Strawberry Tattoo (31 page)

“And that doesn’t make sense either. I mean, Don having let someone get close enough to strangle him. He was built like a gorilla and he wasn’t a fool. He acted like he could handle anything or anyone.”

“Only he was wrong,” Hugo commented.

“Yes. He must have underestimated the murderer.”

“Well,” Hugo suggested, “maybe the murderer is the kind of person who everyone underestimates.”

For some reason, Kevin popped into my mind. Bland, good-looking Kevin who Laurence had described as the straightest of arrows. He was just the kind of person Don would sneer at.

“Brrr,” I said, shivering.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A goose just walked over my grave.”

“I’m sure that isn’t right,” Hugo said. “Don’t you mean ghost?”

“Would you feel a ghost, though? I mean, they don’t walk.”

“In haunted houses when they tell the story of the nun who was walled up alive, they always finish by saying chillingly: ‘And her ghost still walks the battlements, wailing for her demon lover.’”

“Yeah, but they mean floating. And you wouldn’t say a ghost floated over my grave. It’s not so evocative.”

“Evocative,” Hugo mocked. “That’s a big word, my sweet. Have you been hanging out with an intellectual?”

“Piss off,” I said intellectually. “Oh, look, I’ve got some blonde jokes for you. Kim gave me a book of them. Why did the blonde stare for two hours at a can of frozen orange juice?” I paused for effect. “Because the label said ‘concentrate.’”

Hugo sniggered.

“Why shouldn’t blondes have coffee breaks?” I continued, getting into my stride. “It takes too long to retrain them. Why do blondes have ‘TGIF’ written on their shoes? Toes Go In First.”

“Enough! I look forward to telling those to Slut Boy tomorrow,” Hugo said gleefully. “He probably won’t get them, but everyone else will. Look, darling, I should be going. I’m due at the gym soon. Try not to kill anyone today.”

“God,” I complained, “you are so
demanding
.”

I came out of the subway feeling as if I’d just been for a swim. It was a warm day, and down below street level heat rose off the freshly mopped floors, swimming with bleach that smelt strongly of chlorine. The hot air blew down the tunnels like air vents outside a swimming baths, making my clothes stick to me as if I’d put them on before drying off completely. It was odd that the New York subway, less deep than the London underground, should be so much hotter. And it was October. I could see why people complained about summers in the city: in August it must be like a steam bath down here. Pores Opened In Five Minutes Or Your Money Back.

Laurence’s apartment was just a block up from the subway stop. He buzzed me in.

“I’m not used to having to walk up stairs,” I announced with hauteur as I arrived at his front door. “In my building we have lifts.”

“Deal with it, sweetie,” Laurence retorted, standing back to let me in.

The front door opened into the middle of the tiny kitchen, halving the floor space as it did so, which would have been a nuisance if anyone arrived while you were cooking. But Laurence must be at one with the Bilders on the subject of takeaway food; the burners on the small gas stove were covered with a piece of dusty chipboard on which he had piled art magazines. I peered into the main room. It looked light, and the ceilings were high. That was about all I could make out through the stacks of
books which teetered at waist height, like a Carl Andre installation which had started breeding amongst itself.

“Nice, isn’t it?” said Laurence with an air of pride. “It’s pretty good for this neighbourhood. Hold on, I’ll just get my jacket.”

While he picked his way through the book towers, I went to the bathroom. Its condition would have disgraced a run-down NHS hospital: chipped and peeling, with the kind of stains that go beyond mere dirt. The water in the sink ran brown and smelt of chlorine. The swimming-pool motif again. After a while the water ran yellow instead. I assumed this was an improvement. Scattered everywhere on the floor were flat black pieces of plastic, the size of squashed matchboxes. Laurence explained that they were roach motels.

“They check in, but they never check out. Until you empty them, of course. A guy comes around once a month to spray the place. Bangs on the door at eight in the morning shouting: ‘Exterminator! Open up!’ The first time it happened I nearly had a heart attack.”

