Canary (8 page)

“Corny!” called out the man in the leather jacket. As Clarisse watched with widened eyes, he took his Budweiser down to the far end of the bar and fell into hushed but animated conversation with the priest. Father McKimmon, Clarisse decided, might be more than a semi-regular.

When she returned to the kitchen to check on the progress of the preparations for brunch, she found Newt and Niobe standing on opposite sides of the table, glaring at one another.

“Are you two throwing vegetables again?” Clarisse demanded. “Last Sunday this whole kitchen was littered with shallots.”

“The next thing I throw,” Newt muttered, “will have a shiny sharp edge and a wooden handle.”

Clarisse leaned against the refrigerator with an exasperated sigh. “Niobe, where is the ‘other end of the Orange'? One point five seconds after I opened the front doors today, we got our first customer—a priest.”

Niobe glanced up at the calendar taped to the wall next to the sinks. “Oh, yes, it's Father McKimmon's day, isn't it? Every third Sunday of the month, like clockwork.” She looked at Clarisse. “Tell Corny I'll be out to see him as soon as I've committed my first capital crime of the day, would you? The other end of the Orange means the subway line. The Orange Line ends in Malden.”

“His parish is in Malden?” Clarisse asked.

“Let's put it this way,” Newt cut in. “Father McKimmon says mass in Malden, but he hears confession all over Boston—in every gay bar in town.”

“Newt!” Niobe cried. “That is not true! You just don't like Corny because he promised me that if I ever converted to Catholicism he'd perform an exorcism on you.”

“He's a closet lush!” Newt waved a stalk of celery at Niobe. “You only defend him because he gives you tips on the dogs.”

“Is that true, Niobe?” Clarisse asked.

Niobe heaved a loud sigh. “Father McKimmon is not the only priest in the world who plays the dogs at Wonderland. It's no big deal. He
is
a human being, you know.”

“What about his vows of chastity and poverty?” Newt challenged. “That doesn't include swilling down liquor in gay bars, picking up lapsed altar boys, and playing the dogs four days a week.” Newt leaned far over the table and swept the leaves of the celery stalk back and forth across Niobe's nose. She angrily slapped it out of his hand.

“You know,” said Clarisse, “people are going to be upset if all the food we serve is bruised beyond recognition because you two pelted one another with it. Val told me he'd dock you both a day's pay if there were any more complaints this week about blood on the quiche.” Clarisse pushed through the door back into the barroom, announcing over her shoulder, “Brunch is served in half an hour.”

Father McKimmon had moved to the opposite end of the bar. He was deep in conversation with yet another customer. A half-dozen more men had come in, the man in the leather jacket having joined them. When Clarisse came back behind the bar to take orders, she was surprised to see that the young man with Father McKimmon was Press.

Clarisse served the other customers and then took a bottle of St. Pauli Girl down to Press. The blond young man looked weary, his eyes less alert than usual, and he hadn't shaved. He rubbed a hand over his stubble of beard as he listened to the priest. Clarisse wondered what to say to Press about the death of Jed Black the day before. Everything seemed either inadequate or rude, so she opted for silence.

Yet the concern in Clarisse's eyes was apparent, for Father McKimmon said quietly, “I was just offering my condolences.”

Press picked up his beer and angled it first at Clarisse and then at Father McKimmon. “Thank you both,” he said in a cold, constrained voice. “Your sympathy is appreciated.” He swallowed and put the bottle down with a bang. “But—don't tell me you're shocked. Don't tell me you're horrified. Don't tell me you can't imagine how such a horrible thing could have happened to someone like Jed. And do not ask me for the grisly details. In fact, Father McKimmon, I'd rather not talk about it at all.”

“I don't mind, Press,” the priest said, “but are you sure it wouldn't help to talk about it?”

“I've never found religion much of a comfort.”

“I see,” Father McKimmon said quietly. With the mark of his hurt on his face, he slipped off his stool. “I'll see you later.” He retreated to the other end of the room.

