Cobalt (21 page)

He finished his beer and signaled the bartender for another. It was brought immediately and payment refused with a friendly wave. Valentine left a dollar on the bar and turned back to the crowd. He checked a wall clock. He'd been in the place an hour, alternately wondering why no one was cruising yet and what on earth he was going to say to Terry O'Sullivan when he saw him again. Though he gave equal time to each consideration, the latter was patently the more important. But for the life of him he couldn't think now what more he wanted to ask Terry. He was certain that the death of Ann Richardson had been an accident—an accident for which Terry O'Sullivan was morally responsible, but an accident nonetheless. If he needed no other information from Terry O'Sullivan, he could at least pound the fact of that responsibility into the man's selfish skull.

Valentine was no longer certain that Clarisse was on the wrong track when she insisted on searching for the pusher's killer. When Valentine discovered that Terry O'Sullivan had been withholding information regarding Jeff King, he realized that others might be lying too—and not only was the killer obviously still at large, he might be in this very room.

Valentine pushed away from the bar and filtered through the crowd of men. He recognized many from having served them at the Throne and Scepter. To some he nodded friendlily, and received only puzzled brief acknowledgments in return. He sighed. His mystique as a bartender evaporated once he walked out from behind the bar.

He swung around a pole to linger in one of the back areas where the crowd was less dense. His eyes shifted to the entrance across the room as more and more men came into the bar, each of them looking about with feigned disinterest as he paid the cover.

None of these men drew Valentine's mind entirely from thoughts of Terry O'Sullivan, until he saw, under the red spot by the front door, a shiny leather motorcycle cap. When the brim was raised he saw beneath it a drawn dark face with a neatly cut beard and an overfull mustache. The man was short and slender. He wore a ruby-colored T-shirt beneath a black leather vest with chains sewn onto the left shoulder, studded black wristbands, black leather chaps over worn jeans, and heavy black boots with spurs.

A group of animated chatterers suddenly moved between the man and Valentine. Val moved quickly to one side and regained his view; they locked eyes, but the other man's expression did not change. He held Valentine's gaze long enough to show he meant business, then winked slowly and turned away.

Valentine tightened his grip on the can of beer, crushing in the sides. Beer sloshed out and down one leg of his jeans. He swore, dropped the can into a trash barrel and yanked his red bandana from his back pocket to daub at the wet denim.

“Forget that shrimp in leather, lust has been dropped on your doormat.”

Valentine turned to see Clarisse standing beside him, shaking the excess water from her umbrella.

“Where did you come from?” Valentine asked and shoved the bandana back into his pocket.

“I was two people behind Suzy Sawed-off, but you only had eyes for him. I've been to six different bars looking for you. Are you sure that's real leather? It looks suspiciously like Naugahyde to me.”

“I can
smell
real leather, even from that distance. And what's this about lust on the doormat?”

He raised two fingers to a passing waiter. The man went off to get the order. Clarisse rested the umbrella against the wall, leaned against a pole and lighted a cigarette. She told him that Axel Braun—alone—had become the new tenant for the rental apartment.

“Scott, apparently, is out of the frame. You have a clear path to Axel's arms.”

“I wouldn't mind being faithful for a week or two,” mused Valentine. “I've been watching you in the throes of domesticity with Officer Montalvo, and it's set me to thinking…”

“Don't think too hard. I had to have a little talk with Matteo tonight.”

“What about?”

“Jealousy. He got jealous of Axel when he saw him practically naked in the kitchen within arm's length of me. I don't like jealousy—in fact, I don't
allow
jealousy. It's sweet,” she smiled, “but it really turns me off.” She frowned.

“How did Matteo take the lecture?”

“Like a man.”

The waiter brought their beers. Clarisse looked at the label, grimaced, handed it to Valentine, and sent the waiter off for a scotch on the rocks.

“How did it go with Noah?” Valentine asked. “Any bombshells?”

“Wet fuses all the way. Everything was plausible. But I can't say I'm sorry to find out Noah had nothing to do with Jeff's death.” She briefly recounted the conversation with her uncle.