New Yorkers tell you this kind of thing proudly; they like to feel that they’re living in near-Third World conditions, struggling against the violence and filth of the big city. Both Don and Leo had complained to me about the Giuliani/Braxton clean-up.

“Used to be you couldn’t walk in the East Village at night without being real careful,” Don had said regretfully. “They’d mug you or shoot you as soon as look at you. People knew you lived in Manhattan, you’d get all the respect you could handle. Now no one gives a shee-yit. It’s for pussies and tourists.”

“Do you think anyone’s missing Don?” I found myself asking Laurence as we clattered down the steps to the subway. We were going down to the Village, where we had a brunch appointment.

“That’s a weird question. But no, I don’t. I mean,
I
certainly don’t.”

Practically opposite the restaurant was one of those basketball courts so beloved of the movies, concrete-paved and surrounded by a steel mesh almost as high as the buildings around it. A group of young men in layers of cut-off clothing and high-laced trainers were jumping around inside,
bouncing balls and shouting manfully at each other. They seemed quite unself-conscious about playing inside what was to all intents and purposes a giant goldfish bowl. It was like Laurence having no embarrassment about shouting “Taxi!” at the top of his voice, or the couples who quarrelled loudly in the street about their most intimate details. Even the would-be cool kids hanging out on street corners, pretending to be in a Larry Clark film, their anomie so advanced they were practically comatose, always had an eye out for the effect they were having. This town was naturally theatrical.

The brunch rendezvous itself was a small place with the most luridly carved and painted chairs I had ever seen in my life, and without question the best Mexican food. The chilli sauces were rich and subtle as a good Thai curry, the tastes delicate and strong. I had eggs poached in tomatillo sauce on fried courgette sticks and a side order of cornbread; we each got orange juice and coffee, and the whole thing cost a mere ten bucks each, or would have done if I hadn’t ordered a margarita. It was nearly one o’clock, after all.

Halfway through my eggs, Suzanne came in. This was, Laurence had explained, the brunch ritual: you staked out a big table and your friends dropped in whenever they made it out of bed.

“Hey,” she said listlessly, plopping down next to me. She waved away the menu the waitress proffered her. “Huevos rancheros and fries, please,” she said. “Orange juice and camomile tea. So.” She looked at me. “Let’s cut to the chase. We’re all in deep shit now, right?”

“Are we?” I said through a melting mouthful of egg, taken aback. Suzanne was behaving as if we were tycoons discussing an international takeover at a power breakfast. This was not what I had signed up for. I looked to Laurence to deal with it.

Suzanne shrugged. Off-duty she wore a big sloppy chenille sweater over jeans, her hair pulled back, mascara and a little powder her only make-up. She looked more approachable but just as competent.

“All of us that didn’t get along with Don,” she said. “Which is all of us. The cops say whoever did him killed Kate too.”

Just then Java came in, followed by Kevin. They waved at us and stopped by the bar to order something from the waitress.

“God, Mr. J. Crew poster model. He looks like a bond trader on dressing-down Friday. Why’d she bring
him?
” Laurence said
sotto voce
to Suzanne, who shrugged again.

“Old home week. Anyway, we’re in this together. And you know what, Laurence? I don’t give a shit any more about anything but who killed Kate. I mean that.”

Laurence put down his fork and looked at her hard.

“Well, I’m just grateful I didn’t do it,” he said finally. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “Having you on my trail’d scare the living daylights out of me.”

“Hey, guys,” Java said as she and Kevin sat down. The waitress arrived with a tray and further menus. Suzanne started picking at her eggs with less appetite than her prompt order had indicated.

“Energy juice?” the waitress said.

“That’s me.” Java took the glass of orange and green-flecked sludge enthusiastically.

“That looks like one of Barbara’s paintings,” I observed before I had time to wonder whether discretion was the better part of valour. But everyone grinned—even Kevin.

