Turning Idolater (32 page)

“Beside him. I caught him.”

“Caught him?”

“I thought I saw something move in the shadows. I
heard a shot and when I looked around, Tee was hit. I didn’t know
it right away. He just stood like a statue, fainting on his feet,
and then he keeled over.”

“Keeled over? He fell forward?”

“No.”

“Backwards, then?”

“No. He collapsed.”

“Ah, collapsed.” Kusslow wrote. “Not keeled.
Collapsed.”

Philip was suddenly afraid. Was
he
under
suspicion?

“Then, you called for help?”

“No. I tried to help him.”

“And just how did you help him? CPR?
Mouth-to-mouth?”

Philip hopped off the table. “What are you saying
here? That I would let Tee suffer?”

“Easy now, Mr. Flaxen. These are routine
questions.”

“I don’t think so.” Philip slammed his hand on the
table.

“Easy now.”

Karnes poked his head in. “Trouble?”

“No. Just nerves. Mr. Flaxen has been through a lot
tonight.”

Philip leaned on the table and snorted. “Maybe I
can’t answer any questions now. Maybe you should leave me
alone.”

“Maybe we should take a trip downtown.”

Philip wiped his face. “No. It’s just . . . it’s
just.”

“Just what, Mr. Flaxen? What did you do in this
situation?”

Philip glared at Kusslow. “What’s your problem? I
heard his killer approach. I saw him. He threatened me with the gun
too. And then . . . then.”

“Then, what, Mr. Flaxen?”

“He blew his fucking brains out.” Philip clutched
the examination table. He saw poor Florian, tortured and trembling,
gun in mouth and then . . .

“And what makes you think that the suicide shot your
Mr. Dye?”

Philip sucked the antiseptic air. “I saw him.”

“You saw him swallow his gun. You didn’t see him
shoot your lover. In fact, when that bullet is retrieved and sent
to ballistics, I’ll bet you any money that it didn’t come from the
suicide’s gun.”

“What are you saying?”

“It’s simple. If Mr. Dye were shot with Mr.
Townsend’s gun, he wouldn’t be in surgery now. He’d be in the
morgue.” Philip’s breath hitched. “Sorry to upset you, but at that
range, a .38 caliber would have taken a man’s chest out and blown
it through his back. No. The bullet will most probably be a .22
caliber. And it came from the opposite direction. At the judged
range, it rarely kills. Damage, yes, but not enough to kill a big
man. No.”

“So you’re saying that Flo didn’t . . .”

“Highly unlikely.” Detective Kusslow closed his
notebook.

“But he was stalking Tee.”

“There you go. That accounts for his presence.
Unstable was he?”

“Very.”

“Motive for suicide, perhaps. Tell me this. If he
shot Mr. Dye and had you in his sights, why didn’t he do you in
too?”

“I don’t know. I can’t . . .” Philip was even more
terrified now. “So if he didn’t do it, you’re thinking that I . .
.”

“No, Mr. Flaxen. You haven’t been paying attention,
have you? I said a .22 at that range couldn’t kill a man, but at
your close-in range, it could. The weapon is most likely a little
handgun — the kind we used to call a ladies gun, almost a starter’s
pistol. Smith & Wesson still puts out an inventory.”

Philip was suddenly aware of something — something
lost in the mathom of events.
What was it?

“If you knew all this, why are you asking me these
fucking questions?”

“They may seem
fucking
to you, but they’re
material to the scene. These killings have been going on around
your small circle of acquaintances for some time now. Whether you
like or realize it, you’re a part of it.” Kusslow pocketed his pad.
“This killer never murders with the gun. That toy just stuns. The
death-act itself is a lingering one — one that let’s the victim
know that death is overtaking them. No
bam bam
and
die
die
. The questions I asked you were meant to establish this
event as part of this killer’s
modus operandi
. You, Mr.
Flaxen, you were there — an eyewitness at last, and you have
confirmed the fact that Mr. Dye was taken down by this same killer.
Of course, there was no plastic bag this time, or Hudson River.
This one’s a variation. What the killer’s next move will be is hard
to know. We may never know. I was hoping that you could give us a
clue. Anything more may help stop this insanity.”

“But I don’t know any more.”

