Kill Your Darlings (13 page)

“You probably got your artistic bent from him.”

“No doubt,” he said. “I didn’t get it from my mother. She had few talents—just her good looks, which started to go on her when her mental problems took hold. But we’ve been down that path before; let’s go elsewhere.”

“What did you and your father talk about?”

“Last night, you mean? We... we made ammends, you might say. I can’t go so far as to say he came right out and accepted me
for what I am—admitted he knew I was gay and that he could accept me as such. But he did say something that approximated that; well, two things, actually.”

“What were they?”

He smiled on one side of his face. “First”—and he imitated his father’s gruff voice, to perfection—“Jerome, sex is overrated.”

I smiled. “What was the other thing?”

Jerome shrugged, looked in the drink. “Just that it was nice to have a son.”

I sat and looked into my bourbon and Coke and pretended not to notice him wipe the tear from beneath one china-blue eye.

“He was chatting with Cynthia Crystal,” he said, “when I left him in the lobby around nine-thirty. That was the last time I saw him.”

“Cynthia Crystal?”

“Yes—the author.”

“I know her. How do you know her, Jerome?”

“I don’t—I recognized her from a talk show. Fine writer.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Oddly—when I glanced back, their conversation seemed to have heated up.”

“Really? Were they arguing?”

He thought about that. “I wouldn’t go that far. ‘Having words’ is more like it.”

“How did your father happen to know Cynthia?”

He shrugged, draining the Scotch and tonic. “I don’t know that he did.”

This morning, when I’d spoken to Cynthia, she hadn’t mentioned speaking to Roscoe Kane. From the detached way she’d referred to him, I’d assumed she’d never met the man.

“I know why I envy you,” Jerome said suddenly, softly.

“Why?”

“Not because you were close to him. Nobody, except perhaps Evelyn the Grotesque, was close to him. And then only when they were in their cups....”

Silence.

Then he said: “You were the son he always wanted me to be.”

I tried to bridge the awkwardness gap. “Look—it wasn’t that way... I was just a fan.”

“No. Much more than that. You were a surrogate son. And you had access to him in a way I never did. You pleased him in ways I never could. And I envy you that. I resent you for that.”

There wasn’t anything to say, so I didn’t.

He said, “Now. We had a bargain. You’re to tell me about you and my father, last night.”

“Why, are you suspicious?”

He blinked. “Suspicious?”

“About the circumstances surrounding his death. Is that why you’re asking questions?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said ingenuously. “I just want to know what my father said.”

“What he said?”

He leaned across the table and looked at me with his father’s eyes and the earnestness and trembling lower lip of a child. “About me. Did he mention me? Did he say anything about me?”

I was one of the last to see his father alive; he wanted to know if he’d been in his father’s thoughts....

So I told him Roscoe had mentioned what a wonderful evening he’d had with him, that it was obvious he thought the world of Jerome.

And Jerome sighed, and said thank you, told me I could reach him at Troy’s till he left for the Milwaukee services Monday, and left.

I just sat there for a while, shaking my head.

Then just as I’d gotten up to go, a hand settled on my shoulder and I glanced back.

“Let’s talk, asshole.”

And I punched Gregg Gorman in the stomach.

I don’t make a practice of punching people in the stomach, or anywhere else for that matter. Even the likes of Gregg Gorman. I was immediately embarrassed and sorry—even if the feel of my fist sinking into his beer belly had been satisfying, in a mindless, macho, Gat Garson sort of way.

He didn’t go down or anything; he just doubled over. Nobody except that table of Sardini, Christian and a few others had seen it. So the management didn’t come rushing over and throw me out the door on my butt. Nor did a John Wayne-type table-and-chair-smashing brawl break out. Gorman wasn’t the type to retaliate, except verbally—or with a two-by-four while you were asleep.

He held his stomach and breathed hard and then pretended to be hurt worse than he was. The beady eyes under the bushy eyebrows were full of dollar signs as he said, “I’m gonna sue you, Mallory, you little creep.”

“Shouldn’t you call the cops first, and get me charged with assault and battery?”

“Maybe I’ll do that. Maybe I will.”

“Better round up your witnesses.”

