Turning Idolater (33 page)

“Sprakie’s roommate.”

Philip pondered the floor. His thoughts were
twisted. He shifted his eyes about the kitchenette — from fridge,
to sink, to message board. Suddenly, his eye caught a familiar item
pinned on the corkboard. An index card with a note scrawled in
magic marker:

Dennis H.

212.432.2272

nice

He plucked it off.
He had tossed this card.
Philip strained to think.

“Shit,” he murmured. “I pitched it away in my cubby.
Why would Sprakie save . . .”
Why did Sprakie do anything?
“No. Not Dennis.”

Philip was on his cell phone in a flash. He paced
the living room waiting for someone to answer. Nothing.
This was
the land line.
He tried Dennis’ cell number. The voice mail
answered.

“Dennis. It’s me, Philip. Call me when you get this
message. It’s important.”

He clicked the phone shut, but then decided to try
the land line again.
Busy.

“Why would it be busy? It just rang.”

Philip scratched his head. He spun about, the
frustration now overtaking his rationality.
It’s just a phone
number.
He had never invited Sprakie to Dennis’ place. He had
never mentioned or even hinted at where it was at, so there was no
way for Sprakie to know.

“He could have followed me,” Philip said to the
closed door that loomed before him. “Or he could have tracked down
Dennis.” But this was also unlikely.
Or was it?
Then, Philip
winced. He remembered something he wished he did not. Dennis had
gotten an unusual call this morning — from Verizon, to confirm his
name and address for the delivery of phone books.

“Sprakie! Why?”

Philip reached for the door, but stopped. He
retrieved his wallet, fishing for the card of a certain New York
City detective. He dialed.
Voice mail.

“Detective Kusslow. This is Philip Flaxen. It’s
urgent. Meet me at 1270 East 108
^th
Street, Apartment 8D.
Hurry. I’ve remembered something.”

Sprakie! Why?

No subway now. Philip hailed a cab — a rare hack
that ventured this far East. The hack almost didn’t stop, perhaps
confusing Philip with Bonnie Belle, who beckoned from the lamppost.
However, Philip practically jumped in front of it, and then piled
in with scant notice. Bonnie Belle blinked. The cab driver babbled
something about being
off duty
, but Philip didn’t care. He
just banged on the back of the front seat and shouted the
address.

“And as fast as you can.”

The cabby shrugged, shoved the meter flag down and
headed for Canal Street.

“Someone after you, kid?”

“No.”

“I mean, I can go even faster for extra cash.”

Philip groped through his wallet. Luck. He had a
fifty. He waved it over the seat, the cabby spying it through the
rear-view mirror — Grant winking at him from his portraiture.

“You got it, man.”

The cab jerked forward, gained Canal and began a
buzz-bomb negotiation of streets, veering up Broadway, weaving
between traffic like some yahoo cowboy. Philip eased back. He
didn’t want to think the worst, but he had to. He tried to call
Dennis again, but with the same results.
Voice mail on cell.
Busy on land line.
But the land line had rung before. Not now.
That thought kept spinning in Philip’s mind. He watched the street
signs pass, incrementally from 14
^th
Street to
23
^rd
Street to 34
^th
Street. He closed his
eyes hoping to see something above 60
^th
next.

“I’m doin’ my best,” the cabby said.

“I appreciate it.”

“Nothing to do with that, my friend. Nothing . . .
eh, move it, you cocksucker.
Where the hell did you get your
license? Sears? Some people shouldn’t be on the roads, man. It’s a
cryin’ shame.”

Philip chewed his fingers. He then played with the
straps of his backpack. He thought of Thomas. His heart sank at the
thought. Uncle Dean would have called if there were a change? He
was sure of it. No news meant good news. But no news could also
mean the same news and that was not pretty. Suddenly, the hack
stopped short.

“Why did you stop?”

“1270 East 108
^th
Street.” The cabby
raised the meter flag. “That’ll be $11.50 plus that little
presidential goody you promised me.”

Philip managed a smile. He snapped fifteen bucks
from his wallet and added it to the fifty.

“Keep the change.”

“Should I wait?”

“No.”

Philip knew this would be a one-way trip.

