Authors: Linda Lee Peterson
Edited to Death (24 page)
“Gotcha,” he said.
“Humor me,” I said.
“Okay, but I don’t know much, and I’m not all that hot to talk to the cops.”
“That’s fine,” I said eagerly, “you can be my source. I don’t think I have to reveal
you.”
Puck looked disgusted. “What you know about first amendment law could fit into the
brain cells of—I don’t know—a roadie.”
“Okay, okay. This isn’t my kind of journalism, as we all know. But you might as well
tell me, and I can summarize for the cops.”
“Summarize? What are you, the recording secretary of the PT-fuckin-A around here?”
Puck shook his head. “Maggie, you drive me just a little bit nuts, even if you are
my boss.”
I didn’t say anything. I was making it worse, and I figured Puck was still young enough
to fall for the same psychology I used on Zach and Josh—and Inspector Moon had used
on me. Shut up and wait, and eventually they’ll tell you what’s on their minds.
It worked. Puck felt around in back of him for a mug, picked it up, sipped, shuddered,
and said, “So here goes. You just can’t hang around at the clubs without running into
drugs of some kind. I assume you know that?”
I nodded, trying to look non-judgmental.
“I mean, in the eighties, all those gay clubs had lots of drugs, amyl nitrate poppers
and everything else.”
“And alcohol,” I offered brightly.
“Yeah, yeah, alcohol, the social drug of choice,” agreed Puck. “Now, it’s much different.
There’s a whole lot of health obsession going on, especially among us aging boomers.”
I looked at him. “Okay, maybe not this aging boomer. But the kids,” he shook his head.
“Jesus, they’re dumb. They’re still willing to do anything, try anything, eat anything.”
A picture of Josh and Zach swam into my head, their undiscriminating little palates
constantly starved for gummy worms, Big Macs, and every other forbidden treasure.
“I know what you mean,” I said.
Puck grimaced. “You think you do,” he said. “Just wait ’til the little monsters are
teenagers.”
“I can wait,” I said grimly. “Go on.”
“Yeah, so, well, it’s a lot pickier out there now, except for the kids. But, you know,
I think musicians always feel like they’re some kind of God Almighty privileged princes.
They can blow what they want, some of ’em even think they can shoot what they want.”
Needles, I thought. Just put AIDS on an express train.
Puck made a face at me. “Don’t give me one of those prissy Mom looks. I know you and
old Mikey smoke a little yourselves now and then.”
I sighed. “We do. Courtesy of Quentin and left over from our youth. But no more.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. We’ve been talking about it anyway. I want to be able to tell the ‘little monsters,’
as you so charmingly call them, that we don’t do drugs.”
“You don’t lie to the little buggers?”
“Sure, we do. Regularly. About Santa Claus, and about what happens if you don’t get
enough vitamin C, and about how toys deactivate if you don’t write thank-you notes
to Gramma right away. But I’d just as soon not lie about this.”
Inwardly, I felt a pang of regret saying goodbye to those sweet, nostalgic evenings,
making love on just a little dope. But hey, what’s a mom to do? Just another parental
sacrifice. You start by giving up your vices, and first thing you know, you’re really
dull and respectable.
“Okay, enough about my child-rearing practices. So, what’s the real story on Quentin
and drugs?”
He laced his fingers behind his neck, leaned back, and regarded me warily.
“Well, I don’t know much. But here it is: Quentin always had access to pretty good
stuff. He never did coke, not even when people were walking around with those silly
spoons around their necks fifteen years ago. But he always had pretty good grass and
hash.”
“And he didn’t sell?”
Puck looked horrified. “Geez. No, absolutely not. Just, you know, late at night, if
we were out at clubs, or at a friend’s, as long as Claire-the-Witch-Woman wasn’t along,
he’d haul stuff out, and he was always very free with it. Like there was plenty more
where that came from.”
“And you don’t know where it did come from?”
He shook his head. “No, not really. Quentin had a, how you say, wide acquaintance.