He glanced over at the table where Sardini and crew sat, smiling, talking, back in their own conversation. “They’re friends of yours,” he said.

“That’s true.”

“Maybe we should just step outside,” he said, puffing himself up like a squat little bear, “and finish this...” And there was a blank space where his favorite term of endearment for me would’ve gone, had he had the nerve to use it again.

I nodded toward the door. “There’s an alley behind the hotel.”

He rubbed a hand over his face; indeterminate flecks drifted down from his goatee—dandruff, food, whatever.

And then he sat down at the table.

I stood looking at him.

He looked up and got a completely false smile going and said, “Maybe I deserved that punch in the belly. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve called you that. And maybe I screwed you that time, a little, where your pal Wheeler was concerned. So I’m willing to forgive and forget this little incident. Come on, Mallory—sit down.”

I sat. But I didn’t forgive, or forget.

“You said you wanted to talk,” I said. I wanted to talk to him, too. But I’d let him go first....

He shrugged, elaborately. “I just wanted to straighten you out on some shit.”

Classy guy; a publishing magnate with a real way with words. He used to own used-car lots, and had reportedly made a fortune or two before he somewhat self-indulgently turned to the pursuit of publishing in the mystery field, having been a fan since his teens. I bought his books, but I wouldn’t buy a used car from him.

“What is it you want to straighten me out on, Gorman?”

“Call me Gregg. And I’ll call you...”

“Asshole?”

He pushed the air with two palms, in a peacemaking gesture I didn’t believe for a split second.

“Let’s put that behind us,” he said, with his used-car dealer’s smile.

“Let’s. What do you want to straighten me out on, Gregg?”

“I cleaned up my act, Mallory,” he said. “Changed my image.”

If not his underwear.

“Look, I admit I pulled some... shady deals, from time to time. I’m a little guy. I gotta look after myself. You gotta give me credit for some good work—I got some stuff back in print that you like seein’ back in print, right?”

I admitted as much.

“I’m just a one-man show,” he said, “tryin’ to keep my little boat afloat. The mystery fan market isn’t any vast audience by a long shot—and you know it, or you’d dress better.”

Look who was talking.

“It’s a small market,” I said, “but you publish expensive books. On that slipcased set of Carroll John Daly’s Race Williams novels you had several thousand sales—chickenfeed for a mass-market publisher, but for a specialty guy like you? At two hundred bucks a set? You’re making a killing.”

He shrugged, less elaborately this time. “I couldn’t afford to publish nice books when I was starting out. And you know the quality of the stuff I do—the printing, the binding, the paper, all that crap, is top of the line.”

That was true: his books were every bit as attractive as he wasn’t.

“But Gregg, old buddy,” I said, “you’re not doing anybody any
favors
, turning out fancy expensive books. You may be providing a service of sorts, to mystery fans who’re into this stuff, but if you weren’t turning out high-quality merchandise, you couldn’t charge the high prices. So don’t
bother bragging to me. It doesn’t cut you any slack, where I’m concerned.”

He waved a waitress over and asked for two beers (both for himself).

He said, “All I’m getting at is I wasn’t able to start out doing fancy schmancy books. I did these sorta oversize, trade-type paperbacks, remember?”

“I remember. The Raoul Wheeler books were paperbacks. You sold five thousand of each of those at eight bucks per and paid no royalties at all. You had a free ride on a guy dying of cancer. Brag about
that
.”

Gorman shrugged again. “I’m not proud of it,” he allowed. “By the way, I’m bringing those Wheelers back out again, hardback this time. You wanna do those intros we talked about way back when? With a credit on the covers? I’ll pay you. Make it up to you.”

“You’ll do me that little favor, now that I’ve published some books and have a name for myself. You’re a peach, Gorman.”

The beers came; Gorman put one away in a couple of chugs, then sipped at the other as he said, “I been tryin’ to make a point, but you won’t let me. I been tryin’ to say that a few shady-type deals I pulled, early on, that I’m not proud of having done, is what got me capitalized to the point where I could put together a little publishing company that’s giving mystery fans beautiful books. My Daly set won a special award from the Mystery Writers of America, y’know. An Edgar Allan Poe award. You ever win an Edgar, Mallory?”

