Only Make Believe (14 page)

Both men were fit, coated with suntan oil and clad in identical black trunks, aviator shades and gold wedding rings. Several empty cocktail glasses lay on the deck between their chaise lounges. I signaled Homer Meadows for refills and came right to the point.

“Gentlemen, you know we’ve had a problem?”

Brasseux shrugged his shoulders. “Everything seemed fine to me, Dan. We just wish we’d had time to go fishing.”

Hansen nodded. “Fine and dandy. So what kind of problem? I haven’t looked at a newspaper since we hit town. Too busy.”

“You gentlemen didn’t hear the commotion on Sunday night? Anything funny, out in the hall? Say, a couple of hours after you left the club?”

Brasseux leaned almost imperceptibly toward his buddy. “Funny?”

“Gentlemen, I initialed your reservations requests for connecting rooms. We were delighted to accommodate you. We want all our guests to be comfortable and secure. You occupy rooms 510 and 512, I believe.”

Hansen’s hands suddenly started shaking. “We mind our own business, Dan. We heard a siren. Then somebody shouting. But—”

“No, Spud, the shouting was before—before the siren.”

“You gentlemen didn’t come out to investigate?”

Hansen stilled his hands by folding them into his armpits. “It was late. We’d gone to bed. No, we stayed in the—we stayed in our rooms.”

Brasseux pulled himself upright. “What did happen?”

“A man got beaten up. Down the hall from you. He later died.”

“A guest?”

“You might have seen him in the club. He was wearing a dress—did a female impersonation act. That may have been a very bad idea—as things turned out.”

Brasseux glanced at his buddy. “Guy must have been nuts.”

“I hoped maybe you gentlemen saw somebody with him in the club, noticed somebody in the hall outside his door, anything that might help us.”

“We’ve had a lot of catching up to do,” Hansen said, his voice a notch higher than before. “Hadn’t seen each other in six months. I sure didn’t notice any man in any dress.”

“And we turned in early,” Brasseux drawled, slapping his hands together. “We both, yeah, we stayed in our rooms all night.”

“Yeah, we did,” Hansen said. He lifted the sunglasses and looked me square in the eye. “Stayed in those rooms all night. Separate rooms. Connecting bath. We don’t want any trouble, Dan. Like you said, you approved the reservation, OK? You get what I mean?”

Brasseux touched his buddy’s arm. “Maybe we’d better head home tomorrow, Spud. You think?”

Clearly the fear of exposure had badly frightened two good, brave men who’d survived a war together. Clearly they’d had nothing to do with the incident in room 522.

“Gentlemen. Don’t misunderstand me. I just needed to check you off my list. May I offer you a half-day fishing trip? For troubling you with this. On the house. Just so you know how glad we are to have you as members of the Caloosa Club?”

Both men looked relieved. Maybe they’d even figured out we played for the same team.

“That’d be swell,” Gregg answered.

“Swell,” echoed his buddy.

Slim Nichols, Bud’s sometime girlfriend, said she felt sorry for the Diva as soon as she spotted her. “Poor old thing, watching every gesture she made, worried about every hair, smoothing her gloves like they was sunburned skin. And those shoes! Honey, it takes practice to wear heels without twisting an ankle. Don’t you bet that’s why she spent so much time sitting at the bar? And leanin’ on Tommy’s piano?”

I’d run into Slim on the loading dock out back. The waitress was enjoying a cigarette break.

“She was trying to look like this opera star in New York,” I said. “She brought her own sheet music.”

Slim dropped her cigarette end on the greasy concrete and stamped it out. “What she looked like, Honey, is this girl in my high school, Marie Ihlenfeld. Marie got herself up like the Queen of England for our senior prom. Wore a blue chiffon dress that her mother must of ran up from a pattern. Dime-store pearls, orchids on both her bazooms, high-heel sandals that Cleopatra would of killed for.”

“Girl has to give it a shot,” I said, again thinking of Earle the Pearl, Carmen’s USO friend, who only found himself lovable when in disguise. “She could have stayed home.”

