Agnes Among the Gargoyles (27 page)

   "Talk sense, would you please?"

   The Frenchman raises one eyebrow. "All I mean is that there is a storm approaching. It is blowing up from the south."

   "I don't see anything."

   The Frenchman laughs. "It is hardly something you would
see,
my good man. A man of the sea feels these things. My eyes are a compass and sextant. My blood and marrow work as a barometer."

   "If you say so."

   The Frenchman is as mannered and posturing and bilious as ever; to share his company is to nod meekly at one pronouncement after another.

   The Frenchman turns his cassette over.

   "What are you listening to?" Bezel asks.

   "The music of the spheres, recorded by a sad woman holding a bottle of whiskey."

   "Oh."

   "Cass was good, my friend. You were lucky."

   "For a while."

   The Frenchman seems troubled. "We live in a wondrous age," he says. "A man can obtain almost anything. Sweet berries in November? Sex at a moment's notice? A look at the paintings of Monet, a listen to Bruckner's Third, the aroma of truffles, the touch of silk—and some things that don't even exist! There was a program on television the other night: someone took sketches and drafts and notes from the papers of Beethoven and fed it all into a computer and produced something that could have been the Tenth Symphony."

     "How did it sound?" asks Bezel politely.

   "Why, terrible, of course. It sounded as though a goat had eaten the scores of the Nine Symphonies, and what it shat out—that's what the orchestra played. A Mulligan stew. A sonata for
merde,
if you will."

   The derelict stirs. He groans as though in pain. He must be stiff from the cold. His cane, leaning against the bench, topples to the deck. The derelict does not wake.

   The Frenchman goes on. Bezel regrets getting him started.

   "The sonata for
merde,
worthless of itself, does lead us to a greater understanding of the noble Nine. The sketches for
Le Damoiselles de Avignon,
in which Picasso seems to do everything wrong, make one marvel all the more at his genius, at his finally having gotten it right." The Frenchman taps the Walkman. "The unreleased performances of Cass Hardy, the singing that is really no more than drunken raving, allow one to see her genius more clearly."

   The Frenchman takes off the headset. He puts the Walkman down on a bench. Old newspapers and cardboard hot dog holders swirl about the deck. "So here is the question," he says. "Are we content with what the artist gives us? Or do we forage like pigs for whatever else we can root out, for whatever else we think will add to our understanding?"

  "That's a good question," says Bezel irritably. "I have one for you. Will we pull this thing off?"

   "I can't say," says the Frenchman.

   "Look in the stars, Mr. Sextant."

   The Frenchman looks up. "The constellations. My old friends! Look at them:
Centaurus
and
Tucana, Musca
and
Triangulum
and
Crux."

   He flashes Bezel a
merde
eating grin, waiting for a response.

   "So?"

   "You don't get it, do you?"

   "Get what?"

   "The constellations which I have mentioned are visible only in the Southern Hemisphere. I hope to gaze at them frequently from my estate in Argentina. The Southern Cross is a majestic group, but I shall miss the Dipper."

   The Frenchman continues to watch the sky. "The tape that I have been listening to has come to light only recently. It is a recording made on Cass Hardy's final night on earth. The poor creature. I have heard bits and pieces of the tape over the years, but this is my first encounter with the complete recording session. The tape is revealing of her state of mind on that night, which was desperate; of her philosophy, which was stoic, of her talent, which was undiminished; of her drinking, which was heavy; and of her companions, who were in some cases...surprising."

   The silence is heavy between the two men. Bezel shows no emotion. The Frenchman whistles.

   "You might find it interesting, Bezel."

   They pass the Statue of Liberty. She is imprisoned in a scaffold.

   "Eh, well," says the Frenchman. "The pilot of this bucket is an old acquaintance of mine, Boris Rillington. I should like to say hello. His sense of humor is atrocious, but his wine cellar is well stocked. Care to join me?"

   Bezel says no. The Frenchman goes below.

