In the Midst of Death

"It doesn't ring a bell. He's connected to the mayor?"



"Well, that's what I heard. I know what he likes to do if that helps. He's a toilet slave."



"What the hell is a toilet slave?"



"I wish you knew because it doesn't especially thrill me to discuss it." She put her teacup down. "A toilet slave is, well, they'll have different kinds of kinks, but an example would be that he wants to be ordered to drink piss or eat shit, or to clean out your ass with his tongue, or clean out the toilet, or other things. What you have to tell him to do can be really disgusting or it can just be sort of symbolic, like if you made him mop the bathroom floor."



"Why would anybody- never mind, don't tell me."



"It's getting to be a very strange world, Matt."



"Uh-huh."



"Like nobody seems to fuck anymore. You can make a ton doing masochist tricks. They'll pay a fortune if you can fill up their fantasy for them. But I don't think it's worth it. I'd rather not have to contend with all that weirdness."



"You're just an old-fashioned girl, Elaine."



"That's me. Crinolines and lavender sachets and all those good things. 'Nother drink?"



"Just a touch."



When she brought it I said, "Manns or Manch or something like that. I'll see if that goes anywhere. I think it's a dead-end street anyway. I'm getting more and more interested in cops."



"Because of what I said?"



"That, and also something some other people have said. Did she have somebody on the force that sort of looked out for her?"



"You mean the way you used to for me? Sure she did, but where does that get you? It was your friend."



"Broadfield?"



"Sure. That extortion number was pure bullshit, but I guess you knew that."



I nodded. "She have anybody else?"



"Could be, but I never heard about it. And no pimp and no boyfriends, unless you count Broadfield as a boyfriend."



"Any other cops in her life? Giving her a hard time, anything like that?"



"Not that I heard about."



I took a sip of Scotch. "This is off the subject a little, Elaine, but do cops ever give you a hard time?"



"Do you mean do they or have they ever? It's happened in the past. But then I learned a little. You have somebody regular, and the rest of the guys let you be."



"Sure."



"And if I get a hard time from somebody else, I mention some names or I make a phone call and everything cools down. You know what's worse? Not cops. Guys pretending to be cops."



"Impersonating an officer? That's a criminal offense, you know."



"Well, shit, Matt, am I gonna press charges? Like I've had cats flash badges at me, the whole number. You take a green kid who just got to town and all she's got to see is a silver shield and she'll curl up in a corner and have kittens. I'm supercool myself. I take a good look at the badge and it turns out to be a toy thing that a little kid'll get to go with his cap pistol. Don't laugh, I mean it. I've had that happen."



"And what do they want from you? Money?"



"Oh, they pretend it's a gag after I pick up on them. But it's no gag. I've had them want money, but mostly all they want is to get fucked for free."



"And they flash a toy badge."



"I've seen badges you'd swear came out of crackerjack boxes."



"Men are weird animals."



"Oh, men and women both, honey. I'll tell you something. Everybody's weird, fundamentally everybody is a snap. Sometimes it's a sexual thing and sometimes it's a different kind of weirdness, but one way or another everybody's nuts. You, me, the whole world."



IT wasn't particularly difficult to discover that Leon J. Manch had been appointed assistant deputy mayor a year and a half ago. All it took was a short session in the Forty-second Street library. There were a variety of Mannses and Mantzes in the volume of the Times Index I consulted, but none of them seemed to have anything significant to do with the current administration. Manch was mentioned only once in the Times Indexes for the past five years. The story dealt with his appointment, and I went to the trouble of reading the article in the microfilm room. It was a brief article, and Manch was one of half a dozen people treated in it; about all it did was announce that he'd been appointed and identify him as a member of the bar. I learned nothing about his age, residence, marital status, or much of anything else. It didn't say he was a toilet slave, but I already knew that.



I couldn't find him in the Manhattan telephone book. Maybe he lived in another borough, or outside of the city limits altogether. Maybe he had an unlisted phone or listed it in his wife's name. I called City Hall and was told that he'd left for the day. I didn't even try for his home number.



I called her from a bar on Madison and Fifty-first called O'Brien's. The bartender's name was Nick, and I knew him because he had worked at Armstrong's a year or so ago. We assured each other that it was a small world, bought each other a few drinks, and then I went to the phone booth in the back and dialed her number. I had to look it up in my notebook.



When she answered I said, "It's Matthew. Can you talk?"



"Hello. Yes, I can talk. I'm all alone here. My sister and her husband drove in from Bayport and picked up the children this morning. They'll be staying out there for, oh, for a while, anyway. They thought it would be better for the children and easier for me. I didn't really want them to take the kids, but I didn't have the strength to argue, and maybe they're right, maybe it's better this way."



"You sound a little shaky."



"Not shaky. Just very drawn, very worn out. Are you all right?"



"I'm fine."