Valentine said nothing for a moment, and appeared only to be checking out each new arrival. Then he asked, “Do you believe that Noah had been planning that trip to Boston? Even though you know that he had changed his will and insurance policies to cut out Jeff King, who was already dead?”

“Of course I believe it,” said Clarisse lightly.

“No you don't.”

“I don't know what to believe,” she admitted.

“Maybe it is just coincidence, but don't you think it's murky that two people who came in direct contact with Jeff King that day pulled disappearing acts with the first light of dawn?”

“Noah,” said Clarisse with a frown. “But who was the other?”

“Scott DeVoto. Axel told me that he drove off that morning also.” Valentine was looking past Clarisse as he spoke. He took a swallow of one of the beers he held. “Scott seems fond of exits and entrances.”

“What do you mean?”

“You just told me that Axel was alone on Kiley Court.”

“Scott's in New Hampshire, at one of those lakes with a summer-camp name.”

Valentine smiled and tilted his can to point across the room. “Then the nearly naked Mr. Braun is in for a surprise.”

Clarisse spun around and saw Scott, his tank top removed and draped over his shoulder. His hair and face were damp, and he was nodding in time with the music as he swayed on the edge of the dance floor.

She looked at Valentine. “Axel specifically said Scott was in New Hampshire.”

Valentine sighed. “I was contemplating hot nights cuddled up to Axel braiding his chest hair with my teeth. Life is one cruel disappointment after another.”

Clarisse sighed too. “I hope those two are
not
going to stage impromptu productions of
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf
in the courtyard.”

“The Prince may upstage them. If what you say is right and Noah is going to kick him out, I'm sure the Prince can beat anybody at the ungracious-jilted-woman game.” He raised the second beer can in another direction, and Clarisse looked.

The White Prince was just coming out of the ladies' room. He paused to cinch in the belt of his trench coat before he headed for the door.

“Did you see him in here before?” asked Clarisse.

Valentine shook his head. “I—” he began, but Clarisse jabbed him in the ribs and cocked a thumb over her shoulder.

He peered cautiously around her, and saw Terry O'Sullivan staggering up to the bar and gripping the edge of it for balance. He ordered something, and Valentine was very surprised to see that the bartender poured out of a liquor bottle.

“Everybody in the world you didn't want to see tonight is in this bar!” exclaimed Clarisse. “I thought Terry didn't drink.”

“That's my doing,” said Valentine. “I started him off this afternoon.”

“Poor baby must be unhappy. Did you send him packing again?”

“I've saved the best for last,” replied Valentine, and he told her what Terry O'Sullivan had revealed to him at the Throne and Scepter.

“No sympathy! No sympathy!” cried Clarisse, when she heard the end of it. “I hold that man personally responsible for Ann Richardson's death!”

“Shut up!” said Valentine, peering over her shoulder. “He sees us and he knows we're talking about him.”

Clarisse whirled around and glared at Terry O'Sullivan. “I don't care what he thinks,” she said, turning back around. “Oh God,” she said, in another tone of voice, and nodding in yet another direction. “Here comes your friend the midget. With all those chains, he looks like Marley's Ghost come to cruise.”

“He can pull aside my bed curtains any day.”

“Go talk to him.”

“I can't. Terry O'Sullivan's on his way over.”

Clarisse smiled maliciously. “Let
me
talk to Mr. O'Sullivan for a few minutes. By the time I get through with him, he's not going to be in any shape to make dates.”

She turned smoothly around to intercept Terry O'Sullivan. He was almost directly in front of her, but he stumbled awkwardly. His glass dropped from his hand and smashed on the floor. His cheeks and forehead were flushed a ghastly red-purple, his eyes were wide with fright, and his mouth gaped as he gasped for breath.

Clarisse stepped aside, and jerked Valentine up beside her.

Terry O'Sullivan struck his breast once with his right fist, and then crashed to his knees at Valentine's feet. He tumbled backward and hit his head on the cement floor. The sickening crack could be heard above the disco.