   The outbound ferry passes on the left. The Frenchman did not take the Walkman with him. Bezel stares at it. Tapes of Cass's last night? Bezel remembers seeing Cass's manager, Philo, turning off the machines. He remembers the pilot lights winking out, and the little acrid smell the machines gave off when shut down.

   Could Philo have left one machine on?

   Is the death of Cass Hardy on tape?

   The Walkman is there as a test, Bezel thinks. He wants me to listen. He wants me to know that he knows the truth—it is the Frenchman's compulsion.

   Bezel puts on the headset. Nervously, he presses PLAY. "The Night Has Eyes and Ears" comes on. Cass sounds terrible, as though she is drowning. Midway through the song there is the sound of shattering glass.

   My God! It's true!

   That was glass of Scotch Bezel had been drinking. He didn't pour it for himself until after Philo left the recording studio.

   The music stops.

   "Don't worry, scouse," says Cass. She always called him that, scouse, the Liverpool term of endearment.

   "Let's do it again," Cass tells the musicians.

   Bezel thought it was only a rehearsal. He didn't know there was a tape recorder running.

   Quickly, the song breaks down. Cass cries. She sends the musicians away. "It's over, boys," she says. Bezel tries to comfort her. His voice isn't clear on the tape; the musicians are making too much noise packing up.

   Only the Frenchman would have the nerve to listen to something so incriminating in Bezel's presence. The brinksman!

   The last musician leaves for the night. The studio is quiet.

   "I have something to tell you, scouse," says Cass. "You won't like it."

   That was when she told him she was having Philo's baby. That was when Bezel's rage overpowered him, and the night took a terrible turn.

   The Frenchman's grinning face appears on the stairs. Bezel snaps off the machine.

   "I was mistaken about Boris," says the Frenchman, as though he hadn't a care in the world. "He works the day watch. They've got a cub pilot on, an earnest beardless youth with not much of anything to offer."

   The Frenchman notices the Walkman in Bezel's hand.

   "A bit of sad music tonight, eh?" says the Frenchman. "The cries of a drunken chanteuse."

   Bezel goes over to where the derelict is sleeping. He picks up the cane. His anger is blinding.

   The Frenchman fires his pipe. "What are you do—"

   Bezel swings the cane and hits the Frenchman squarely in the temple. His skull gives a bit, like a speedbag. The pipe flies out of his hand and whirls through the air like a propeller, showering the deck with sparks. The Frenchman stumbles back against the railing and tumbles over, off the ferry and into the drink. He must hit the water feet or head first, because Bezel barely hears the sound.

   Thwock.

   It is no more than a gentle splash.

   Thwock.

   In the old days Bezel would finish at the gym and sneak into Cass's apartment to wait for her. He would sit in the bedroom, thinking about how she would look when she came in, how her hair in a ponytail would look funny with her evening gown, how she'd smell of liquor and smoke and sad music. He would wait for the sound of the door downstairs. He would know when it was Cass. The building was full of old ladies and pansies and Chinamen and frightened secretaries, and they would all close the door forcefully, making sure that it was locked. Not Cass. She never cared about those things. She'd just let the big door with the wired glass and the old peeling NRA blue eagle decal slide gently shut.

   
Thwock.

   The derelict is still asleep. Bezel wipes the blood and hair off the cane with an old newspaper. He cleans the deck and the railing.

   No one has cried Man Overboard. The ferry chugs along. Bezel goes downstairs to the automobile deck. There are only two cars aboard. In the men's room, he tears the bloody newspaper into strips and flushes it down the toilet.

   He slides the cane down his pants leg. His limp appears no worse.

   The ferry pulls into the slip. Bezel starts to get off. He can't move. His head swims. He leans on a wall for support. He feels a hand on his shoulder.

   It belongs to a cop.

   The cop smiles at him. "Seasick?"

   Bezel nods weakly.

   "There are benches in the terminal," says the cop. "Sit down for a few minutes. Promise?"

