Control, Page 27

  He stopped in the sleet and studied the place. A dump, truly. If you were a real estate salesman and were trying to unload it, dump would be the best you could come up with. Eric rang the bell, not really expecting an answer. When none was forthcoming, he reached for the door, not expecting it to be locked. The handle turned. As he pushed his way quietly in, Eric took out his pistol, held it loosely in his right hand.

  There was a curtain drawn across the doorway at the rear. Eric moved toward it slowly, reached it, quickly threw it aside.

  Chaos.

  Even though the room was dark, even though the only illumination came from the front, the fight marks were easily spotted, as were the droplets of blood.

  It was then Eric heard the slow breathing.

  He turned, studied the bathroom beyond. It too was dark, but as he moved closer, the breathing sound grew. It was coming from behind the shower curtain. The curtain was roughly drawn around the tub below. Eric took a breath, preparing himself. Frank had always had bad times when encountering the results of violence. Eric got through it by being prepared. He had seen more than enough grief in his years on the force, and he summoned old images, just a few, but enough to get him ready for whatever he might face; a butchered Harlem lady his first year up there, her husband sitting beside her as she bled, muttering over and over “she wouldn’t lemme watch the Yankee game”—Eric brought her back now and the stoned-out teen-ager who had blown her own heart out with her father’s hunting rifle, only she had gotten confused as to which side held her heart, had guessed the right, and Eric had been the one to find her, bloody, weeping with humiliated pain—Eric brought her back too, so he was prepared as he threw back the shower curtain to see the Duchess, blind and dying.

  He was not at all prepared, however, to see the dog.

  It lay on its side, ripped open, its blood filling the bottom of the tub. It was a huge shepherd and the blood had matted its fur, and probably the Duchess was dead somewhere, but certainly the dog was dying right here.

  Eric spun quickly, wondering what the hell he might be able to do to make the animal’s final minutes less horrid. He went fast to the back room and the small refrigerator, threw it open, looking for food. There was nothing but in the freezer compartment he found a pint of ice cream, grabbed it, pulled the lid off, took it back to the tub. He wedged out a hunk of vanilla, knelt, put the ice cream close to the dog’s tongue. The animal licked the cool vanilla tentatively once, then paused, then licked it again.

  Eric knelt there for half a dozen more licks, till the dog was dead.

  What was he into and who were these people and where did their power spring from? Dog killers and kidnappers and police force controllers—Eric washed his hands quickly in the sink, then returned to the back room. The place was small and he was skilled at searching, but this was different, because she had been blind. Not too many National Geographies lying around.

  He really expected to find nothing, and nothing pretty much summed up the first few minutes. Then, in a closet, in a hat-box, he came across the notebook, filled with the strange practiced writing of the blind. Most of what he skimmed through made no sense to him. Then on a page alone he found the following:

  Rosa Gonzales

  (1687 Lexington)

  Rosa Gonzales was Edith Mazursky

  William Winslow

  (Address unknown)

  William Winslow was Theodore Duncan

  Logically speaking, this didn’t make any great amount of sense to him either. He was not ready to stand up and deliver a two-hour explication. As he stared at the names, he wasn’t really positive what any of it meant.

  But he knew it was gold …

  Forty minutes later, Eric got out of a cab ill front of 1687 Lex, near 105th Street. A lone Puerto Rican stood on the steps of the old brownstone, smoking a joint, staring at the sky. “Looking for the super,” Eric said.

  “You mean the superintendent?”

  Eric couldn’t believe the way the guy talked. There was not a trace of accent. The voice was at the same time booming but controlled. And the articulation reminded him of Jesse Jackson out of Chicago—the big words were ail spoken as if hyphenated. Su-per-in-ten-dent. “That’s who I mean,” Eric said.

  “Is this en-quir-y of a pro-fes-sion-al nature or merely for the purposes of fra-ter-ni-za-tion?”

  “It’s business,” Eric said. He looked at the guy closely now. Mid-twenties. Small but quick. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  “The gentleman who fulfills that function here at 1687 is generally regarded as flawless of character. Im-pec-ca-ble.” He took another toke of marijuana.

