Death Turns A Trick (Rebecca Schwartz #1) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (14 page)

“You’re, uh, quite the celebrity, aren’t you?” he said. Beads of sweat moistened his hairline.

I tried to put him at ease. “Hollywood’s been calling all day,” I said. “But don’t worry; I won’t forget my old friends.”

“That’s nice, dear. How’s Alan?” He withdrew one of his hands and looked at his wrist. But there was no watch on it—only a band of skin lighter than the rest of his arm.

“Uh, fine,” I said. “I guess. I haven’t seen him in a couple of days.”

He flushed, then tried out a smile. It came out a grimace. “Oh, you girls and your boyfriends. For some reason I confused you with Mickey.”

I told him I thought he needed a drink, and offered to get it. “No thanks, dear,” he said. “I’ll get it myself.” And he was off.

You don’t know my uncle Walter, so you’ll have to take my word for it that he was the most solicitous uncle anyone could have. He was the kind of uncle who not only remembered his nieces’ birthdays, but also their boyfriends’. And sent the presents to the right address, too. Or more likely, hand-delivered them in his Mercedes.

I’d never seen him like that, never known him to confuse me with Mickey, or Alan with Gary—never, never had him brush me off. I had to face the fact that that was what he had done. To me, his favorite niece! There had to be a reason for it, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what it was.

Dad spoke, at my elbow. “Rebecca, I want you to meet somebody you’ve got a lot in common with. Another friend of the downtrodden prostitute.”

I extended my hand, holding back the words that sprang to mind: “Hello, Senator, I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.” For it was Senator Calvin Handley.

At
his
elbow was his wife Josephine, who asked me almost immediately to call her Jodie. She had one of those never-a-hair-out-of-place coiffures, like Betty Ford, and she was wearing an Adolfo dress. She had something of Mrs. Ford’s energy and vitality, too. I liked her right off, and felt sorry for her as well. She was the perfect political wife and then some, yet her husband had spent his Friday nights with Kandi Phillips. Probably told her he was tied up at the office, har har. Half of it was true, anyway.

“I feel as if I already know you,” she said warmly. “I’ve been following your career ever since you became the lawyer for HYENA. In fact, Cal and I saw you on TV last night, didn’t we, Cal?”

The senator nodded, beaming. He didn’t seem a whit ill at ease.

“You know,” continued Jodie, “I’m an honorary member of HYENA myself. I got on the bandwagon long before Cal did.”

The senator might be used to duplicity, but it was driving me nuts. I hoped it didn’t show in my face. “Oh?” I asked weakly. “How did you get involved?”

“I’d been actively working for the Equal Rights Amendment, and I've also been a longtime opponent of anti-abortion laws. I guess I must have been on some mailing list or other. They sent me a letter and asked me to attend one of their meetings.”

“So you’re a feminist.”

“Of course.” She smiled at her husband. “I was long before the women’s movement, and so was Cal. We’ve always had a very sharing sort of marriage.”

The senator’s face was serious. “I wouldn’t say that, Jodie. Being married to a politician, you’ve had to endure a lot of—what’s the Yiddish for trouble and woe, Rebecca?—
tsuris
?”

“Well, we’ve tried, anyway,” said Jodie, not denying it. “And Cal, as you know, has been very good about supporting feminist issues in the senate. But I like to think I had some influence with him on this bill to legalize prostitution.”

Since I had my doubts about the thing as a feminist issue, I asked Jodie her thoughts on the subject. “I
do
agree with the HYENA arguments,” she said. “I’m sure many women turn to prostitution because of, well, misfortunes that make it impossible to make a living in a more conventional way.” She looked vague for a moment. “Lack of educational opportunities, children to support… But I must admit I support it on practical grounds more than anything. I think that’s what finally convinced Cal I was right.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, it
is
the oldest profession, after all. Hundreds of years of prohibitions against it have failed to wipe it out. You may as well legalize it so you can regulate it, like marijuana.”

The senator smiled, still showing no sign of discomfort. “Wait a minute, Jodie. Let’s not get carried away.” To me he said, “Jodie’s a little more advanced on the marijuana issue than I am. If she had her way, you could buy it in cigarette machines.”

“I understand that day is coming,” I said. “Or at least that the cigarette companies think it is. Supposedly they’re all set to start producing twenty-joint packs as soon as it’s legalized. But prostitution’s a little different. It could so easily come under mob control.”