And for an old guy, you know, he was pretty hip. So I guess those random young friends
of his kept him supplied.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, sister. Not much to tell. Now, what are you going to do with this paltry
little sum of info?”
I didn’t know. I said so. The intercom buzzed on Puck’s desk and we both jumped. Gertie’s
voice said, “Puck? Is Maggie in there with you?”
Puck grinned at me. “She is, but she’s just leaving.”
I shot a rubber band at him. “We’re just talking about drugs we’ve known and loved,
Gertie. Do you need me?”
The intercom rasped again. “Aren’t you two just adorable? Well, Maggie, that nice
police officer is here again. He’s standing right next to my desk.”
I felt my cheeks turn hot. Swell, caught being a wise-mouth again with Inspector Moon.
I couldn’t begin to imagine what he thought about my moral fibre. Well, actually,
I could begin to imagine, and it wasn’t very pleasant.
Puck was trying to control his delight, and without much success. “Hey, Mags,” he
called after me, as I headed for the hall, “wasn’t it much less embarrassing when
you were just a cute little housewife?”
“Back to work, big guy. You’re on deadline,” I said over my shoulder. I turned back.
“On second thought, wait right here!”
In a few minutes, I was back, Moon in tow. “Sit down, sit down,” I said. “Don’t mind
that clutter. We’ve got news.”
I perched myself on Puck’s least disgusting chair and said, “We’ve been asking around
a little bit and we have some information.”
“What do you mean ‘we’, white woman?” Puck asked innocently. “Not me, Inspector. It’s
all Nancy Drew here.” He shot me a vile look. “In fact, I believe I distinctly said
I didn’t want to chat with the cops.”
Inspector Moon crossed his legs. “Oh, I’m quite sure of that. And I’ll have a little
talk with Miss Drew. But why don’t you two tell me what you’ve come up with before
I begin my daily formal lecture about not meddling in police affairs.”
I scowled at Puck, and then, between the two of us, we brought Moon up to date on
what we’d found out. He listened carefully, made a few notes in his book, and said
nothing until we’d finished.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“That’s it? I think it’s a lot. Look,” I said, warming to my task, “here’s the deal.
Why and how could Quentin afford to be so generous with dope?”
Moon looked doubtful. “Well, I don’t know. I saw his home; he certainly appeared to
be prosperous.”
I waved impatiently. “Nuh-uh. This place pays dirt. He had some money from Claire,
but not enough to be Mr. Big with musicians. We think—” out of the corner of my eye,
I saw Puck raise a warning hand.
“Correction,
I
think Quentin was getting dope, maybe as a gift from someone.”
“Any ideas about who that someone might be?” asked Moon.
And here my grand theory began fraying at its imaginative little edges.
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I mean, it could be anyone over at the club, but that
doesn’t make sense, because that’s where he was handing it out.”
“Anyone here at the magazine?” asked Moon.
I looked at Puck. “I don’t think so. We may look hip, but most of the people here
are too old to be doing much of the drug thing. I mean, there’s the clerical staff,
and God knows those bike messengers who charge in here have got to be involved with
drugs, or they couldn’t stand their jobs—or ride their bikes the way they do.”
“You could ask Gertie,” I offered helpfully. “She’s been here the longest. She knows
everybody and everything.”
Moon stood. “Good idea. Now Maggie, I’d really like a word with you. In private.”
“In private?” protested Puck. “Aren’t you going to give her one of those ‘stay out
of police business’ lectures? I’d love to listen.”
“I’m sure you would,” I said frostily, pointedly looking at my watch. “Well, I have
a very few minutes right now, Inspector. If you’d care to join me in my office.”
He followed me down the hall, while I mentally rehearsed all the reasons it was dangerous,
blah blah blah, inappropriate, blah blah blah, and unwelcome, blah blah blah for me
to be “investigating.”