  “I assume I’m addressing him now.”

  “In-du-bi-ta-bly.”

  “Answer a few questions?”

  “Now I’m assuming—that you’re an officer of the law; the question is, should I seek ver-i-fi-ca-tion?”

  “Up to you.”

  “Since I am innocent of any recent skul-dug-ger-y, you may in-ter-ro-gate at will, Gridley.”

  “I love listening to you talk,” Eric couldn’t help saying.

  “I doubt you traveled to these hin-ter-lands to tell me that, but thank you. I attend announcer’s school. I am awed at the power of the media to ed-u-cate, to el-e-vate, to en-ter-tain. Also, I don’t want to work in this shithole for the rest of my natural life.” He inhaled on the joint again, offered it to Eric.

  Eric shook his head. “Heard of Rosa Gonzales?” r “Alas.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Major league pain in the ass; at least for me.”

  “How so?”

  “Weird. Crazy. Always having Visions;’ always seeing ‘aura’s’ around people; super ‘sensitive.’”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Her mother worked at some donut place near Port Authority. Weekends, she’d take Rosa down with her; that was good. When Rosa went to school, that was good too. But she was sick a whole lot and when her mother worked, she paid me to check in on Rosa, see if she was okay. Usually, when she saw me, Rosa would scream ‘cause she could tell I didn’t like her from my ‘aura.’ Throw a hysterical fit if I came near. Sob kick and scream.”

  “How old a person are we talking about?”

  “Ten, maybe. She was small and skinny so she might have been twelve, but I don’t think so. Ten.”

  “Why are you using the past tense?—isn’t she here anymore, has she moved?”

  “In-du-bi-ta-bly. She’s dead.”

  Eric closed his eyes, took a long pause. “Of what?”

  “The pre-va-lent opinion is she died of a truck.”

  Eric waited for the rest.

  “I already in-di-ca-ted Rosa was frail. Her mother used to carry her a lot. Late one night some hit-and-run guy blindsided the two of them. Several witnesses at-tes-ied to that.”

  “This happen recently?”

  “Within the last year,”

  “Up in this area?”

  “No. Downtown more. East 50’s I think. At the funeral, our con-sen-sus was you boys in blue didn’t work overtime truck hunting.”

  “I never heard of the incident,” Eric said. “And it’s crazy that I didn’t.”

  “If they’d been white, you would have.”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  “You think so?” the superintendent asked.

  “In-du-bi-ta-bly,” Eric answered.

  The following noon Eric stood in the solarium of Orient Castle watching the Atlantic’s anger build. He had just driven the three plus hours from Manhattan to the tip of Long Island. The doctors had believed his need to see Phillip Holtzman—”no one ever really questioned the badge. The chief medical man—God alone knew how many worked at the Castle, probably the most expensive “home” in all the East—had said only that Eric could not talk as a detective. Fine, Eric said, tell him I’m an art student doing work on his wife.

  Fine, the doctor—named Horn—had agreed, and sent Eric to the solarium to wait. />
  “Phillip will be down soon,” Doctor Horn said, entering now.

  “I appreciate this,” Eric said. “And I promise it won’t take long.”

  “Please don’t mention the death,” Doctor Horn said. “It brutalized him, her going that way. I don’t think he’ll ever come back from it.”

  “It’s not the death I’m here about,” Eric assured Horn. “I’m just tracking down some names, and if he can’t help me, there’s a woman named Sally Levinson I’m going to call.”

  “I don’t think she’ll talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Just a feeling I have. I know Sally Levinson well enough to tell you she doesn’t do much she doesn’t want to. The word ‘feisty was invented to fit her.”

  Eric was about to ask more about her, but then stopped as a tall thin man made his way into the room, aided by a nurse. Eric studied Phillip Holtzman, decided he looked like the husk of Raymond Massey.

  “This is Eric Lorber,” Doctor Horn said. “The art person who wanted to chat a little about Edith.”