“He was just trying to be understanding,” said Clarisse, piqued.

“In the past twenty-four hours I've been through the works,” Press said wearily. “The last thing I need now is to have banalities and gin breathed in my face by Corny McKimmon.”

“You know him?”

“I met him through Jed. Jed was an altar boy when he grew up in Malden.”

Clarisse couldn't resist throwing a glance over her shoulder at the priest. “I'd better go away, as well,” she said, turning back to Press. “Otherwise, I'll start offering condolences, too.”

“Condolences accepted,” said Press shortly with a real attempt at graciousness. “I bring you a message from across the street. Daniel said he'd be over as soon as possible.”

“You were talking with the cops across the street?” Clarisse asked, surprised. “You live in District A; this is District D.”

“After the boys in my district got done, they asked me if I'd come over here to talk with a couple of detectives who've been working on these necktie murders. When I got there, Daniel was waiting in one of the upstairs hallways.”

“What did they want to know?” Two more customers came into Slate. They went to the bar, and one of them called down to get Clarisse's attention. “In one second,” she called back with an engaging smile, and then immediately returned her attention to Press.

“They asked about Jed, of course, and they asked me a lot about this place.”

“This place? Slate, you mean?”

Press watched her as he took a swallow of his beer. He put the bottle down, scratching at the label with his thumbnail. “They're suspicious about this bar,” he said without looking up. “They called it ‘The Last-Date Dive.'”

“What…?”

“According to the detectives I talked with,” said Press, “the common factor in these killings is that the murder victims were in Slate before they were killed.”

“The police are saying Slate is a hangout for murderers?”

“One, anyway. They didn't come right out and point fingers, but they implied things.”

“Rumor is a lot more destructive than outright accusation. A rumor like that getting around town could ruin our business.”

“Well, then, maybe you ought to schedule your bankruptcy hearing, because the rumor's
already
around town.”

“But it's not true. It's just coincidence that those people were in here before they were killed.”

Press shrugged. “I'm only telling what I heard.”

“We'll just have to start an anti-rumor campaign.”

“Right,” said Press. “The way Nixon tried to start an anti-rumor that the president of the United States wasn't a crook. It doesn't work that way. People want to believe the worst.”

“I guess you're right, but I think it stinks. What else did the cops ask you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like: Why didn't you find Jed's body before the softball team showed up? And: Didn't you think it was odd that Jed didn't come out of his room all day while you were there?”

“First of all, I didn't get back to the apartment until six-thirty yesterday morning.” His tone was defensive. “I was dancing at the Loft all night, which—by the way—I can prove. When I finally got back to the apartment around six-thirty, I assumed Jed was still asleep. I went to bed myself and didn't get up till about half an hour before the damn ball team barged in. I figured Jed had been up and about for hours and had come home to take his regular Saturday afternoon nap. He always rested up before he went out on Saturday night. There was nothing strange about the fact that I hadn't seen him.”

“It never occurred to you to knock on his door, to see if he was all right?”

“No, he could have been sleeping. Or with a trick. In our little household, the cardinal rule was ‘Open closed bedroom doors only in case of nuclear attack.' Besides,” Press added after a beat, “Jed and I weren't getting along too well lately.”

“You two had been fighting?”

Press shook his head. “Jed didn't fight. He was the sullen, silent type. So am I. We left notes.”

“Things were that bad?”

“We weren't lovers, for Christ's sake,” snapped Press. “We were just roommates, but we'd have been a hell of a lot happier living alone. Jed didn't want a lover. Neither do I particularly.” Press paused again and added, almost bitterly, “Unless he's rich and hates Italian food.”

“But in the meantime you'll have to find another roommate.”

“No,” Press said, “I won't.”

Clarisse looked at him inquisitively.

“I was Jed's beneficiary. His insurance money comes to me. All of it. Jed set that up a couple of years ago, when we were still speaking.” He looked suddenly at Clarisse and evidently read the dismay in her eyes. “I'm still sorry he's dead.”

