A Cruel Season for Dying (5 page)

“Luis had a boy toy. His protégé.” She arched her penciled brows. “After the back trouble, Luis took Philippe Lambert under
his wing.” She winked again. “And bingo, Philippe gets to solo one night last season. I don’t even think it was a full ballet.
I can’t remember anymore. But the upshot was that Philippe had a less than stellar performance, and Luis had to blame somebody.
He picked
moi.
Claimed I screwed up Philippe’s costume.”

“I’ve heard you like to make certain creative alterations.”

“I’m a frustrated costume designer. But blaming me for Philippe’s crappy debut was a crock. The kid was just plain scared.
And it wasn’t like his career was ruined.”

“What happened?”

“I was halfway pissed and decided to play a little joke on Luis. I put a dead chicken in his dressing room. I didn’t know
he’d go ballistic.” She looked down at her hand still holding the perfume bottle, twisted a ring on an index finger. “I didn’t
know he was going to turn up dead.”

“Did you kill him?”

She shook her head and lifted her long skirt. There was no attempt at realism. The knee joint and calf were no more than metal
braces, nuts, and bolts, adjoined to a laced-up orthopedic shoe. The whole device was attached to the stump of a thigh by
leather straps. “I don’t do much dancing myself.” The laughter was false.

He waited a moment and forced his eyes away from the thickly muscled good leg. He noticed it was shaved clean under the sheer
stocking. “Where were you the night Luis was murdered?”

She turned to a CD player in the corner. The music had stopped. “An alibi?” She met his eyes. “After the performance I went
out with a couple of friends. Drank some red wine, smoked a little dope. I didn’t get home till almost four in the morning.
I can give you names.”

He nodded.

“The truth is, Detective Talbot, the only thing I ever wanted to do to Luis Carrera was fuck him. But you can see I have another
problem.” She raised the knit skirt higher so that he could see the outline of a penis, a spongy sac of testicles beneath
sheer panties. “Since the accident the dick doesn’t work much better than the leg.”

The damp October wind sneaked in every time the doors of St. Sebastian’s parish hall were opened, sending shivers up and down
everyone’s spine, teasing the Japanese lanterns into a ghostly dance. An unplanned, though not an entirely unwelcome, effect
at a Halloween party.

Trick-or-treating wasn’t what it used to be, and most of the parishioners had jumped at Father Graff’s suggestion that the
parish host an old-fashioned party to keep the kids off the streets. It was the priest’s favorite holiday, he had to admit,
after Christmas, of course. In a frenzy of activity, he had resurrected some vintage decorations from an old storeroom—papier-mâché
jack-o’-lanterns, die-cut witches on brooms, grinning black cats with honeycomb legs, and yards of crepe paper streamers—conceding
to the giddy ladies who’d helped him that everything was a bit faded and ruined. But didn’t it all contribute to the general
atmosphere of spookiness?

A couple of galvanized tubs of water held crisp red apples ready for bobbing, and a huge, jaunty scarecrow admonished all
who entered:

Quickly don your mummer’s suit

When the horned owl begins to hoot.

Steal softly out and don’t be late

For Hallowe’en seals your fate.

Father Kellog lifted his smiling devil’s mask to the top of his head. The mask, his singular concession to wearing a costume,
somehow didn’t seem incompatible with his long black cassock. He glanced around the hall. There were more parishioners here
than he’d seen at Mass in months. He checked his watch.

“Did you expect him to be on time?” Agnes Tuminello had come up beside him and set down a tray of sandwiches. She noted the
dripping candles and decided the plastic tablecloth would have to be sacrificed after tonight.

“Yes, I did expect him to be on time.” He fought to keep an edge of anger out of his voice. “This Halloween party was his
idea.”

“I’m sure he’s at His Eminence’s kissing his ring.”

His instincts told him Graff was more than likely kissing something else of the Cardinal’s. “He better show. I’m too old for
this sort of thing.”

The housekeeper rolled her kohl-lined eyes. Mrs. Tuminello had grudgingly settled on a fortune teller’s disguise, but was
now pulling off one of her gold-coin earrings. The costume was for the children, not for Graff, she reminded herself again.
“Have you eaten?”

“Not hungry,” he said, distracted by a small scene playing itself out in one of the ancient hall’s dark corners. The usually
reserved Dominick Mancuso appeared to be arguing with his wife. His arm rose and fell in a kind of restrained anger, his head
shaking in mute protest. It was a strangely cinematic moment.

Eight-year-old Lucia Mancuso threw back her head provocatively and laughed. The sound of a tiny crystal bell. She struck another
pose and the camera clicked.
Magic child.
He breathed the words to himself.
Magic child…
The flash exploded, bleaching the tableau for an instant of all color.

Outside the lens she fell in and out of focus, and Tony Paladino felt faintly light-headed, a fire growing in his belly as
if he’d taken a shot of whiskey. He grasped the edge of a folding chair, fighting the electric buzz in his ears. There was
an astringent taste at the back of his throat.