“You might not think so, but I know about these
things.” Kusslow stood. He handed Philip his card. “If you should
think of anything, call me. Leave a message. Any time of day or
night.”

Philip stared at the card. “I already have one of
those in my wallet.”

“Good.” The Detective strolled over the threshold
gathering his partner. “I hope that your lover survives, Mr.
Flaxen. Sincerely, I do.”

“I’m free to go?”

“Yes.” Kusslow turned. “Not far. No excursions to
Paris or Buenos Aires.”

“For now, I’m here.”

Philip sat in the examination room for ten minutes,
the guard not disturbing him. In fact, Philip was sure the kind man
kept the room out of circulation. Philip’s head spun. Florian was
clean. Mad? Yes. However, he would have never shot Thomas. He loved
him. Why would he harm him? Philip felt remorse that he had ever
laid the full brunt of the crime at Flo’s feet. He was also
disturbed that these killings — a serial spree, if you will, led
the police to his circle of
acquaintances
. There was a
pattern, and it wasn’t Lars Hamilton’s casting of Eben Cabot
either. It was a mouse game. The killer winged his victims, and
then played the cat.
Hateful. Disgusting.

Suddenly, Philip jumped off the table. In the last
half-hour, he had learned more about crime and investigations than
he wished to know, but now that something that stirred in his
memory poked into his frontal lobe. He
did
remember
something. Detective Kusslow was right. Something would come —
something inconsequential in the general run of things, but crucial
to the details.
Crucial
.

“A ladies gun,” Philip murmured, his eyes swimming
in the realization. He had seen something of the sort. He resisted
the conclusion it drew, but he drew it anyway. He saw it in his
mind, winking at him wrapped in satin in Robert Sprague’s bottom
drawer.

“Sprakie. No. Why?”

Philip gasped, but knew what must be done. He had to
catch Detective Kusslow before he left. But no. He couldn’t just
turn his friend over — not on some stupid fucking memory of a cap
pistol tucked away like a New Year’s party favor. No. He knew what
he must do.

Philip rushed to the bench. Uncle Dean still sat
vigilant.

“Any word?” Philip asked

“None. Were they harsh?”

“More than you can guess, but listen up. I have to
do something.”

“You’re leaving?”

God, let him live. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave
him again.

“Just for a while.” Dean Cardoza half-arose, a
tell me all
gesture. “Promise me that you won’t leave here,”
Philip stammered. “Promise me you’ll call me if there’s a change. I
have my cell with me.”

“Is it charged?”

“I hope to hell it is,” he said. “No time. I’ll tell
you later.”

“But . . .”

Philip grabbed his backpack, and then fled through
the automatic doors. Soon, he would be on the downtown train —
downtown to Avenue A.

Philip rounded the corner, out of breath. He had run
from the subway through the East Village without so much as a
thought to anything or anyone. It was past midnight, yet the place
still blazed, the traffic as heavy as it had been at noon. However,
Avenue A was deserted, except for two hookers, one trawling for
cruising cars; the other, a stunning transvestite named Bonnie
Belle (a celebrity in these parts), standing monumental, the tricks
coming to him without coaxing. In Philip’s haste, he noticed
neither.

The familiar street odors brought Philip back to the
place’s reality. The rotting cabbage from Lu Chow’s Gay Chinese
Restaurant was rank in the air, choking him. It had never done so
before. He had always noted it, as a man would note a crooked limb
or a hideous birthmark —familiar and part of the landscape. Now,
Philip choked, his uptown breeding offended by this downtown slum.
He kept his mouth covered as he mounted the stairs into the
apartment building. He was accosted by other smells inside — urine
and cat food and perhaps the remnants of Hungarian cooking. He took
the stairs two at a time until he was just short of Sprakie’s
landing. He stopped for rest and reflection.

It was late. Philip knew that Sprakie was probably
entertaining
and, however Philip intruded, it would be
awkward.
But aren’t we beyond awkward?
He adjusted his
backpack and finished the flight to the landing. He hesitated again
before ringing the bell. He remembered a time when that bell saved
him from a night of rain and terror.
Sprakie. Why?
He
pressed the buzzer.

No answer.
Sleeping?
Unlikely. He pressed
again.

