JL02 - Night Vision (15 page)

“Dunno.”

“A Doberman.”

He had another beer, and at the second commercial he asked, “What’s the difference between a rooster and a lawyer?”

“Dunno.”

“The rooster clucks defiance.”

I was running out of beer, so I was happy when he stood up, turned off the tube, and simply said, “Passion Prince is an English professor with a potbelly.”

Then he opened the briefcase, removed a file, and slid it across my sailboard, which, when propped between cinder blocks, makes a fine coffee table. I lifted the porcelain top on my last sixteen-ounce Grolsch, sat down, and started reading. Rodriguez had handled the old-fashioned gumshoe work himself, checking out the nighttime callers. Four to Marsha Diamond, nine to Mary Rosedahl the night each was killed. Two men chatted with both. Biggus Dickus never left his house either night, Rodriguez said. His wife corroborated the alibi. Wife?

They played the game together. Biggus bedded down the women, conversationally at least. They talked it right down to panting, penetration, and popping. The missus did the men. Made them both so hot, they’d get off together. For real.

Oh.

Of the other ten men, seven had alibis that also checked out. That left Passion Prince, Harry Hardwick, and Tom Cat. Passion Prince was Gerald Prince, fifty-one, an English professor at Miami-Dade Community College. Other than Biggus Dickus, the only man to talk to both women the night they died. Divorced, lives alone. No criminal record. Expressed shock at the deaths, Rodriguez said, but seemed to enjoy the attention. Was home alone at time of both killings. Or, in the words of Rodriguez’s report, “Subject allegedly asleep between 2300 hours and 0600 on dates of homicides, no corroborating witnesses.”

“Does Prince teach poetry, by any chance?” I asked.

“Nope. I checked. Specializes in theater.”

I turned to the next file. Harry Hardwick was Henry Travers, forty-six, retired postal worker on full disability. Ordinarily found at the horses, dogs, or jai alai, depending on the season. Never married, no criminal record. Willing interview subject. Admits computer connection with Mary Rosedahl early on evening she was killed. Claims to have been at jai alai, maybe on way home at time of homicide.

Tom Cat was Tom Carruthers, thirty-five, wilderness guide. Never married, one arrest for assault in a tavern brawl, case dismissed. Refused to be interviewed, or as Rodriguez wrote, “Subject provided minimal assistance and informed undersigned officer to ‘fuck off, asshole.’”

“What do you think?” I asked Rodriguez.

He sighed and stretched out on the sofa, one tired cop. “I don’t know. Travers and Carruthers spoke only to Rosedahl, so you gotta start with the professor because of the double match. The retired guy walks with a limp and would have a hell of a time attacking anybody. The outdoorsman is a hardass, one of those survivalist freaks with about thirty guns, but…”

“Nobody got shot here.”

“Right.” Rodriguez grazed his chin with the back of his hand, scratching his five o’clock shadow plus seven hours. “And another thing. You deal with enough homicides, you get a feeling. Like you can talk to a guy and you just know he’s a killer. I don’t get that feeling here, not with any of them.”

“I’m told that psychopaths can be very charming.”

“None of them’s exactly a charmer either.” He paused, then said, “One’s a weirdo, though.”

“Which one?”

“Don’t know, but look at this.”

Rodriguez shoved a sheet of computer paper in front of me. “The crime-scene guys got this to print out of Mary Rosedahl’s computer. According to the directory, it was her last Compu-Mate conversation. She saved it into hard memory about two hours before she was aced.”

HELLO, FLYING BIRD, CARE TO CHAT?

SURE. HAVEN’T SEEN YOU AROUND THE CLUB BEFORE, HAVE I?

NO. WHAT DO YOU DO FOR FUN, OH SWEET BIRD OF YOUTH?

JOG, WORK OUT, RIDE.

RIDE?

YOU KNOW, HORSES.

AH, FLYING BIRD. EQUUS THE KIND…THE MERCIFUL!

WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

EYES LIKE FLAMES. GOD SEEST!

ARE YOU ONE OF THOSE BORN-AGAIN GUYS? ‘CAUSE I GOTTA TELL YOU THAT SHIT DOESN’T

EQUUS…NOBLE EQUUS. GOD-SLAVE…THOU GOD SEEST NOTHING!!!!

