“Mae. You agreed it would be a good idea for me to ask around about Roscoe’s death. And Evelyn is here.”
“True. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“That’s okay. I deserved it, a little.”
“When did she get here, Mal?”
“Pardon?”
“Evelyn. When did she arrive?”
“Today. She said.”
“Where do you suppose she was last night?”
“That I don’t know. That’s a good question. Of course I don’t know where she is now, either.”
“Why?”
I explained that Evelyn hadn’t checked in at the Americana-Congress, at least not as of an hour or so ago.
“She might be at another hotel, though,” I said. “With the convention, here, the hotel itself may be full.”
“She’s probably sleeping in her car,” Mae said, humorously. “She’s one classy broad.”
“You said before that you could tell me where I could get hold of Roscoe’s son,” I reminded her.
“Jerome?” She laughed; almost a giggle. “Why, I’m sure you could get hold of him any place you pleased. No problem.”
“Mae, take it easy on that gin, okay?”
“That was nasty, wasn’t it? Jerome is staying with a Troy something. I’ve got it written down….”
She found the name and number and gave it to me, then asked, “Have you called that assistant coroner yet?”
“Actually, no. I’m going to do that after we hang up.”
“Good. How about dinner tonight?”
“No, Mae, thank you. I already have a, uh…”
“Previous engagement? Anyone I know?”
“I don’t think so. A young lady.”
“I’m jealous,” she said, pretending not to be. “You could’ve had room service with me.” She said that flatly, without stressing the innuendo-but the “nuendo” was in there, all right.
“That would’ve been nice,” I managed.
“Maybe you can stop up later.”
“I’ll try.” No way!
“Particularly if you get anywhere, with your inquiries.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“Thanks, Mal. I know I can count on you.”
“I’ll call you later, that I promise you.”
“Please do, Mal.”
We hung up.
I called the Chicago coroner’s office and managed to get Myers, the heavyset assistant coroner from last night. I reminded him who I was and he grunted, and I told him about the maid and the wet towels, and he said, That’s very interesting, thank you, and hung up.
Which is how I knew he’d react, but I’d promised Mae I’d pass my wet-towel information along, and I had.
I called the front desk and asked if Evelyn Kane had checked in; she hadn’t. I asked if she had a reservation; she hadn’t. I asked if the hotel was full up, what with the convention and all; it was.
That certainly explained Evelyn’s absence. Or did it? If she was planning ahead to come down from Milwaukee to see Roscoe, why didn’t she have a reservation at the hotel?
I tried calling the number of Jerome Kane’s friend, Troy. I got an answering machine, a very masculine voice saying, “This is Troy, I’m not able to respond at the moment, but please leave a message at the tone.” Behind the voice, an instrumental version of the theme from the movie Arthur was playing; I didn’t leave a message-I hung up when I was between the moon and New York City, actually.
I needed to talk to Gorman. I had blown it, sort of, down in the dealers’ room; I should’ve played like all was forgiven between ol’ Gregg and me, so I could sneak up on him with some hard questions, not the least of which was, Where the hell were you last night when Roscoe died, Gorman?
Now I had to wait for a better time and place, ideally somewhere I could get Gorman alone.
What I wanted to do now was talk to Roscoe’s son, Jerome, but he and Troy were out.
So I slept for a while; not long.
Because less than ten minutes later someone started knocking on my door, and when I went to answer it, I found on my doorstep a tall, thin, tanly handsome man in his forties, his hair stark white in a short, stylish cut, wearing a beige suit with a light blue open-collar shirt and one slender, elegant gold chain looping gently down across a hairless chest.
The face was familiar, though I’d never met this man.
The face was Roscoe Kane’s.
Or at least it was Roscoe Kane’s face before time and booze and gravity had got to it and basset-houndized it. The china-blue eyes were exactly Roscoe’s.
A tapered hand extended itself and I took it, shook it; a firm handshake.
“Sorry we have to meet under such tragic circumstances, Mr. Mallory,” he said, in a manner that seemed to me to be feigning more sorrow than he really felt. “I’m-”
“I know who you are,” I said. “Troy’s friend.”
10
We sat one table away from the table I’d shared with his father in the bar the night before. A few familiar faces were around-Tom Sardini and Peter Christian were nearby, part of a large party of writers, a few of whom I knew, but I didn’t have to know each of ’em to tell they were writers-lots of beards and longish hair and glasses and slightly off-kilter clothing; we were a recognizable breed. I lacked the beard and mustache, but there’d been a time, back when Woodstock wasn’t just a character in Peanuts, when I’d had facial fur, too. The vaguely unconventional look of the mystery writers my age echoed, however faintly, the left wing stand so many of us took in those Kent State days. Some of us voted straight Republican now (not me, but some of us did), yet the generation we were part of lingered in our appearance. We tended to look like assistant professors on small college campuses-the sort who never get elected department chairman, and only grudgingly, via tenure, achieve full professorship.
Anyway, Tom and Pete waved at me to join them, and I waved and smiled no, as nicely as possible, and turned my attention to Jerome Kane.
Jerome wasn’t Woodstock generation; he was of that vague, Eisenhower/Howdy Doody generation that was just young enough to miss out on Korea and just old enough to avoid Vietnam. A conservative era; a safe era. But an era that produced its share of misfits-misfits, at least, by the standards of that day. Today, in the hip ’80s, we don’t consider homosexuals misfits-do we, Mr. Falwell?
I wasn’t a born-again Christian, but I didn’t like Jerome Kane, anyway. He’d been soft-spokenly polite in the elevator; his manners were impeccable, his manner graceful, not exactly effeminate. Any residue of bigotry against gays I might feel was not-I didn’t think-a part of my instinctive dislike for him. Dislike? Too strong a word. Resentment. I resented this man.
Why?
“I envy you,” he said. Suddenly.
We’d ordered drinks-he ordered Scotch and tonic, like his father, and I opted for a Coke, avoiding liquor to keep my head clear, seeking caffeine to keep me revved up. But we’d sat silently, waiting for the drinks to arrive; I had questions for him, but he’d called this meeting, so to speak, so I wanted him to speak first. I’d let him have the lead till it struck my fancy to take it from him.
Now, suddenly, he envied me.
“Why?” I said.
“You knew my father in a way I never could. Never will.”
“Your father and I weren’t really all that close.”
The drinks came. A pretty barmaid even bustier than the one the night before gave me a generous view as she deposited the drinks on the table. I smiled at the barmaid and she smiled politely, and then I realized I was overcompensating, and felt foolish. I was sitting at a table with a homosexual and I felt compelled to assert my heterosexuality.
The china-blue eyes smiled. “Attractive young lady.”
“You noticed, did you?”
“I’m gay, not blind. And how do you know I don’t appreciate the fairer sex, from time to time? Haven’t you heard of bisexuals, in Iowa?”