“Oh, Press,” said Clarisse with a trace of grimness in her smile, “you're just a sentimentalist in your heart of hearts.”

“I'm just realistic,” Press said as he slipped off the stool. “I'm also taking off before the brunch starts. It'll turn into a wake if I don't. Tell Daniel to call me so we can compare notes on the third degree.”

Press winked at Clarisse and pointedly ignored Father McKimmon's farewell wave from the other end of the bar.

Clarisse stared after him. Her mouth tightened. She grabbed up his empty beer bottle, swiped a bar towel across the mahogany to daub up the rings of dampness, and started down the bar toward her impatient customers. Instead of depositing the bottle in the proper case, she flung it hard into an empty trash container. The green glass shattered loudly against the metal bottom.

Gay Pride Day

“A
BLOWJOB?!”
Sean exclaimed in shock. “The theme of our float is going to be a blowjob?”

“No!” Clarisse cried. “A blow-
dryer
.”

It was two forty-five in the morning. Boston's Gay Pride parade would start sharp at noon the following day. Parked in front of Slate was a baby Toyota pickup, lent to the bar for the parade by a friend of Sean's. On a wooden platform over the truck bed was mounted a chicken-wire frame that nearly engulfed the small vehicle. Valentine had built the platform, and Niobe and Newt had sculpted the chicken-wire frame into the shape of a hand-held hair dryer. Clarisse had volunteered to stuff the wire with the contents of approximately one hundred and twenty boxes of pastel-colored tissues.

The theme of this year's parade was “Gay Contributions to Modern Culture,” and the floats entered by various gay bars were to reflect some aspect of this theme. Chaps had chosen dance; Buddies took music; the Eagle, food; the Ramrod, fashion; and Graystone Bar got literature. Because he had been late for the organizational meeting, Valentine was left no choice but personal grooming for Slate.

Clarisse had wanted to get started earlier but had to wait until after Slate closed because Valentine asked her to take an extra shift.

Clarisse sat on one of the two barricade sawhorses she'd managed to borrow from District D. She looked over the wire frame, which appeared to have enough holes for all one hundred twenty boxes of tissues, and sighed.

“It's a hundred degrees tonight,” said Clarisse.

“Ninety-two,” said Sean.

“Well, we'd better get started.”

“Oh no,” Sean said. “
I'm
the one who said I'd get the truck, and
you're
the one who said you'd stuff the tissues.”

“You can't do this to me,” Clarisse cried, pushing away from the sawhorse.

“It wasn't my bargain—it was yours. And I did my part.”

Clarisse started to object but stopped herself. “Okay,” she conceded. “You're right, but why don't you get us a beer and we'll talk about it.”

“It would take more than a beer to change my mind, but what kind would you like?”

“A Molson,” Clarisse said with resignation.

While Sean was inside the bar, Clarisse opened two dozen boxes of ochre, coral, and tan tissues and set them onto the back of the float. She decided to begin stuffing the body, trigger, and barrel of the blow-dryer, which to her eye looked more like a six-shooter than a bathroom appliance. The base of the float would be done in smoke-blue-and-ivory diagonal stripes against an aquamarine background.

Clarisse climbed up onto the platform, but before beginning work, she paused to glance down Warren Avenue. Despite the late hour, and because of the oppressive heat, the area was surprisingly active. A paddy wagon had pulled up in front of the police station and two policemen were rousting a small band of drunken college-age men and women out of the back and herding them inside. A few feet away another policeman was aiding an exotically dressed, coiffed, and handcuffed woman out of the back seat of a cruiser. In a loud Spanish-accented voice she was likening members of the officer's immediate family to various barnyard animals. Clarisse looked toward Clarendon Street. Lights were still on in several town houses on the other side of the street, and from one of them came Michael Jackson's voice filtering through the thick-leaved maples lining the sidewalk. Clarisse could just make out the shadowy forms of several people reclining on stoops. A male couple ambled along the sidewalk, talking in hushed tones. She had seen them in the bar earlier in the evening, and though she waved, they did not wave back.