“Sprakie,” Philip said. He knocked, and then again.
“Sprakie.”

Philip was aware that he could wake the neighbors if
he pounded any harder. If he hadn’t heard a
Jesus Marie
by
now, Sprakie must be out.

“Shit.”

Philip plundered his pockets for keys. He was
notorious for forgetting his keys, but Dennis was insistent this
morning, so he had them. He also was remiss in unloading old keys,
so the keys to this door were still there. Philip had never given
them back, nor did Sprakie ask for them.
Wouldn’t the locks be
changed?
Probably.

Philip fumbled with the first of three keys. It fit
and turned like butter. In fact, only one lock was latched, because
the door opened to the dark heart of this old cupboard that Philip
had known so well. He pushed inside, feeling the wall for the light
switch.

“Sprakie?”

No answer. The living room was exactly as he had
remembered it. The kitchenette was as grimy as ever. The little
fridge sang its broken song. The leaky faucet plinked in the full
sink of cereal bowls. The message board was push-pinned with lists
and numbers.

“Sprakie?”

Philip crept into the
boudoir
. He forgot
where the light switch was, so he stumbled to the night table and
choked the neck of the crimson scarf covered lamp until it gave up
its light. The bedroom was also the same, except the bed was
unmade. Sprakie always made his bed.
First impressions,
he
would always say. Still, it may have been used already tonight.
Then, Philip eyed the dresser. The bottom drawer was opened, the
silks in disarray. He hunkered down, plunging his hand into the
mess. The gun was missing.
Sprakie. Why?

Philip gasped. Someone was behind him. He turned,
ready to confront his friend.

“Gordon, is that you?”

Philip stood. “How did
you
get in?”

The woman was frail, drawn and ashen-skinned — a
face that had not seen the daylight in some time. Philip knew her —
the neighbor next door.

“Have you come back, Gordon?”

“Gordon?”

Suddenly, the woman frowned. She shook her hands at
him. “You’re not Gordon. You’re that other one. I remember
you.”

Philip took her arm, but she pushed him away. “Are
you looking for Gordon Waters?”

She smiled. “Have you seen him? He’s been away on
business. In California. He was supposed to be away for a month,
but it’s been a long time. Not sure how long, but too long, I know.
Have you seen him?”

“No. Have you seen Sprakie?”

“Who?”

“Sprakie? Robert Sprague?”

The woman snarled. “
That
one. I’ll see him in
hell. My Gordon was a fine boy before he met
that
one.”

The woman turned and started for the door. Philip
followed. “Wait. Do you know who I am?”

“Not really.” She studied his face. “I see them come
and go, but I seem to remember your face. Don’t know your name.
Don’t really care.”

“But have you seen Robert tonight?”

“Oh, I’ve seen him.” She rounded on him. “He’d
better turn up soon. I need my medicine and the cat needs food.
It’s bad enough he let me rot half the summer. I suppose he’s
stepped out to get me my medicine and Minnie her Tender Vittles.”
She continued to leave, but somehow she had stirred Philip. He
sensed a madness, yet in that insanity there were lucid strands —
strands that tied up loose ends that had pained him since
Provincetown — since that evening when Lars Hamilton bemoaned the
loss of a child of the theater and called it
fate. Three times
is fate.

“Mrs. Waters.”

She halted. Turning, she grinned. “You
do
know my Gordon, don’t you? Does he send you post cards too? He’s
getting along in California, and in a way, it’s a joy to know he’s
rid of
that
one.” She pointed to the bedroom. Philip turned,
thinking maybe Sprakie was there, perhaps emerging from some hiding
place — but no. Not even a mirage. “Well, at least Gordon still
loves his mother.” She brought her face into Philip’s. “Love your
mother. You only get one and you never know how it will all
end.”

Mrs. Waters banged her cane on the counter, and then
struggled with the door. Philip helped her. She shuffled back to
her apartment muttering about
that one
and hoped
he comes
soon, for Minnie’s sake.

Philip was baffled.
Gordon Waters
. Here. His
mother, the old biddy next door. He recalled Sprakie’s anathema for
the woman — remembered conversations through the wall. Then, he
recalled
Gordon Waters
name on the rooster at
manluv
— on the inactive list.
Inactive? Dead, they meant.