  Phillip nodded. The nurse helped him into a chair. “Perhaps you’re cold,” she said, got a blanket, tucked it around him, left the man alone.

  “Thank you for taking the time,” Eric said gently.

  Quick smile from Phillip. “Not too much pressing today. Not a lot on. Not a lot on.”

  “Why don’t I get to it anyway,” Eric said. “I was wondering—this is for some work Pm doing concerning the paintings—what you could tell me about someone named Rosa Gonzales?”

  “Again that last name?” The thin head leaned forward.

  ‘‘Gonzales, sir.” . “Superb,” Phillip said then. “Absolutely superb.”

  Eric waited, not understanding.

  “Would have beaten Tilden, would have beaten Vines, finest service in the history of the game.”

  “That was Pancho Gonzales, Phillip,” Doctor Horn put in quietly.

  “Ah,” Phillip said and he stared at the water. Then he began to fidget.

  Eric watched the fidgeting become more intense. He looked at the doctor.

  “I hope the planes are landing,” Phillip Holtzman said then.

  “Phillip,” Doctor Horn said. “I’m sure the planes will be fine.”

  Phillip looked at his watch. Then he studied the waves through the solarium glass. Again his watch. The waves were starting to pound.

  Abruptly Phillip stood—”I’m meeting Edith at the airport, I hope the planes are landing.”

  “Phillip…” Doctor Horn said quietly.

  “Well it’s getting severe, there’s a wind rising, a dreadful damn February wind—nothing good happens in February—bad month, bad month—” A final look at his watch. “I must get to the airport now, or Edith will be kept waiting.” He tried to take a step unaided.

  Gently Doctor Horn had him, brought him back to the chair, covered him with the blanket, all the while speaking evenly and softly—”Edith won’t be on the plane, Phillip—this is 1981 and she left us in 1960—that’s twenty-one years ago and she won’t be on the plane.”

  Phillip fidgeted, stared at the waves.

  Eric thought how much he didn’t want to be where he was, watching the remains of what once was probably a wonderful human. Some people hated cancer more than any disease; Eric hated senility. The last two years of his own father’s life had been pocked with senility.

  “It’s in and out,” the doctor said.

  Eric nodded.

  “Try the name again in a moment.”

  Phillip was off on his own now, drumming his thin fingers on the arm of the chair.

  “How long has he been here?” Eric asked.

  “Many many years,” the doctor said.

  “Mexican,” Phillip muttered then. “Tempestuous fellow, Gonzales; on the court. Didn’t know the man so I can’t speak of his private behavior. But in the heat of battle, a firebrand; I always put that off to his cultural heritage.”

  Eric began wondering if he could take much more, because he was remembering what a dynamo Ike had been, Ike the father, and the genuine anguish his brain’s deterioration had meant to those around him, and clearly, he was not going to get much coherent out of Phillip Holtzman. Not today. Not with the winds foaming the water.

  So he almost left then, but he didn’t, and thank God for that. Because it was less than ten minutes later, when the winds had for a moment quieted, that Phillip softly and with unmistakable clarity, began to talk, so lovingly, about “The Blues”…

  “Miss Levinson?” Eric held a beer in one hand, the phone in the other, stared out at the Chagalls. It was coming up to eight o’clock and the February crowds were scurrying across the great plaza toward the theatres.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Eric Lorber. I’m a detective, and I’d like very much to talk to you.”

  “Oh shit, is this about those goddam parking violations again? It’s all being handled bx my lawyer.”

  “Miss Levinson—”

  “—I resent you bothering me at home. At this hour. And I really resent the way you bastards stuck that No Parking sign in front of my gallery—I’ll go all the way on this, Detective Lorber —I’m going to park my car where I have a right to park it and these scare tactics aren’t going to work. You can tell Ed Koch I said ‘screw.’”

  Eric had to smile. What was the word the doctor had used about Sally Levinson out at the home? Feisty! That was on the right track. “Vesuvian” might be closer, if there was such a word. “This had nothing to do with parking tickets, I promise you.”