“But that’s not the issue,” Jodie insisted. “Of course it could, but I don’t think I care much who runs it. The mob is in a lot of legitimate businesses these days. Should we outlaw Italian restaurants because they may be owned by the Mafia? Anyway, I’m not sure the mob is so much worse than the oil companies—or the cigarette people for that matter.”

“My dear!” said the senator. His eyes twinkled at both of us. “So now you know about the skeleton in the Handley closet,” he said to me. “I’m married to a firebrand radical.”

“A woman after my own heart,” I said, and meant it. Jodie smiled. “Oh, there’s Betty Blaine,” she said. “I’ve got to talk to her about something. Will you excuse me a moment?”

She fluttered gracefully away, energy and good nature fairly seething from her pores.

“At last we’re alone,” said the senator in a stage whisper.

“Again,” I said.

“Yes. I think we’d better have a little talk, don’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. How about my car?”

We walked out the back sliding doors, because they were closest, and around the house. Apparently he’d been able to get a parking place when someone else left, because he wasn’t parked nearly so far away as Mickey and I. He opened the door of a tan Mercedes to let me slip inside. While he walked around to the other side, I inhaled the odor of newness and thought resentfully that it was a pretty fancy car for a man of the people.

He waited a moment to see if I’d speak first, but I didn’t. “I want to thank you for the other night,” he said, “and to apologize for my idiotic behavior. I didn’t know who you were at the time, of course.”

“You were upset.”

“Upset! It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” He looked at me with an appealing earnestness. “Would you believe it if I told you I love my wife?”

“Of course. Anyone would love her.”

“You know far too much about me, my girl.”

My neck prickled. “Is that a threat?”

The senator smiled and patted my hand. “Good God, no! I was admitting my own embarrassment, that’s all.” He became serious again. “I hope you can understand. I don’t completely, myself, but I think it’s something to do with power, something about guilt…”

“That makes you… made you go to Kandi, you mean?”

“Yes. I’ve done some reading on it, and I don’t think it’s too unusual. You see, in my job so much is at stake. One compromises so much, and there is so much corruption everywhere… I don’t know. The best I can say is that I feel a need to be punished for my part in it. At least I think that’s what it is. Do you understand?”

“As you say, I believe it’s quite common among politicians. I can read, too, you know. But why are you telling me all this?”

“You’re an intelligent girl, Rebecca. I’m telling you because I mean to appeal to your sense of compassion for a fellow human being. A human being with an affliction, if you will. I want to beg you—
beg you
—to keep it to yourself. I think it would kill Jodie if she found out.”

I was horrified. “Hurting Jodie is the last thing I’d want to do,” I said. “I hope you understand that I realize the seriousness of the thing. I also wouldn’t want to hurt you. You’re working on some things in Sacramento that are important to me, and I don’t see how your… affliction, as you put it, could interfere with your work. Unless there was a scandal about it, which would destroy your credibility. So why would I want to create one?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but I stopped him. “On the other hand, I am adamant that the police must be told you were at Elena’s Friday night. A woman has been murdered, after all.”

“I’ve already told them.”

“Good. Then you needn’t worry about my telling anyone. You have my word.”

“Thank God!” He sank back against the seat and closed his eyes, like a man who has come to the end of a long and arduous task. “Thank God!” I was quite sincerely sympathetic to him, no matter how much I liked Jodie.

As we walked back to the party, though, I felt I had to have the answer to another question. “Didn’t it bother you,” I asked, “when we were having that conversation about prostitution with Jodie? It was excruciating for me.”

“Bother me! My dear girl, my stomach felt like someone had lit a fire in it.” He made a fist and struck a tree trunk. “I hate lying to her! I hate it!”

“Does it make you feel guilty?”

He sighed. “Of course. And the more guilt I feel, the more I need…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but I didn’t need to be told.

We reentered the house and went our separate ways. I tried to have a good time, but the evening was pretty well spoiled for me.

Mickey and I managed to get away about eleven o’clock. “Your shadow’s back,” she said as we turned into my block.

Sure enough, the unmarked cop car was parked next to my Volvo. There was no one in it. “He must have followed us to the bridge and then turned back.” I said. “Maybe they aren’t allowed to go out of the jurisdiction.”

“Looks like he’s taking a coffee break. Probably thought you’d be out a lot later.”