“Marie chose exactly the wrong cheap lipstick and rouge for the orchids— just like the Diva’s brick red lips that didn’t go with that blue velvet gown. The colors fought like cats and dogs. And you know what’s worse? The Diva blotted the stuff on one of our white damask dinner napkins. The laundress will never get them stains out.”

“Diva had a lot to learn, that’s for sure.”

“Who did her up?”

When I identified the makeup artists as Carmen and beautician Patt Cope, Slim sniffed and turned to go back inside. “Poor Mr. DiGennaro. He should of come to me.”

Betty Harris, war widow, amateur golfer and discreet call girl, worked in a First Street real estate office four afternoons a week. We met for an early lunch on Wednesday. When I arrived at the Arcade Café, three doors down from Mr. Patt’s beauty shop, Betty was seated at a two-top in the secluded back room, sipping coffee and scanning the menu.

“What looks good?” I said, blowing her a kiss and settling into the chair opposite.

“Why you do, as always, Danny. And the admiral, if there’s an appreciative audience.”

“And when he has a great partner.” I threw her a second kiss. “But I was talking about the menu.”

Betty and I weren’t really friends. We were too much alike. We’d both lost everything we loved during the war, and the losses had left deep scars.

“Hmm, well, the waitress told me the red snapper is absolutely fresh, right off the boat. And they’ll broil it, with maitre d’ butter.”

“Make it two.”

The waitress appeared. I gave her the order.

“Speaking of twosomes,” Betty continued after the waitress had brought us iced tea, lemon, cornbread and butter, “The admiral and I have a date tonight. Is there a party?”

“There’s always a party. You know that. Maybe his wife was with him in Miami and he’s needing action. Maybe it’s a party of two.”

“The admiral would blow his top without his parties. That’s what he claims. Women are supposed to be ruled by hormones and monthly impulses. But some of you men are worse—helpless, absolutely blindfolded by lust and thoughtless need.”

Asdeck was not only highly sexed, he had his own distinct kink—he liked to be watched, even admired, for his prowess as a cocksman. He told me once that his father’s New York hotel offered six sets of adjoining rooms equipped with either peepholes or one-way mirrors. As a teenager, using unrented rooms and a passkey, he’d gained a liberal education. At the New Victory Club, he’d had peepholes installed in several tatami rooms, and often entertained two or three geishas at once. At the Caloosa, his suite was equipped with a one-way mirror.

“Who’s going to play peeping Tom tonight? Do you have anybody lined up?”

“That was never your kind of thing, was it Dan? Watching?”

“Never say never. But I’d rather do it than see it. I wonder if Bud would get a kick out of peeping.”

Betty made a face. “I wouldn’t push it if I were you.”

“Ouch, you’re right, bad idea. Forget I said it. Lunch is on me.”

She laughed. “Done. But wasn’t it anyway?”

“Keep talking, please. What about DiGennaro? I’m hearing he had some kind of sex fetish. Putting on women’s clothes got him excited.”

“That makes more sense, yes. A lot of men learn about getting excited from Sears Roebuck and Montgomery Ward catalogs. Bras, panties, corsets—seeing them becomes part of being aroused. You have no idea how many clients ask a girl to wear a certain type of garment so they can touch it, kiss it—in a way, make love to it rather than to the girl herself.”

“Jock straps do that for me sometimes. And battle scars.”

“Battle scars?” She sipped her coffee, looking perplexed. Then she nodded. “Oh, of course, I see. The war and all.”

“Most of the men I knew in Japan showed some battle damage.”

“Like Bud?”

“Like Bud.”

“He’s a good dancer.”

“He is. Bud’s like a Christmas stocking—one surprise after another.”

Betty looked away. Her husband had been killed on a coral reef on Peleliu. Memories don’t die, not those of a woman as young and vital as Betty.

Finally she looked up. “You two ever dance?”

“To the radio. In my room sometimes.”

She smiled. “I’d love to see that.”

“Bud would keel over from embarrassment. Tell me about DiGennaro. You were right there, looking at him.”