  “What, then?”

  Eric knew the terrain was shifting and dangerous, but when he said the words, “Edith Mazursky’s death,” he was genuinely surprised at the vehemence of the response.

  “Hear this now-—because our conversation is about to terminate—I have not talked about it, I do not want to talk about it, and there is nothing in this world you could say to make me talk about it—”

  Eric could sense she was about to slam the phone down so he cut in with-—”you don’t know how important this is to me—”

  “—and Edith’s death—Edith s suicide—was very fucking important to me, Mister—’9

  “—maybe it wasn’t just suicide,” Eric said then.

  A beat. Then: “Explain yourself.”

  “I can’t. But I think it was more than suicide, and don’t ask me what that means, I won’t know what it means without talking to you.”

  And now there came this incredible pause. It went on and on and when it ended, the voice at the other end was washed, the anger gone. Finally Eric heard the words “Come on over.”

  He reached her Fifth Avenue building a few minutes later, asked the doorman to announce him. That formality done, Eric crossed the lobby, let an elevator man do what he got paid for. When he reached the Levinson floor, there was a small foyer entrance. Eric buzzed. The door opened.

  A small woman who must have been June Allyson cute once answered the door. She was wearing a voluminous robe. She ushered Eric into the enormous apartment.

  Eric hesitated, then flashed his badge. “These days you should always ask, Miss Levinson. Just because someone says he’s a detective doesn’t make it so. Don’t be so trusting.”

  Sally burst out laughing.

  Eric inquired as to what he said that was so funny.

  From the folds of her robe, Sally removed an enormous pistol and pointed it at Eric. “Don’t worry, I promise you it’s loaded. My father gave me this when I first went to Europe. He thought some Frenchman might try and overpower me. You don’t know how funny that is. Detective Lorber, last week I was ripped off slightly by two Caucasian youths who I believe attend Collegiate. I am not a trusting soul, take that on faith.”

  “You’ve convinced me.”

  Sally put on the safety, placed the pistol into a hall table by the door. Then she led Eric into the living room. It was enormous, forty feet long or more, and the view of Fifth Avenue would have bee
n hard to improve on.

  But what brought Eric to a halt were the Mazursky Madonnas. They ranged all around the room, each with a small light above. The feel of Edith in the air was overpowering. Eric stared at the famous group of paintings. “I’ve only seen photographs,” he said.

  “I’m sick of showing them,” Sally said. “For a while they were always off on display. But I thought, ‘shit, they can be on display when I’m in the ground, I want ‘em here.’”

  They sat together on a couch. “I’ve realty got two main questions,” Eric began. “Two main areas of discussion.”

  “I discuss nothing before you make me a promise.”

  “If I can.”

  “If what you said on the phone turns out to be true, that Edith’s death was something more than suicide, if you find whoever or whatever’s involved, you must promise to call me and tell me who or what or how.”

  Eric raised his right hand. “No problem.”

  “All right; first question.”

  “Rosa Gonzales.”

  Blank.

  “Take your time. There’s a connection between Edith Mazursky Holtzman and someone named Rosa Gonzales.”

  Sally shook her head. “We were sisters, you know. But loving ones. She knew all my secrets, I knew hers. I swear I never heard that name till now.”

  Eric waited.

  “I’m really sorry. On to the next.”

  “Tell me about ‘The Blues.’”

  “Musical form,” Sally said quickly. “Black beginnings. South. Plantation origins maybe. I’m just guessing.”

  Also lying, Eric thought.

  “Why are you looking at me?”

  “I meant the ‘Mazursky Blues.’ I’m sorry. I should have been more specific.”

  “Oh Edith’s stuff—sorry—-silly of me—long day—” Sally got up and walked to the window, staring out at the park. “Just trying to get it all straight. Edith said she liked having a focus for her work. A central theme, you know; it gave her a foundation.” She turned, gestured around the room. “I called these the ‘Madonnas.’ I showed them at my gallery. Disaster. We’re talking I960 now, right?”