I got a certain amount of pleasure out of that. I was about to go in, get the money, and drive right to the Hall of Justice with it. It would be amusing to have him miss me on that particular mission.

Mickey and I said good night, and I went inside. First I made sure the money was still in the asparagus fern, then I got the telephone book and sat down on the sofa to look up the number of the police department. I figured I’d get a warmer welcome if I didn’t arrive unannounced.

Putting my finger on the number, I stared into space for a minute, committing it to memory. I’m not sure now whether I heard the noise of someone stepping out of the kitchen, or caught the motion out of the comer of my eye. Maybe both. Anyhow, I knew I wasn’t alone.

“Hello, Portia,” said a male voice, a voice that came out of a face that missed being handsome because it was florid and a little on the mean side. The face that belonged to Frank, the man I’d met at Elena’s and again at the Washington Square Bar and Grill. He was holding a gun.

This time I did scream. At least I went through the motions, but no sound came out.

For a big man, he moved fast and well, like one of the centaurs from
Fantasia
. He was around the coffee table before I had time to close my mouth. A stifling, sweaty hand went over it, and the gun barrel connected rudely with my ribs. Being a sissy when it comes to pain, I jumped like I do when the dental hygienist hits a sensitive spot with one of those evil little scrapers.

“I expected better from you,” said Frank. “Big deal lawyer and you scream like any other broad.”

That made me mad, of course, so I tried to give him a smart answer. But I couldn’t with that slab of beef over my mouth. He gave me another punch with the gun, and I jumped again. “No screaming, okay?” said Frank.

I nodded as well as I could, hoping it would induce him to stop smothering me. He let me go and started to sit down on the coffee table, but I stopped him. “You’ll break it.”

Something his mother taught him must have sunk in, because he sat down next to me instead. His eye fell on the phone book, still open at “City and County of San Francisco.” Anybody knows there’s only one county office open at midnight on a Sunday, so I guess he figured out what I was doing.

“Calling the police?” he asked, almost idly.

I shrugged. By that time, I’d put a couple of things together, and one of them was that that orangutan was there to kill me. As a matter of fact, I figured I was as good as dead, but I wasn’t going to run off at the mouth for his amusement. I had to save my breath to try to talk my way out of it.

For the moment I concentrated on figuring out why he hadn’t done it yet.

Then Frank answered that question for me. He put the gun away and chucked me under the chin: “You know you’re real cute?” Very self-satisfied, almost purring. He reminded me of a cat tossing a mouse around just for fun, feeling its oats as a mighty hunter, relishing its victim’s agony. Frank was going to play with me before he sank his teeth in. But I didn’t know yet if it was going to be mental or physical torture. Dear God, I thought, am I about to be raped? Somehow it’s not easy to imagine yourself dead, even though your ribs already hurt from being pummeled with a gun barrel. Rape seemed eminently more believable, and therefore scarier.

Apparently Frank hadn’t made up his mind on that one, though. He curled his thick fingers around one of my breasts as if it were an apple. “Know what I’d like to do?” he said. Again I didn’t answer. But he told me anyway. In some detail.

Getting that stuff off his chest seemed to clear Frank’s mind. It was going to be rape, all right.

He took his hand off my breast, grabbed my arm, and pulled me on top of him. I started to flail my other arm, but he had it before I could get going. I kicked, hitting only sofa pillows, and I wriggled like a lizard. The pressure on my arms didn’t increase, and Frank showed no signs of strain. I was so busy trying to use my elbows as deadly bludgeons I didn’t notice at first that he was laughing. When I did, it made me all the madder, and I struggled twice as hard and got just as nowhere.

It wasn’t anything like a cat and mouse, really. I was completely wrong about that. But have you ever seen a cat stalk a moth? He just stares at it first, unnerving the moth so it flies into a corner somewhere. Then the cat stares some more, having a swell old time, practically chuckling. Meanwhile, the moth flutters frantically, describing the same parabola over and over again, hitting its head against the sides of the corner. I don’t know why it never thinks of just flying up, but it doesn’t. Maybe the cat hypnotizes it. Anyway, when the cat is good and bored with all that, it just raises one dainty paw effortlessly—so fast you’ll miss it if you blink—and swings the paw down on the moth’s rear end. The moth’s head protrudes from underneath the paw, and the cat smiles at it. I have watched cats do this, and though they do not show their teeth, I guarantee you that they smile.