OH FORGET IT. NICE CHATTING. SIGNING OFF NOW…FLYING BIRD

“A real sicko, huh,” Rodriguez said. “Wish she had mentioned his handle. Which one you think—” “Rod, that English prof, what’s his name?”

“Prince, just like his handle.”

“You say he teaches theater?”

Rodriguez flipped open his file and read aloud. “‘American and British Drama, 1930 to 1980.’”

“Thought so.”

“That shit’s from a play?”

I nodded. “He’s playing the disturbed boy. Trying to get Mary Rosedahl to be the psychiatrist, but she doesn’t know the lines, has no idea what he’s talking about.”

“
I
got no idea what
you’re
talking about,” Rodriguez said. “Galloping horses. Passion. Seeing in the dark.”

“Huh?”

“Welts cut into a boy’s mind by flying manes.”

“Sounds like you’re the one needs the psychiatrist,” he said.

“In due time,” I said. “In due time.”

I slid into an empty seat in the back row of the classroom and got my first look at the Prince of Passion. Gerald Prince had a fine thatch of silver hair swept over his ears, a florid complexion, and a face that had clearly been handsome in his youth. His shoulders were rounded and the brown sweater was threadbare at one elbow. A paunch hung over his belt, and the pants were baggy in the seat.

He was pacing in front of the class on an elevated stage, wagging a finger at a skinny young man near the front. About thirty students were scattered throughout the classroom in various stages of semi-somnolence. “And what does the playwright tell us about truth versus illusion?” The voice surprised me. Strong, resonant, a hint of a British accent. An aging actor, a tired Jason Robards maybe.

The young man shook his head.
“No se,
man.”

“Now, Mr. Dominguez,” Prince sang in soothing tones, “did you read the play?”

Sí,
sort of.”

“And its theme? Its meaning? What did it say to you?”

“That bitch, man. Liz Taylor. What a ballbuster.”

A few laughs from around Dominguez. I saw him only from behind. Dark hair short on the sides, a tail in back.

The professor strutted across the bare stage, coming closer to his student. “You’re talking about Martha?”

“
Si
, Martha. I rented the video, man. I thought something was wrong with my Sony till I figured it was in black-and-white.”

Prince’s theatrical sigh carried to the back row. He spread his arms, threw back his head, and wailed, “‘Blinking your nights away in the nonstop drench of cathode-ray over your shriveling heads.’”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. I suppose it’s better to have seen a few fleeting images than not to have encountered the playwright’s words at all.”

“I liked it okay.”

“Good. Edward Albee will be pleased. And its theme, Mr. Dominguez? Its message?”

Dominguez scratched his head with a pencil. “
No se, pero, si fuera mi esposa
, I’d have popped her one, the way that bitch talked.”

The class mumbled its agreement. Prince shook his head and turned to another student, a young black man in the front row.

“Mr. Perry, your review of the play?”

“What it is,” Perry said, “talking trash like that, putting him down. My old lady do that, she’d be seeing stars. That George character, no balls.”

“
No cajones
,” Dominguez agreed, and his classmates—at least those who were conscious—mumbled their agreement.

“Has it occurred to any of you,” Prince asked, quite certain that it had not, “that the conflict between George and Martha, the humiliation Martha heaps on him, is essential to their relationship? That they relieve the tedium with it? That it is part of their game?”

The classroom was bathed in silence.

Prince went on; “What does Martha say about her abuse of George in Act Two?”

A thin black woman next to me called out, “That he can stand it, that he married her for it.”

“Yes!” Prince boomed.

For a moment his eyes seemed to catch the light, and his shoulders straightened. “Thank you, dear girl. Then, in Act Three, ‘George who is good to me, and whom I revile, who understands me, and whom I push off, who can make me laugh, and I choke it back in my throat, who can hold me at night, so that it’s warm, and whom I will bite so there’s blood.’”

Prince paused, then asked, “What does it all mean? What is the play about?”

“Conflict,” the woman suggested tentatively.

“Yes, yes, and more.” Prince moved from center stage and descended three steps toward his students, never looking down. He had been on stages before, I thought, had vaulted landings on rickety sets, and now had settled for a final run in front of a polyglot of nineteen-year-olds for whom high culture was MTV.

