On the Other Hand, Death - Stevenson Richard - Страница 17

He wished also for me to convey his warm greetings to your husband. Is Mr. Wilson in?"

"Oh. Hi there. It's you." She sat up looking wary. "Yeah, Bill's here." She heaved up her great chest and screeched, "Willl-sonnn!"

I got out and walked toward the house. The screen door flew open.

"What you hollerin' about now?" He spotted me. "Who's he?"

"Dunno. Says he's lookin' for you."

He was a good four inches taller than I was, broader, thicker, a jaw like an old boot, a flat cockeyed nose, and eyes full of simmering resentment. He wore dark green work clothes, and in a fist like a small hippo he was gripping a length of cast-iron drainpipe with a jagged end.

"Good morning, Mr. Wilson. I'm Donald Strachey, representing Crane Trefusis of Millpond Plaza Associates. May I have a moment of your time?"

His eyes narrowed. "Maybe. Maybe not. What's in it for me?"

"Crane Trefusis asked me to drop by and convey his fondest best wishes. And to ask for your assistance in looking into a problem that's cropped up."

He sneered. "Crane Trefusis is a lying, shit-eating, pig-fucking phony. I'll lend Crane Trefusis a hand the day he comes across with his big fat hunnert and eighty grand. Meantime, you tell Trefusis he can take his wishes and blow 'em out his ass. Now get outta here! I got a busted drain to fix."

"But, Bill! This man—"

"And you shut your trap!" Still watching me, he said, "You got them big bucks with you, mister?"

I shrugged.

"Then you climb back in that piece of Jap junk of yours and drive on out of here."

"It's German," I said. "And they make them in Pennsylvania now."

He looked as if his sense of humor was about to fail him. I said, "Y'all have a real good day now," and acted on Wilson's suggestion.

Heading on back into the city, I wondered again how Bill Wilson planned on making his wife rich any time soon. I could only be certain it wasn't going to be in the diplomatic service. But whatever Wilson's shortcomings— and I'd have to use other means for looking into them—I had to concede that he was an excellent judge of character.

Tad Purcell's address, as listed in the Albany phone book, was on Irving Street just off Swan. The block was a peninsula of gentrification jutting west from the South Mall renewal area. In another five years the orderly plague of marigolds in window boxes and white doors with brass knockers would likely spread as far as Lark Street, and where the dispossessed poor would go, no one knew. The local machine was preoccupied with obscure larger matters, and UNICEF was busy in Somalia.

"Hi, I'm Don Strachey, a friend of Peter Greco's. Could I talk to you for a few minutes?"

A quizzical look, not entirely friendly. "I've seen you somewhere recently," he said. "Where was it?" A cloud of Listerine breath hit me in the face like a visit to New Jersey.

"Last night at the Green Room," I said. "I was with Peter."

He tensed up, glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at me, undecided about something. He ran a well-manicured hand through his freshly blow-dried black waves that were touched with white.

"Oh. Sure. I guess that's where it must have been.

What was it you wanted to talk about?"

"Peter. He might be in trouble."

I watched him. His faintly creased oval face, on the brink between youth and whatever was coming next for him, was aglow with after-shave, and the pink now deepened. He pursed his lips, lowered his head as if to consult the alligator on his polo shirt, then looked at me again.

"Any friend of Peter's is a friend of mine," he finally said with a nervous laugh. "I have to go out in a couple of minutes, but I've got a second. Sure. Why not? C'mon in. You said your name was Rob?"

"Don. Don Strachey."

"Take a load off your feet, Don."

I followed him into a small living room decorated with menus from famously expensive local restaurants, and lowered myself into a canvas sling chair. To my left was a large console color television set with a framed photo of a young Peter Greco resting atop it. Purcell perched on the edge of the couch and lit a Kool. Somewhere above us water was running.

"Well, I must say, I'm not completely surprised to hear that Peter is in trouble," he said. His tone was sarcastic, but the apprehension came through. "Is he in trouble with the law?"

"Maybe. In a way. The thing is, Peter never showed up at the house where he was staying last night. Dot Fisher's farm, out on Moon Road. His friends are pretty worried about him."

He blew smoke at the ceiling and thought about this. "Is that right? Well. Where do his friends think he might have spent the night?"

"I thought you might know."

"Ho, really? Well. How about that. Now, where would anybody ever get such an idea?" He colored and bit the inside of his cheek, making it look as if he wanted to

smile but was trying not to. Either he knew something and was acting coy, or he was simply enjoying the idea that I might think Greco had spent the night with him and was going to insist that both of us savor the fantasy, however briefly.

"Peter had been speaking with you just before the time he vanished," I said. "You asked him for three thousand dollars. Demanded it, he told me."

A jittery laugh. "Did he say that? God, Peter didn't take that seriously, did he? He must have known I was just bitter about . . . what happened between us." He went all pink again, bright as Dot's phlox, and rocked on his hams. "After ten years! God. You'd think he'd have remembered how I get after a drink or two. I mean, you know how it is."

I thought I was beginning to see how it was with Tad Purcell, but I wasn't sure yet. He dragged deeply on the cigarette, then flicked the ash several times, even when it was no longer there. "You know, Peter and I used to be lovers," Purcell suddenly announced with a proud, shaky half-smile. "Did Peter mention that?"

"He did," I said. "Peter spoke well of the time you two had together."

He relaxed a little and sat back, gazing at the photo on the TV set.

"Peter was a very, very important part of my life," Purcell said softly. "My memory of him is something I cherish deeply."

"I can see that."

"You see, the thing is, Peter was mostly on the streets before he met me," he said with a look of distaste. "Running around with hippies and flower children and so forth. But by the time we met, Peter was really fed up with street life. All that pointless rebellion and immaturity. We all have to grow up sometime, am I right?"

"Right."

Clearly grateful to have a new audience for this old story—his only one, I was afraid—Purcell warmed to the topic. "Well, I could tell immediately that first night I picked him up while he was crossing the park that Peter had just about had it up to here with his rather juvenile lifestyle. Peter was really disillusioned, ready for a change of course into something safe, and comfy, and sensible. He'd had a bad bout of hepatitis, and maybe that had something to do with it too. But I mean, not that the hepatitis was the most important thing."

"It would have been chastening."

"Anyway, we ran into each other and—can you believe it?—we just fell in love on the spot. Bingo! God, I was so head-over-heels nuts about that guy that I just went ahead and— Well, I did something, something reckless and foolish, I suppose you could say. Something that I hardly ever do. What I did was, I offered Peter the kind of life I could see he needed. I offered him my home to share with me. My home, and my love. I mean, every once in a while you just have to throw caution to the winds and take a chance in life, am I right?"