On the Other Hand, Death - Stevenson Richard (книги без регистрации полные версии TXT) 📗

"Yes," Dot said. "One hopes."

Bowman didn't pick up the lesson in English usage, but he had more pressing matters to think about. As did I.

While Bowman and Dot stacked the hundred grand in bills in the picnic basket and Dot was fitted with a hidden microphone and radio transmitter, I went into the guest room and dug out Greco's journal.

I flipped through it and after a minute found the entry I remembered.

Aug. 2—New Haven hot, Yalies cool. No students, but two cafeteria workers sign pledge. Stayed with Tom Bittner, here for a year researching colonial anti-gay laws. Great seeing Tom. Cicely still with him; I slept on porch.

I checked other pages at random and came up with two More examples of what I was looking for. The June 26 entry for Portland, Maine, included the remark "Supposed to stay with Harry Smight but had to clear out after 20 minutes. The usual."

On July 2, in Boston, Greco wrote, "Great to see Carlos again but couldn't stay at his apt. and ended up at his sister's. At C's, bloody beasts were everywhere!"

Back in the kitchen, Dot and Bowman had gone outside to his car. I phoned New Haven information and was given the number for a Thomas Bittner on Orange Street. I dialed the number and explained to the sleepy male voice that answered who I was and, briefly, what had happened to Peter Greco.

"Oh, God. Oh, no."

"Listen, Tom, you can help us find the people who did this. Peter died of asphyxiation, and the medical people think an allergy may have caused it. Was Peter, by chance, allergic to cats?"

"Oh, Jesus, yes, he was. Deathly. I mean— Oh, God—"

"Thanks, Tom. You've helped. Regards to Cicely."

I rang off and dialed Newell Bankhead's apartment.

"Don Strachey, Newell. I have a small favor to ask. Actually, it's quite a big favor, but it might help save a life. I need a list of everybody who works in pathology or an ER in area hospitals who's gay. The partial list you gave me isn't enough. I need 'em all. Real fast. Can you do it?"

He laughed. "That'd only take me about six weeks. And twelve reams of paper."

"Look, you just get on the phone and call three people, then they get on the phone and call three people, and like that. It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. In the end, everybody gay in Albany knows everybody gay in Albany. Eventually you always end up in the bed you started out in. I mean, this is the Hudson Valley, Newell, not West Hollywood. You can do it."

"I've been watching the Channel Twelve news. Does all this have to do with that horrible kidnapping business?" he asked. "That sweet young man who died?"

"It does."

"Oh. Oh, Lord. All right then. Yes. I'll do what I can. But it's after eleven, you know. A lot of people will be in bed getting their beauty sleep. People who go on duty at seven in the morning."

"Wake them up. Tell them how important it is. And one other thing, Newell. This complicates matters slightly, but you can handle it. I want to know not only which men in pathology and the ERs are gay, but who among them own cats. Or have lovers or roommates who own cats."

"Cats? Which ones have cats?"

"Right. Cats."

A silence.

"It's crucial," I said. "Life or death."

"Well. Hmm. I'll ... do what I can." He sounded doubtful.

"Thanks, Newell. By the way, I forgot to mention how much I enjoyed your rendition tonight of the theme from Ruby Gentry. I've always been a big Jeannie Crane fan myself."

"Why, thank you so much. But it was Jennifer Jones in Ruby Gentry. Don't you know anything about music?"

"Oh. I guess I was thinking of The Unfaithful."

"That was Ann Sheridan."

"Of course. Sorry, but during the fabulous forties my parents only took me to see Song of the South. Do you ever play 'Zippity-doo-da'?"

"Occasionally, around three-thirty in the morning," he said dryly. "If someone requests it."

"Well, I'm going to do that some night. So, be ready. Meanwhile, I've got work to do. And so do you."

"I'll say."

"I'll get back to you in a couple of hours, Newell. Thanks."

"Nnn. Surely."

I went outside, where Dot had just climbed into her car, the picnic basket full of money on the seat beside her. Edith was in a bathrobe standing by the open car window and leaned down to kiss Dot goodbye.

"Now, you be careful, Dorothy, and don't try to give those people an argument. Just hand them the money, and then you come right on home."

"Don't worry, love."

"Well, I am going to worry, and you know I am."

Bowman called out from his car, "Time to go, Mrs. Fisher. We'd better get rolling."

Edith backed away clutching her robe. A patrolman stayed behind to keep watch over her. I bent down and kissed Dot good luck, then yelled to Bowman that I'd follow in my car. He yelled back that he wanted me where he could keep an eye on me and commanded me to get into the back seat of his car, which is what I'd had in mind.

As we bounced up Moon Road toward Central, Dot half a block ahead of us, I explained to Bowman about Greco's allergy to cats and how this might have led to his dying, probably accidentally. Which would have explained a lot of things.

"Jesus," Bowman said, choosing for the moment to miss the point. "Couldn't stand cats? What kind of a faggot was this guy?"

Then the ride became very quiet.

21

The Westway Diner was lit up like a

small city in the black night. A glass-sided outer lobby contained a cigarette machine and a pay telephone. From across the avenue we watched Dot step out of her car at eleven-fifty-nine and climb the few steps into the lobby, where she stood by the phone. From a special radio speaker mounted on Bowman's dashboard we could hear Dot's breathing and accelerated heartbeat. The picnic basket hung on her arm.

At midnight, the telephone beside Dot rang.

"Hello?"

The diner pay phone had been tapped, and from the regular police radio speaker we could hear both Dot and the caller.

"Drive down to Price Chopper." The now-familiar voice again. Where had I heard it? "Wait by the pay phone out front."

"Which Price Chopper?" Dot quickly asked. "The one at the Twenty Mall, or the one down Western Avenue toward Albany?"

"Down Western. We'll call in two minutes."

Click.

Bowman sputtered, "Jesus, Mother, and Mary! We'll never get into that line in two minutes! Can we?"

A metallic voice from Second Division Headquarters, seven miles away, said, "We'll try, Lieutenant. We're workin' on it."

Dot was back in her car and turning east onto Western Avenue. Traffic was light and she swung out into the four-lane thoroughfare with no difficulty.

"You hear that, Conway?" Bowman barked into his microphone. "Boyce? Salazar? It's Price Chopper, back down Western."

"Got it, Lieutenant."

"We heard."

"On the way."

The parking lot of the all-night supermarket was practically deserted. Dot had pulled directly up to the pay phone near the brightly lighted entrance. Again she climbed out and stood by the telephone with her picnic basket. The phone rang.

"Yes, hello?"

Now we could hear only Dot's voice, the tap not yet completed.

"Yes, yes, I understand."

Bowman muttered, "Repeat it for us, lady. Repeat it."