Lucia was moving again, coquettishly twisting her body in her bright red-and-black ladybug costume. Her homemade antennae
waved like small arms from atop her dark head.

“Like this, Uncle Tony?”

“What?”

She put her hands on her hips and scowled. “You weren’t paying any attention.”

“Yes, I was, Lucia. Do just what you were doing.”

She gave him an exasperated look, then struck her pose.

“Good girl.”
Click.

“You know, Uncle Tony, Daddy says I’m not supposed to be alone with you. Or let you touch me.”

He lowered the camera. “Your father never liked me, Lucia. He never wanted me to marry your aunt Barbara. I wasn’t good enough
for his baby sister.”

“But I like you, Uncle Tony.”

He smiled. “And I like you, Lucia.”

He began raising his camera again, but didn’t complete the motion. An iron hand grasped his shoulder, pulling him away from
Lucia, out of the church hall, down the steps, onto the street.

In the haze of moonlight, Dominick Mancuso looked ugly. Bigger than he was. Less human. In fact, there was a rawness about
everything. When Tony reached to unlock his brother-in-law’s grip, he half expected to encounter a large hairy paw. He felt
flesh.

“You”—the hand that had been on his shoulder now pointed a finger at him—“do not touch my Lucia.”

“For God’s sake, I was taking her picture.”

“I don’t want you near her or Celia.
Capisce,
Antonio?”

“I
capisce.
” He shook his head, walked a few paces away so that he stood directly under one of the streetlamps. “Barbara is crazy. And
if you and Sophia believe that shit she told you, you’re crazy too.”

“Just stay away from my girls.”

“I’m still married to your sister.”

“That I don’t understand.”

He laughed. “She can’t get enough of my cock.”

This time Dominick’s hand did feel like an animal’s. Hard and angry, it drove into his jaw until he tasted blood. He reeled
backward from the blow, but he caught himself before he could fall. Through what seemed like smoke, he watched his brother-in-law
turn and move up the stairs, back into the church hall.

For a moment he stared at the black blank expanse of closed doors. Then his vision cleared and he looked to his feet. He kicked
a small rock across the wet pavement, waiting for the sound of its landing. He loosened his hold on his camera’s leather strap
around his neck and stroked his jawline. It was sore, but there was also a slight fleshiness that had not been there six months
ago. He was getting soft. He needed to start hitting the weights harder. Tighten up. Ease some of the tension.

He took out a handkerchief and spat, rubbing away a small drool of blood from his chin. Raking his hand through his hair,
he straightened
himself. Barbara would become suspicious, think that something was wrong if he didn’t get back in there with her and his kids,
at least for a little while longer. Whatever the cost, he needed to keep Barbara happy.

The West Side bistro was as bright and artificial as a hothouse, a jewel box that glittered on the wet uptown sidewalk. The
man sat inside, alone at a window table. Ghosts from his coffee shivered in the black wall of glass as he drank from his cup,
staring past his reflection to the apartment building on the other side of the street. The building’s glassed-in foyer was
another lighted box. Behind its double doors Geoffrey Westlake stood, backlit by the yellow glow from the lobby.

A taxi pulled to the curb. The man watched the figure push out into the night and walk down the few steps to the pavement.
For a moment before Westlake ducked into the cab, he was completely visible in his own amazing light, which poured out from
him like a beacon.

The taxi drove away, and the man set down his cup. He was acutely aware of the pressure of the leather straps, the feel of
what they held against his back. Once thawed, ligament, skin, and muscle had begun the inevitable process of decay. With his
heightened senses he could smell the soft beginnings of rot that seeped above the collar of his jacket.

Droplets of rain had gathered on the window. They crawled past his face in black centipede tracks. He picked up the cup again,
wishing instead for the cigarettes he’d given up since the accident. He acknowledged the human craving before he banished
it. Eyes closed, he willed himself to relax. There was risk involved in the plan tonight, but no special need to hurry. He’d
been watching Westlake long enough to guess where he would go.

He threw a couple bills on the table and left, walking the blocks to where he’d found a space for the bike. The Harley from
day one had been a good investment. In the rain-soaked streets, it gave him an added maneuverability.

When he arrived, Marlowe’s was relatively uncrowded, despite that it was Halloween, and he stood exposed for a moment inside
the door.
Geoffrey Westlake was here as he’d expected. Normally, the model chose a conspicuous table, but tonight, for the first time,
he sat drinking alone at the shadowed side of the bar, the light from him burning into the dimness.

In the instant he’d made the decision to remain, Westlake turned toward him, watching his approach, as if, despite the months
of careful invisibility, they were suddenly working some mutual radar.

“Hi,” Westlake said as he slid onto the stool next to him. “Haven’t seen you around.”

“I haven’t been around.” The lie came easily. “But I recognize you from your commercials. You do nice work.”

Westlake’s eyes went down to the camera bag he’d set on the floor. “You a photographer?” He looked up. “I could use some new
publicity stills.”