who killed Steve Kleckner. Will you do it?"

"Say, you ain't shittin' me, Don?"

"I am not," I said, and he reluctantly agreed to move over to Morton Avenue. I gave him the address, told him where to find the key, and said I'd see him on the weekend.

I phoned Mark Deslonde at Sears. "Mark-Don Strachey, I have a funny question that isn't really funny. Have you gotten any weird phone calls in the last few days?"

"No, have you?"

"You haven't?"

"No, but I haven't been home. I moved in with Phil- Saturday night."

Another peripatetic gay male. The killer must have been having one hell of a time locating a victim at home in his own bed. I said, "Oh. It's that serious with you and Phil?"

"Yep."

"Well-I approve. Entirely."

"Entirely?"

I said, "Well, you know. But yes."

He said, "I know."

"Are you going to Trucky's tonight? I'll see you."

"We'll be there."

We'll. "Great. Us too. Look, do something for me. Whatever happens with you and Phil-and I do wish you all the best- whatever happens-I mean even if one of you has an attack of second thoughts or whatever-do not move back into your apartment until you check with me.

Will you do that?"

"Sure. I guess so. But why?"

"It has to do with the Kleckner killing. There's nothing to worry about if you just stay away from the apartment with your phone in it. Look, I'll explain it all in a few days. Will you just do what I say?"

Deslonde told me he would do what I said, although, as it happened, he did not.

I made coffee on my hot plate. I thought about going out for cigarettes. I went back to my desk. I looked up Frank Zimka's number and stared at it. I thought about calling him, but I concluded that I'd probably be tipping him off, so I didn't call. Instead I slit open the envelope Zimka had given me for Billy Blount.

The letter was handwritten on old, yellowing, three-ring notebook paper.

My Dear loving friend Billy,

I don't know where to get in touch with you, but the guy who is giving you this letter said he would give it to you. I miss you so much. Even though our relationship is quite strange, it has meant so much to me, as I told you many times. Is it an impossible dream that we will be together again one day? I don't think that is too much to hope for in this life, though sometimes I think it is, and I don't know what is going to happen to me. I guess I'm just a real crazy fuck-up.

When I think about our relationship, I get depressed, but I am willing to continue it if the opportunity presents itself. I hope you are happy and healthy, and whatever befalls, remember that someone loves you. It makes me joyous just to be able to write that With all my LOVE,

Frank

(Eddie, ha ha)

Eddie again. The name in the record shop and the name in the Blounts' letter to Billy. Zimka was Eddie? I had to talk to the Blounts, both senior and junior.

I phoned Timmy at his office.

It looks as if I am going to Denver tomorrow. I'll know for sure by the end of the day."

"Did your friend in L.A. call back?"

"Not yet. But he'll come through. Harvey is relentless."

"Have you ever been to Denver? You'll go for it."

"I spent twenty years in Salt Lake City one summer, but that's the extent of my acquaintanceship with the mountain states."

"Denver's a nice town. And it's not called the Queen City of the Rockies for no good reason."

"A mile-high San Francisco."

"Hardly that, but still-nice. Lots of opportunities for immorality."

"In your ear."

"I hope you've spent a moral morning. If so, you're on your way. Did you know that after twelve years your soul heals, like your lungs after you've quit smoking?"

"What about immoral thoughts? Do they count? I had one awhile ago."

"Hey, now you've got the idea! Yes, they count. But not as much as deeds."

I said, "By the way, Mark and Phil are now living together. I called Mark to find out if he'd been getting funny phone calls like Huey Brownlee's. Margarita Mayes has been getting them too, and somebody tried to break into her and Chris's house last night. I suggested they stay away from their apartments for a few days, and that's when Mark told me. I'm worried."

"They're a good pair-it should work. Is it Zimka you're worried about?"

"I think so, yes. The only thing I'm sure of is they're all connected in some messy, volatile way Kleckner, Blount, Zimka, Truckman, Chris Porterfield, Stuart Blount, Jane Blount-the lot. And then there's this Eddie-the wild card." I told him about the two letters, from the Blounts to their son, and from Zimka to Blount. "I'm seeing the Blounts at one. Maybe they'll clear things up, out of character as that might be for them." Then I told him what I had decided to do that night.

"Do you want me to go with you? And bring the Leica?"

"Yeah. I do. Wear your track shoes."

"Am I gay, or am I gay?"

Soon after I hung up, the mail arrived. There was a thank-you note on a little engraved card from

"Mrs. Hugh Bigelow." A lapsed feminist. That was depressing, but I guessed everybody found a way. Also among the bills and clutter was an envelope with a check for two thousand dollars from Stuart Blount. I signed it over to the Rat's Nest Legal Defense Fund and stuck it in my wallet along with Mike Truckman's check.

At a quarter to twelve Harvey Geddes called from Los Angeles. He'd spent most of the night, he said, trying to track down someone with a current address for Kurt Zinsser of the FFF, and after driving from West Hollywood to Santa Monica to Venice and back to Hollywood again, he'd found it. I wrote down the phone number and the building and apartment number on a street in Denver. I told Harvey I owed him one, and he agreed.

I trekked up Central to Elmo's in search of nourishment to gird myself for a visit with the Stuart Blounts, of State Street and Saratoga.