   Bezel nods. "Thank you."

   Bezel ignores his promise. He gets out of the terminal as quickly as he can and finds a subway entrance. Workmen are washing down the station. He finds a bench on which no one is sleeping and collapses.

   He rewinds the cassette a bit. He puts on the headset and listens.

   "I have something to tell you," says Cass. "You won't like it."

   Bezel braces himself for his own reply. What he hears, instead, is the sound of a door opening.

   "I thought you'd left," says Cass thickly.

   "I did. I forgot something."

   The voice belongs to Philo. Bezel has no memory of Philo's returning. The chronology of that crazy night is muddled in his head.

   "I'll leave you two in peace," says Philo coldly, "after I kill the Ampex."

   The Ampex recorder. The last tape machine.

   Cass cries again, and the tape ends.

   Now Bezel remembers. It was after Philo left for the second time that the terrible act of violence happened. So there is actually no record of Cass's death.

   He whacked the Frenchman for nothing.

   Serves the cocksucker right.

   Bezel goes home and waits for the inevitable. He sleeps fitfully. Every car horn sounds like a police siren. The next day he has no appetite, but at night he sleeps soundly. He wakes up ravenous and goes out for pancakes and eggs.

   Nothing happens. Absolutely nothing. It didn't even rain that morning, the way that Belgian shit said it would.

   Either the Frenchman got tangled in some pilings or he's getting ready to scare the life out of Bezel.

Agnes calls her mother and delivers the lawyer's report. In cases of disputed death benefits, the courts of New York State have, in the main, not been sympathetic to the claims of those not legally married.

   But, Agnes hastens to tell her, not all the news is bad. The length of time Hannah spent with Johnny, the life they created together, is in her favor. Hannah must be prepared, though, for her claim to be contested by the first Mrs. Travertine. She must assemble documentation of her years with Johnny. Snapshots, tax returns, signed report cards, home movies, sworn depositions of friends and relatives and neighbors and even laundromat attendants who might have witnessed them washing their whites together.

   "It's humiliating, but you've got to do it," says Agnes.

   "Nonsense. It might be fun. I always loved
This Is Your Life."

   "Let's try to maintain some healthy indignation, Ma. Think of this as fighting for the money you'll need to live for the rest of your life. Of course, I'll help you. I'll do it all, if you like."

   Her mother's tone sharpens. "I will never be a burden to you, Agnes. I will not be a pathetic old woman. I will not sit in a room drooling Metamucil on myself. If necessary, I will end it all."

   "I can help you with that, too," says Agnes.

"There are three living Minotaur witnesses," says Tommy, "and I have a treat for two of them."

   Into the turtle tank he empties a plastic bag containing a dozen goldfish. The fish dart speedily around, and both Agnes and Tommy worry that the turtles will be incapable of catching a single one. But the turtles' wiring is sound. They leave off basking and spring into action. They bite off the heads of their quarry like geeks, and in less than two minutes every fish is gone, the water is pink, the tank stinks and the turtles have returned to their rock. Their mouths continue to work as they savor the last morsels of fin and gill.

   Tommy was just at a meeting of the expanded Minotaur Task Force. The mayor was there, and Chief Codd, and Razumovsky. The mayor, greatly upset, announced that someone was calling up talk shows and pretending to be him. That was where the press got that absurd quote about there being nothing to do in Philadelphia and Detroit.

   "The imitation is dead on," said the mayor. "Like Gorshin's Richard Burton."

   A lieutenant from the Crime Scene Unit showed slides of some navy blue woolen fibers, probably from a rug of high quality, that were found at both crime scenes. There have been no usable latent fingerprints. There was a partial footprint found at the Chesser site, a size 10 oxford. The lieutenant said that the origin of the metal plate found in the turtle tank at Bloch/Foucault remains a mystery. He then spoke about the silica content of the mud found at both crime scenes.

   There was semen found in Mrs. Chesser, and it probably didn't get there until after she died.