“I’m surprised I didn’t spot him faster. Who made him up, Carmen?”

“Mr. Patt. He claims DiGennaro got physically aroused when they dressed him.”

“I lived in San Francisco right after the war, Dan. I didn’t go out much except for groceries or a movie. Certainly I wasn’t in the life yet. I had my own, you know, battle damage.”

I nodded. I did know.

“One night a girlfriend from work, she and her husband took me to Finnochio’s. They claimed that the performers—men dressed up like women—were all heterosexual, and that it was just a job for them. What a joke. But I did enjoy Finnochio’s. We went back. I talked to a few of the girls—they had to circulate, push drinks as part of the job. One of them explained that the noticeable difference between real girls and Finnochio’s girls is the Adam’s apple. That’s why so many transvestites wear elaborate necklaces, feather boas and fur pieces. Our Diva wore pearls. I should have spotted her as a him even before she opened her mouth.”

“To sing?”

“No, right away. As soon as Lucille Shepherd did. Our Diva was a very mixed up person. First he sat there at the bar batting his lashes, touching his heart, trying to handle a cocktail glass wearing gloves, pinkie fully extended, all Miss Meek and Mild. After his show and two drinks, he gives me the once-over, says what’s a pretty thing like you doing out all alone so late?”

“Want me to speculate?” I pulled a long thin roll out of the bread basket and held it up. “He got aroused and stayed aroused. The booze made it harder to control.” I twisted the roll into two parts. “Who else did Diva fool?”

“Well, Larry—Lucille’s brother. He wandered over and asked her to dance. He was plastered, of course.”

“And left town the next day. Bud’s going to talk to him. And?”

“A weekend guest in the hotel, club member.”

“The Sloan twins? We know about them.”

“Them too? No. My—the—Dr. Ayers, the dentist from Sebring. He likes a good time, we’ve had a few dates, he’s very considerate. Novelty excites him. He always wants to… Well, never mind that. But I guess he saw something to like about the Diva, something exotic maybe? Anyway, he suggested to me that the three of us go upstairs, have a little private party in his room, on his ticket. What could I say?”

“Betty, you can always say no. That’s one reason Brian’s on the door, to keep people civil and polite. The last thing we want is trouble.”

As if we don’t have enough already.

Betty set down her fork. “Which is what the Diva brought with him.”

“The Diva and whoever went after him.”

“Marc’s idea didn’t seem dangerous, though, just slightly unpleasant. Anyway, Marc went over and spoke to the Diva. Diva listened to him, looked at me, and said—loud enough so I could hear it—well, something very vulgar.”

“What did he actually say?”

Betty glanced around the room. No one was within ten feet. Still, she whispered. “He told Marc to go fuck himself with a tire iron.”

“How’d Marc take it? I’d have been angry as hell. Maybe I’d have gotten angry enough to beat the hell out of the big mouth Diva.”

“Maybe so. Maybe you did. Maybe this is all a smoke screen.” Betty’s voice was colder than the ice in my glass of tea. “You have a key to every room in the house. That’s not my business. But I do know this: Marc isn’t to blame.”

Her words stung. “How can you be so sure?”

“I was with him. All night. In his suite, 708. Where were you?”

My balls turned cold. I shrugged, said that her word was more than enough for me. I begged her pardon and said I hoped there were no hard feelings. She said there weren’t. After all, she worked for me. What else could she say?

I checked her story with Ayers by phone that afternoon. Yes, he said, he’d been with Betty. And they’d had such a good time they didn’t even hear the siren when the ambulance arrived.

Other Caloosa guests and staff members added useful details.

Elmo Glissen, the Orlando retiree, also linked Larry Doolittle to the Diva. “Dan, you don’t mix serious poker with serious drinking. Young Doolittle left the table with empty pockets, a chip on his shoulder and drunk as a lord. He must have a liver like a stableboy’s sponge.”

Monica (“Call me Monique”) Donnahew said essentially the same thing. “Larry stood between Miss Diva Capri and myself at the bar. Bought us all a round of drinks. I heard him talking to her. He talked real sweet.”