“They had me over to theirs last night,” I added, striking while the iron was hot. “Barbara and Jon, I mean.”

“She’s got him really well trained,” Laurence said nastily. “Did he jump through hoops after coffee?”

“Hey,” Suzanne said, “don’t knock it. Barnes and Noble’s full of self-help books on how to get your man into shape. If she put her technique down on paper she could make a fortune.”

“Barbara’s much too smart for that,” Laurence countered. “Half of her skill comes in pretending that she’s just this helpless little fluffball. She wouldn’t want to compromise that.”

“Iron hand in a velvet glove,” I said.

“At first it’s really flattering,” Kevin volunteered unexpectedly. “You
know. ‘Kevin, what
do
you think of this?’ ‘Kevin, you’ve got such a good eye, you’re so clever about this kind of thing.’ But in the end you realise she’s just getting you to make the decisions she wants made.”

“She’s different when there aren’t any guys around,” Java added. “Or if you’re not important enough for her. Do this, do that, get me Carol, I’m in a hurry. Then Carol comes down and Barbara starts cooing at her like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. It really bugs me.”

“Shit,” Laurence said, “we should do this more often. Gather for brunch and let off steam collectively. Very healthy for staff morale.”

“That’s not why we’re all here,” Suzanne reminded him curtly.

“I know that!” Laurence said, anger rising to the surface. “Don’t think I’m any less aware of it than you! Just because I’m not playing the grieving widow—”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Suzanne snapped back.

“Dairy-free zucchini and sweetcorn casserole?” the waitress said with mercifully good timing.

“Me,” Java said, raising her hand.

“So I guess the fried eggs with home fries and fried zucchini must be yours,” the waitress said, slipping the second plate in front of Kevin.

“So,” Laurence said. “Fried food: Kevin Says Yes.”

“Yeah, you should go easy with that,” Java said. “Every so often is OK, but not on a regular basis.”

Certainly Java looked like an advertisement for perfect nutrition. The whites of her eyes shone like pearls. She looked less unreal than she did with make-up on, and even more beautiful.

Kevin stared at her worshipfully. “You think maybe I should get a salad too?”

Java shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt.”

“You know she used to model in Japan?” he informed us. “She was really big over there.”

“They like girls who look mixed,” Java explained. “You know, like my eyes are rounder, and my skin’s a bit paler than if I was completely Oriental.”

“Did you model over here?” I asked.

Java shook her head. “Too short and not white enough,” she said, matter-of-fact. “But I didn’t care that much. I always wanted to work in a gallery.”

“How did you get the job?”

“Oh, I met Stanley at a party,” Java said. “He told me there might be a job at the gallery, so I just kept calling up till they gave it to me. I didn’t have any experience or anything so I read up all I could on the artists BLT handles, you know. And I went around all the other SoHo and Chelsea galleries so I could talk about what everyone else was doing.”

“Carol was really impressed,” Suzanne said.

Java shrugged again. “If I do something,” she said easily, “I like to do it right.”

“You’ll be a partner in ten years’ time,” Laurence said.

“Hey, I wish!” But she gave him a lovely smile.

I had the sudden sharp awareness that I was being watched. Turning my head, I saw Kim and Lex standing rather hesitantly just inside the door. I waved at them, drawing everyone else’s attention to their presence. They looked very morning-after. In fact, they reminded me of the boy in Snoopy pyjamas I had seen in the Ludlow. Their clothes were loose, their hair hadn’t seen a brush since yesterday, and their trainers were laced up just enough to keep them on their feet.

“We can fit a couple more chairs in, can’t we?” I said.

Kim and Lex came over slowly, shooting me dagger-like glances which I ignored as blandly as I could. I hadn’t told them that there would be anyone else here when we had arranged to meet, and they resented it. But I had wanted to see what would happen if I threw them together with the gallery staff and got everyone talking about the murders. Something might pop up. You never knew.