Valentine clutched Clarisse's forearm and yanked her down onto the floor next to Terry.

“Give us room!” he shouted to the men who had quickly crowded around. They shuffled back a little.

“What are you doing!” cried Clarisse as Valentine ripped open Terry's shirt, scattering buttons.

“You took the CPR course, not me!” he snapped as he pulled Terry's arms flush with his sides.

Clarisse quickly angled Terry's head back into an arching position, raised her clenched fist and brought it down powerfully against the man's unmoving sternum.

Prostitution through the Ages

F
OUR DAYS LATER Valentine and Clarisse were somewhat recovered from the trauma of seeing Terry O'Sullivan die on the floor of the Back Street bar. The paramedics who arrived eleven minutes after Terry's collapse concurred that Clarisse had done, and done correctly, all it was possible to do—and Terry had still died.

Clarisse went to work the next day, however, and the next and the next, but when Valentine's own day off came around, she begged Beatrice to let her off, without pay if necessary. Beatrice agreed, and early in the morning Valentine and Clarisse walked out to Race Point Beach. They had lain several hours on adjoining towels, reading and napping, and not done much talking. They had swum together, strolled along the beach together, and together they had avoided talking about Terry O'Sullivan.

It was now almost noon. The day was hot and the sun high in the clear sky. The ocean lapped gently not twenty feet from them, and they lay just at the unofficial demarcation line between the gay beach and the straight. Clarisse noted that the division was not hard to see. To her left the men and women were mostly either pale or red, unused to the sun; the men had fleshy unkempt bodies and the women sprawled and shrieked in a desperately unattractive manner. To her right, however, the towels and blankets were adorned with browned, toned, or muscular bodies carefully oiled. Men and women read, slept, or conversed in whispered voices that never rose louder than the waves. If there was laughter it was deliberately musical. Even the music was decisive: to her left was old disco and to her right new wave. Beyond the sunbathers the dunes rose starkly against the washed-out sky. Gay men alone or in pairs now and then went up the sandy mounds and disappeared over the crests. Heads bobbed up occasionally but then dropped quickly out of sight again. If earnest cruising were not sanctioned in Provincetown proper during the day, it was a constant activity in the dunes of Race Point.

Valentine sat up and peeled off his tank top. He pulled it through one belt loop of his cutoff jeans. His sunburn of the previous week, by the careful nurturing of his less affected side, had evened out and deepened. He wiped a sheen of perspiration from his face and lay back on his elbows.

Clarisse held her hand up before her face, flexing the fingers before the large lenses of her gray-tinted sunglasses. “It's still bruised,” she said. “I'm surprised his chest didn't cave in.”

“You were wonderful,” sighed Valentine. “Clara Barton must be smiling in her grave.”

Clarisse grimaced. “I'll bet Terry's not smiling in his, though. I'm just glad I didn't faint at the sight, like that friend of yours in the leather and chains.”

“Listen,” said Valentine, “I want to apologize to you.”

“About what?”

“About making light of the trauma you suffered finding Jeff King and Ann Richardson dead at your feet.”

“Now you know what it feels like.”

“It doesn't feel good,” said Valentine. “It's not nice to see somebody you know die. I keep trying to tell myself that Terry was responsible for Ann Richardson's death—and so he deserved what he got.”

“Do you think he died of guilt?”

“No. He died of a massive heart attack.”

“
That's
what I don't understand,” said Clarisse. “He was too young to die of a heart attack.”

“For all his yammering about the care and feeding of the gay body and soul, I don't think Terry took very good care of himself. Did you ever have dinner with him? All hamburgers and French fries.
Always
. And lots of milk shakes—he had an ulcer. He never went to the gym, and when he was in Boston he put in a twelve-hour day. All work and no play makes Jack a cardiovascular statistic.”

They were silent for several minutes. The subject was not yet one they could treat lightly.

“I'll accept your apology,” said Clarisse. “On one condition.”

“What?”

“You'll listen to me for five minutes without getting upset, without interrupting, and without rolling your eyes.”