“No,” I said. “But then my philosophy isn’t the Edgar justifies the means.”

“Eat your heart out, schmuck,” he said, grinning over the lip of the beer; foam rode the edge of his mustache.

“Wipe your face, Gorman,” I said, “before I wipe it for you.”

He snorted. “You read too many Gat Garson books, Mallory. Speaking of which... you oughta be grateful I’m bringing your idol’s books out, instead of givin’ me a bad time over it.”

So that was what this was about.

“Oh,” I said, “you didn’t like my comment about how Roscoe’s books’ll be more valuable to you, with him dead.”

“That’s a lousy thing to say. And not necessarily true. The few thousand extra copies we’ll sell, of each of ’em, is hardly grounds for...” He searched for the word in his beer; he didn’t find it.

So I gave it to him: “Murder?”

He looked up sharply. “Is that what you think, Mallory?”

“Is what what I think?”

“That Roscoe was... killed, or something.”

“What if it is?”

“I heard you... were up there, when...” He drank a little beer. Then: “I heard you found the body.”

It was getting around, finally.

“Maybe,” I said.

“So, uh... what do you think? Was it murder?”

“Why do you care? What’s your interest in Roscoe?”

“He was a friend. He was a buddy! I liked him.”

“You like money.”

“I like money, and I like people, too. Like Roscoe, I liked. Hell, I even like you, Mallory.”

“And you’re heartsick about Roscoe’s death.”

He shook his head sadly, side to side. “Tragic loss to the mystery community.”

“Jesus, Gorman, you ought to volunteer to do his eulogy. You’d have to wear a clean sweater, though.”

“Just don’t... don’t go implying what you implied before, in public, or maybe... maybe I
will
sue you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Implying I... that’s stupid. I loved Roscoe.”

“You used to just like him. Do you love
me
now, or is it still just ‘like’?”

“Screw you.”

“Must be love. Tell you what. I won’t accuse you publicly of murdering Roscoe; I won’t even imply it. Unless, of course, I find out you did it.”

He got huffily self-righteous. “Don’t be stupid. What motive would I have for that? To make the books of his I’m publishing sell a little better? Nobody’d kill anybody over that.”

“Where were you?”

“Where... where was I when?”

“When Roscoe was murdered.”

He swallowed. The red nose seemed to throb in the near-darkness. “You really
do
think it was murder.”

“I really do.”

“Have you told the cops?”

“I’ve tried.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And they don’t seem to be paying much attention. Yet.”

He smirked and waved for the waitress. “You don’t
know
that it was murder,” he said. “It
could’ve
been accidental.”

“Could’ve been,” I granted. “Like when Nixon’s secretary accidentally erased the tape.”

“I think you should leave this alone.”

“I think you should answer my question.”

“What question?”

“Where were you last night? When Roscoe was dying in the tub?”

The beers came, but he didn’t dig in; he sat looking at them and summoned a look of confidence up and tried it out on me. I didn’t think much of it. It accompanied the following declaration: “I was with my angels.”

Gorman being with anybody’s angels, let alone his own, was a little hard to picture.

“Your angels,” I said.

“Yeah, you know. My angels. My backers. The guys that invest in me. The guys that sign the checks.”

It was coming back to me now; I’d heard about this, from somebody—Sardini, I thought. Seemed Gorman’s financial backing, his working capital—that is to say, the working capital he didn’t generate himself, swindling innocents like me and old-timers like Raoul Wheeler—came from a pair of Chicago-area longtime mystery fans, guys in their forties who were partners in a chain of bookstores. Those bookstores were the kind with the windows painted out and lots of Xs on the front.

Pornographers is what Gorman’s angels were.

Or at least, pornography merchants. In bed with the mob, so rumor said; which made Gorman vaguely mob-dirty, too.

“You were with your angels,” I said.

“Yeah, having dinner at the Berghoff.”

The Berghoff was a popular German restaurant in downtown Chicago, and had been since the late Mayor Daley was in diapers.

“So a lot of people saw you,” I said.

He smiled. “A lot of people saw us.”

“Conveniently saw you.”

“No, damnit, just
saw
us! Leave it alone, Mallory. Leave it alone.”