The eight flights seemed like eighteen. Philip hoped
that Detective Kusslow had picked up his voice mail and would be
waiting inside
8D
, wondering where the fire was and why
Philip was such a drama queen. By the sixth floor, Philip was
winded. He rested for a moment. He thought he heard someone else on
the stairs — above. It was tomorrow already — one o’clock or so. No
one should be stirring, not this far uptown. He steadied himself
and continued the climb. He approached the door, which stood ajar.
He stopped square to it, and then looked down. There was blood on
the octagonal tiles — a smear, perhaps a footprint. Perhaps, two.
Philip trembled. He pushed the door open. The lights were on.

“Dennis?”

Someone was here. Philip sensed it. He strode
through the kitchen, and then into the living room. The couch
cushions were thrown against the window. The phone was off the
hook, because it had been tumbled from the side table. There was
another smear on the gray carpeting. Philip turned. He could see
into Dennis’ bedroom.

“No,” he whimpered. “No.”

Dennis was sprawled on the floor at the foot of his
bed. Philip rushed to his side, hunkering down beside the body.

“Dennis?”

Dennis did not answer. Dennis could not answer. He
lay in a pool of blood, a plastic bag shoved in his mouth,
shoelaces taut about his throat.

“No,” Philip moaned. He had no more tears. He welled
up with anger now. He touched Dennis’ chest. The wound was like
Tee’s only closer to the heart. It probably didn’t kill. That was
the task of bag and laces.
How could anyone hurt him?
This
was a direct stab at him — Philip. He touched the wound, the
still-warm blood trickling over his fingers. At the edge of the
pool as it seeped into the carpeting, was another smear.
Foot
prints.

Philip stood. He knew now. He knew whose trace this
was, and he also guessed where they led. Philip followed the smears
through the living room, back into the kitchen and then over the
threshold to the stairs. He gazed up. It was only five more
flights.
Only five.
He thought of his safety. How would he
defend himself? How? Should he wait for the detective?

“Sprakie,” he shouted up the stairwell shaft. “This
will end now.”

Philip ascended.

The roof door was shut, but the blood still trailed.
Suddenly, Philip had a revelation. This couldn’t be Dennis’ blood.
No one could track someone else’s blood up five flights. Dennis
must have struggled and got Sprakie good. This was Sprakie’s blood.
Philip grinned, and then pushed the door open.

There was no breeze tonight. The air was still —
stiff even, but the vault of the heavens arched overhead. Philip
looked around for something — anything to defend himself. The only
thing he could find was the chunk of pavement —
old scrappy
,
that was used to hold the door open.
I’ll be locked out up
here.
But he didn’t care now. He released his backpack,
lowering it to the roof ridge, and then lifted
old scrappy.
The door slammed shut. He turned slowly, taking in this abandoned
place — this deep settled reef upon the rooftops.
Whaling is a
bloody business,
he thought.

“Sprakie,” he shouted.

“Little Ishie.”

Robert Sprague came out from behind the rotor. He
limped. His hair was disheveled, his face bruised.
Dennis had
put up a fight
. In Sprakie’s hand was
the mistress
— the
ladies gun.

“You’re hurt, Robert,” Philip said, moving slowly
toward him. He braced the rock, but then thought that
old
scrappy
wasn’t effective at this range.

“Why would
you
care?”

“I’m the one that should be asking you —
why.”

Sprakie opened his arms in a crucifix posture.
“Jesus Marie. You’re as dense as my platinum dildo.”

Philip edged closer. “I met Mrs. Waters.”

“Oh, so that game’s up.”

“Why, Sprakie?”

Sprakie stepped in closer, his limp pronounced. He
staggered. “They all think they’re the queen of the May. There’s
only one star in this show, little Ishie. Me. I don’t share the
billing, and I don’t share anything. They all were Aces of Spades.”
He held the gun high. “Well, meet the Queen of Spades, dearie.”

Philip stood tall. He let the rock dangle from his
right hand. “You need help, Sprakie.”

“Help? Me, help? Who’s got the gun? What do you got
there? A big, bad rock.”

“The door’s locked,” Philip said. His trembling
ceased, his voice calm.
Locked.
“You’ll have me as a corpse
with no where to go.”

Sprakie spit. “All you had to do was stay with me.
Things were perfect. But no. You had to hitch up with all those
losers. That one downstairs must have really loved your ass. He
died burbling your name. I had to block his fucking mouth to stop
his bullshit.”

Philip winced. If this was true, too many were
sacrificed for his mistakes. Suddenly, Sprakie laughed.