“Conflict is the purifying flame,” he nearly shouted, heading toward the young woman next to me. “Conflict separates truth from illusion, fact from fantasy. Now, what are their illusions?”

“They pretended to have a child,” the woman said. “And George had fantasies about all sorts of things. That he killed his parents, that he sailed the Mediterranean.”

“Yes, and when Martha says, ‘Truth and illusion, George, you don’t know the difference,’ what does George respond?”

The class was silent, so I piped up, “‘We must carry on as though we did.’”

Prince whirled, scanned his audience, found me, wrinkled his forehead, and asked, “Do they?”

“Yes, but only for a while,” I answered. “Eventually they must confront the illusions, strip them away from their relationship. They have no son. George will never be a great writer or even a decent professor. Martha’s early dreams are lost in fogs of booze. They must face life the way it is.”

The young woman next to me chimed in, “No matter how painful, they must face the truth. In the end all is truth.”

Prince raised his arms in triumph. Two or three students nodded their heads vigorously. They understood. The rest had that empty stare of the young. It had been, after all, forty-five minutes without physical movement, roughly nine times the attention span of most adolescents.

Prince strutted back toward the stage, and Dominguez called out.

“I get it, man. But who the hell’s this Virginia Woolf?”

***

Gerald Prince ordered Plymouth gin on the rocks and not for the first time. Up close, the florid complexion was crisscrossed with tiny, engorged veins. The eyes—if they had any color at all—were gray. The brown sweater smelled of tobacco, the fingernails were long and stained. He had snapped at the luncheon invitation, and I brought him to a bayfront restaurant downtown. Near us, bankers and lawyers feasted on expense-account lunches of rack of lamb with mint jelly.

“Even from the stage, I spotted you—the stranger—in back of the class,” he said with a sly grin. “In my day, I could see right through the floodlights. One summer in Maine, in a barn—literally a barn—I saw a woman with glorious red hair, fifth row center. Three nights in a row she came. We were doing
Long Day’s Journey into Night.”

“I can picture you as James Tyrone.”

He laughed, a low rich chuckle. Thirty years ago. I was Edmund, the younger son.”

The sickly one.”

“Yes, and quite a challenging role for a young stag. I was robust, brimming with vitality. And virility, if I might say so. I had never tasted a drop of whiskey and had to play some scenes as if drunk.”

“And the red-haired woman?”

“She thought I was smashing. The first of many such women in many such towns. I remember the scent of the pine trees around her cottage. Isn’t that strange? Chilly nights, a fireplace, and the smell of the woods.”

He drained the gin and smoothly signaled the waiter for another. The steaks hadn’t yet arrived.

“Edmund Tyrone,” he said wistfully, “walks from the beach to the house through the late-night fog. He’s been drinking, and his father sits, quite drunk himself, playing solitaire.”

Prince let his eyes glaze over and rocked a bit in his chair. “‘It was like walking on the bottom of the sea,’” he recited, his voice carrying across the noisy restaurant. “‘As if I had drowned long ago. As if I was a ghost belonging to the fog, and the fog was the ghost of the sea.’”

He paused and seemed to await the applause. “You have some memory for lines,” I complimented him.

“I was an
actor!
I was good. Not brilliant, perhaps, but with potential. I played the Old Vic when I was twenty-one. I could have—”

“Been a contender.”

He smiled. “Brando was always a tad animalistic for my tastes.”

“Today, in class, you said something about the ‘drench of cathode-ray.’ I don’t remember that from
Who’s Afraid—
”

“‘I’ll give him the good normal world where we’re tethered beside them, blinking our nights away in a nonstop drench of cathode-ray over our shriveling heads.’”

“Now I know,” I said, and I did. The tethered gave it away. “The psychiatrist in
Equus.”

“Very good. Exceptionally fine for a lawyer. Most are so…so…untutored except in their torts and contracts.”

“I had a crib sheet,” I confessed, and slid Mary Rosedahl’s computer printout next to the glass of disappearing gin.

Prince put on rimless glasses and examined it. “It’s from
Equus,
but of course you know that.” He took off his glasses and looked at me through the pale gray eyes. “So very bleak there in print, don’t you think? How pathetic, a man so bereft of emotions he conjures up the words of others.”