Boy, was I on the money. He went right into the mini-lecture, while I listened with
a polite, good-girl-getting-lectured-by-the-headmaster look on my face. There was
a big finish.
“Maggie, I know you’re not taking me seriously. And I want you to. I don’t mind—wait,
let me correct that, I welcome your ideas, your suggestions, your information. Frankly,
we’re run through all the obvious possibilities and we haven’t come up with much.”
“Like no fingerprints on the walking stick?” I asked eagerly.
“Like no fingerprints on the walking stick,” he said. “But let me assure you, we’ve
gone beyond the obvious.”
“Wiped clean,” I said.
Moon looked exasperated. “May I continue? I do appreciate your ideas and your help.
But I cannot emphasize strongly enough that you cannot, you must not, run around the
city acting like a detective.”
I nodded. “I know, I know.”
He stood to go and gave me a hard look. “I know your type. I used to run into girls
just like you when I was a high school counselor. Too smart for your own good, and
quick to confuse obstinacy with strength of character.”
I smiled sweetly. “Here’s a deal: I’ll stop detecting if you stop asking dumb questions
about Michael and his temper.”
He put his hand on the door knob. “No deal. If you ask a lot of dumb questions in
a murder investigation, smart ones sneak in there after awhile. And since you’re so
busy worrying about your family, let me remind you that you’re a mother. I don’t want
to have to explain to your children that something happened to you because you didn’t
listen to me.”
“That,” I said, “is a low, low blow.”
For the first moment that afternoon, he smiled. “I know. Isn’t it? I love mothers;
they’re so easy to manipulate.”
As planned (and negotiated with Michael), we met Alf and Claire for dinner at one
of those well-reviewed new restaurants that manage to combine deafening noise, outrageous
prices, and a patronizing staff under one roof. It was, as usual, packed.
We entered the front door and walked down the kind of badly canted, difficult-to-navigate
ramp that made a girl grateful to be wearing flats. Michael surveyed the room and
snorted. There was not a warm or welcoming surface in the place. High ceilings, triple-washed
in glazed colors, hard aluminum chairs, metallic tables with edges just right for
impaling unwary diners. There was an open kitchen, and within it was a heavily sweating
staff, all visible, all wearing the kind of microphone headgear Beyoncé wears in concert.
Michael put his mouth close to my ear,
“Do you think they’re involved in hostage negotiations, simultaneous translations
at the UN, or just opening for Metallica?”
I gave him the “you promised you’d behave” spousal look. He gave me a smile of complete
non-commitment.
“Remember, I’m a murder suspect; I have very little motivation to behave.”
“You are not,” I hissed.
“Okay, I’m a wife-beater.”
“Not that either. And stop joking.”
I had confided Inspector Moon’s queries to Michael. Instead of getting angry, he seemed
to find it amusing, when he wasn’t using that information to make me feel even more
awful than I already did.
Across the room, I saw Uncle Alf settled in one of the booths at the perimeter. He
waved, I waved back, and, avoiding the “I’m cool and you’re so, so not” host, we began
winding our way to their table.
Uncle Alf had a little lineup of glasses in front of his plate, Claire was toying
with a martini and snapping her lighter open and closed. Uncle Alf’s greeting was
hearty; Claire flicked her eyes up and down me, suppressed a sigh, and turned to Michael.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Fiori,” she said, “I know we’ve met. You’re the do-good tax lawyer.”
Michael took her outstretched hand and leaned close. “I am, Mrs. Hart,” he said, “it
pays so much better than doing evil. But then,” he paused and grinned, “perhaps you
know that.”
“Michael,” I whimpered, “please.…”
We slid into the booth. Unlike the chairs at the tables in the center of the room,
the booths actually had upholstery. But it was woven from metallic thread and was
both itchy to touch and inadequately padded to offer any protection against the brutal
stainless steel seat.
Michael smiled and gestured at the room. “Well, isn’t this uncomfortable?”
“Beg pardon?” Uncle Alf said, gesturing at the waiter.