“Stop it,” Philip shouted. He raised the rock. “You
can’t laugh at them. They were good. All good.”

“Like your Mr. Dye. Well, die he will.”

“No,” Philip shouted. “He did nothing to you. Why
him, Sprakie? Why him?”

“Him?” Sprakie raised the gun. “I wasn’t aiming for
him, little Ishie. I was aiming for . . .”

“Lower your weapon,” came a voice to the right.

“Slowly,” came a voice from the left.

Philip saw a pair of crouching forms. They had
emerged from the side entrances. Sprakie waved the gun, first
toward Detective Kusslow, and then toward Detective Karnes. A
confused look gripped his face. He then aimed the tiny toy weapon —
the gun that couldn’t kill a grown man at that range, at Philip,
and fired.

“Jesus Marie.”

Two more shots rang out. The rock shattered.
Sprakie’s eyes rolled back. He faltered backward, staggering to the
edge, and then he plunged from view. Philip gazed at the crumbs in
his hand.
Old scrappy
may have helped him after all. He
dropped the remnants, and then rushed to the roof’s edge glancing
down at the ruin that once was Robert Sprague.
The only way
down, if you forget about old scrappy,
came Dennis Hatcher’s
voice,
is over the side and it’s a twelve-story drop. Land on
your feet, if you can.
Sprakie hadn’t, and the state was spared
an expense.

Philip didn’t think he had any more tears to shed,
but he had.
O’Neill is O’Neill,
after all, and
whaling is
a bloody business.
Dean Cardoza’s words rushed him —
They’re
all gone. Gone.
Jemmy to his rest from his drug induced haze.
Max from his dreams of the wicked stage. Gordon to his permanent
business trip in California. Dennis from his unsated passion, even
at the end. Flo from his obsession and torture. Sprakie . . .
Philip glanced down again. Here was a friend, or so he thought.
Here was the star attraction, and no one would deny him top billing
now. Only Tee hung in the balance. Only Tee.

A hand squeezed Philip’s shoulder.

“Sterling, Mr. Flaxen.”

Philip turned. Despite the thanks he should have
given for being saved from the small caliber pistol, he was so
angry with this man — this badger, he felt like decking him.
Couldn’t he have prevented it all? Wasn’t he responsible,
know-it-all that he was, for a portion of this string of
tragedies?

“You didn’t have to kill him,” Philip said.

“Oh, but I did, Mr. Flaxen. Case closed.”

Philip sank to the ground, the stars above mocking
him.
They’re all gone
, he thought. The world held little
promise now.

“I’ll need to ask you . . .”

Philip flipped Kusslow the finger. “Answer
given.”

Karnes had been directing the other officers in
crime scene proceedings. He now joined Kusslow at the roof’s
edge.

“Are you ready to go downtown?” Karnes asked Philip.
Philip spared Karnes the finger, but glowered at him.

“I think our questions can hold until tomorrow
afternoon, Karnes.”

“Thank you,” Philip said, as cold as the morning’s
dawn.

“Go home, Mr. Flaxen. You need some rest.”

Go home. Now, where may that be?
Philip shook
his head.

“Do you need a lift?” Karnes said. “Can the patrol
car drop you off anywhere?”

Philip thought of the apartment five stories below,
and cringed. He would never go in there again. He couldn’t bear it.
Too many ghosts.

“Anywhere?” Kusslow asked.

Philip closed his eyes and thought. “Yes,” he
said.

Kusslow gave him a hand up. Karnes handed Philip the
backpack. Two officers drifted to the edge. Heads nodded, a new
silence gripping the scene. The patrolmen led Philip down the right
side stairwell, clear of Sprakie’s blood.

Whaling is a bloody business.

Chapter
Seven

Another rotating red light. No siren this time as
the patrol car took Philip away from East 108
^th
Street.
He slouched in the back seat, sleep gnawing at his eyelids. There
was no taximeter this time, but the cost felt higher. He imagined
himself in a dream, somewhere at dawn in Provincetown, watching the
early gulls stream to the clam beds for breakfast. He heard the
whale song beckoning him to join them in the plunge. Old Charlotte,
however, was dead and buried. The Maine Coon was gone, no longer
hiding in the tall grass awaiting a mouse toy. Peace was fading
also, but beyond the crest of the waves, he sensed serenity. How he
wished to swim out and gather this bath into his arms and soak
there for eternity.