"I wish you were here."



"So do I."



"Oh, dear. I wish I knew how I felt about all of this. It frightens me. Do you know what I mean?"



"Yes."



"His lawyer called earlier. Have you spoken to him?"



"No. Was he trying to get in touch with me?"



"He didn't seem very interested in you, as a matter of fact. He was very confident about winning in court, and when I said that you were trying to find out who really killed that woman, he seemed- how shall I put it? I got the impression that he believed Jerry was guilty. He intends to get him acquitted, but he doesn't really believe for a minute that he's really innocent."



"A lot of lawyers are like that, Diana."



"Like a surgeon who decides it's his job to remove an appendix. Whether there's anything wrong with the appendix or not."



"I'm not sure it's exactly the same thing, but I know what you mean. I wonder if there's any point in my contacting that lawyer."



"I don't know. What I was starting to say… Oh, it's silly, and it's hard to say. Matthew? I was disappointed when I picked up the phone and it was the lawyer. Because I was hoping, oh, that it would be you." Pause. "Matthew?"



"I'm here."



"Should I not have said that?"



"No, don't be silly." I caught my breath. The telephone booth had gotten unbearably warm. I opened the door a little. "I wanted to call you earlier. I shouldn't be calling now, really. I can't say I've made very much progress."



"I'm glad you called, anyway. Are you getting anywhere at all?"



"Maybe. Did your husband ever say anything to you about writing a book?"



"Me write a book? I wouldn't know where to start. I used to write poetry. Not very good poetry, I'm afraid."



"I meant did he say anything about the possibility of him writing a book."



"Jerry? He doesn't read books, let alone write them. Why?"



"I'll tell you when I see you. I'm learning things. The question is whether or not they'll fit together into something significant. He didn't do it. I know that much."



"You're more certain of it than you were yesterday."



"Yes." Pause. "I've been thinking about you."



"That's good. I think it's good. What sort of thoughts?"



"Curious ones."



"Good curious or bad curious?"



"Oh, good, I guess."



"I've been thinking, too."



Chapter 11



I wound up spending the evening in the Village. I was oddly restless, possessed of an undirected energy that enervated me and kept me moving. It was a Friday night, and the better downtown bars were crowded and noisy as they always are on Fridays. I hit the Kettle and Minetta's and Whitey's and McBell's and the San Giorgio and the Lion's Head and the Riviera and other places the names of which I don't remember. But because I couldn't settle in anywhere I wound up having only one drink to a bar and walking off most of the effect of the alcohol between drinks. I kept moving and I kept drifting west, away from the tourist area and closer to where the Village rubs up against the Hudson River.



It must have been around midnight when I hit Sinthia's. It was fairly far west on Christopher Street, the last stop for gay cruisers on their way to meet the longshoremen and truckers in the shadow of the docks. Gay bars do not threaten me, but neither are they places I habitually seek out. I sometimes dropped in to Sinthias's when I was in the neighborhood because I know the owner fairly well. Fifteen years back I'd had to arrest him for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. The minor in question had been seventeen and jaded, and I'd only made the collar because I'd had no choice- the boy's father had lodged a formal complaint. Kenny's lawyer had a quiet talk with the boy's father and gave him an idea what he would bring out in open court, and that was the end of that.



Over the years Kenny and I had developed a relationship somewhere in the uncertain ground between acquaintance and friendship. He was behind the bar when I walked in, and as always he looked a young twenty-eight years old. His real age must be just about double that, and you have to stand very close to him to spot the face-lift scars. And the carefully combed hair is all Kenny's own, even if the blond color is a gift from a lady named Clairol.



He had around fifteen customers. Seeing them one at a time you'd have no cause to suspect they were gay, but collectively their homosexuality became unmistakable, almost a presence in the long narrow room. Perhaps it was their reaction to my intrusion that was palpable. People who spend their lives in any sort of half-world can always recognize a cop, and I still haven't learned how to avoid looking like one.



"Sir Matthew of Scudder," Kenny sang out. "Welcome, welcome as always. The trade around here is rarely quite so rough as your estimable self. Still bourbon, darling? Still neat?"



"Fine, Kenny."



"I'm glad to see nothing changes. You are a constant in a madcap world."



I took a seat at the bar. The other drinkers had relaxed when Kenny hailed me, which may well be what he'd had in mind in making such a production out of it. He poured quite a lot of bourbon into a glass and set it on the bar in front of me. I drank some of it. Kenny leaned toward me, propping himself up on his elbows. His face was deeply tanned. He spends his summers on Fire Island and uses a sunlamp the rest of the year.



"Working, sweets?"



"Yes, as a matter of fact."



He sighed. "It happens to the best of us. I've been back in harness since Labor Day and I'm still not used to it. Such a joy lying in the sun all summer and leaving this place for Alfred to mismanage. You know Alfred?"