The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man Page 13
Perhaps, at some unconscious level, I have conflated what awaits me on the tape and what awaits Elsbeth. Both are unimaginable and yet as real as the ground and the sky. I wonder if we find death a mockery because life, after all, is all we’ve got.
To more mundane matters. I have received at long last the curriculum vitae of Ms. Celeste Tangent. Indeed, I have received two copies, one from a young man in Human Resources with a note apologizing for the delay, and one from Lieutenant Tracy. The woman appears to have had, if I do say so, a rather checkered career to have ended up as a laboratory assistant in a genetics lab.
Born twenty-seven years ago in Norman, Oklahoma, Ms. Tangent claims a degree in business administration from a correspondence school associated with Oral Roberts University. She next lists herself as an assistant supervisor at the Caucasian Escort Service, Brooklyn, New York. In that capacity, she “recruited, trained, and directed young women in the etiquette of an upmarket escorting service patronized by a distinguished and discreet clientele.”
After several years of plying this trade, she accounts for a gap of some seven months to conduct research into the leisure patterns of successful entrepreneurs in vacation spots in Mexico, Rio, and the Caribbean. Upon returning to New York, she assumed the position of maître d at the Crazy Russian. This is an establishment in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn that she describes as a pricey, after-hours bistro for a discerning clientele interested in seeing a side of New York few tourists know about.
She lists another hiatus devoted to research in exotic realms, including, of all places, Nepal, where she studied spirituality. And for the past six months she has been working as a laboratory assistant for the Ponce Institute, “helping the best scientists in the world make really great discoveries.”
I put in a call to the lieutenant. He wasn’t available, but he called back a few minutes later.
“Ms. Tangent’s CV,” he said as a greeting.
“Thanks for sending it along. Tell me, Richard, do we have any background on the organizations she’s been associated with?”
“Not a whole lot. My sources in New York say there’s a good chance that both the escort service and the restaurant were mob-connected. But it will take them some time digging to find out exactly what mob because both of those establishments are out of business now.”
We discussed the obvious incongruence of Ms. Tangent’s current employment given her background. “But if she’s a plant,” I said, not entirely comfortable with the jargon, “it implies there is something going on in the lab that’s of interest to organized crime.”
The lieutenant smiled. “Elementary, dear Watson.”
“Too elementary, perhaps,” I conceded. “But how would ‘the mob’ know enough for them to want to infiltrate the lab? The research really is quite sophisticated, and the bureaucracy formidable. I mean it all seems a bit far-fetched.”
“You’re right, Norman, to a point. But people talk. They get a few drinks on board. They brag. They exaggerate. Someone down the line or up the line hears about it. Criminals are businessmen, they’re opportunistic. They do some checking. The scam gets rolling. I’ve decided to make Ms. Tangent the object of some light surveillance. Find out where she hangs out and who she hangs out with, that sort of thing.”
I said I thought that was a good idea and then brought the lieutenant up to date on the Sigmund Library incident. I told him that after waiting several days and finally deciding that the proper channels were clogged — as usual — I called Ms. Spronger and Mr. Jones directly. It seems both have retained lawyers. They said they would get back to me. “One wonders, Lieutenant,” I said, “what the world did before lawyers insinuated themselves into every aspect of our lives.”
The lieutenant said to give him a call if lawyers continued to get in the way. “I have to admit I was somewhat dubious at first. But I think what happened there is strange enough to warrant closer investigation.”
We chatted awhile longer and ended agreeing that, while we had nothing definite to go on, there were some promising leads opening up.
I may be mistaken, but I think I detect strains in the Diantha-Sixy arrangement. It was noticeable on Friday when she brought him by to show him the museum. I was in the midst of evaluating and commenting on the quarterly reports of the curatorial staff when they appeared in the doorway, seemingly disoriented by a wholly new milieu. I was delighted, of course, to see Diantha. She is so demonstrative, coming around the desk to give me one of those full-length hugs I find so unnerving, especially when they come with a big kiss on the lips.
Mr. Shakur, as usual, didn’t just shake my hand, but went through a whole routine after a “gimme five, bro.” Then, instead of sitting down like an ordinary person, he paced around like a caged cat with a bald head and earrings, jabbering away in that argot of his. “Too f*cking, spanking real, man. I mean real like ozone, out there, man, orbit. I didn’t know they had places like this, man. I mean cool with a capital K. That African gear downstairs is right over the edge, man. I mean off the freaking planet Earth. What you say, Di, we do a shoot here, like with all of our faces morphing in and out of those, like masks and shit, and I do my black honky cut?”
“He’s saying, Dad, that he would like to do a music video in the museum.” Diantha spoke with an apologetic edge to her voice, as though embarrassed, as though, perhaps for the first time, seeing her paramour through my eyes.
I smiled indulgently. “Getting permission would be a problem, I’m afraid.”
The Rapper King turned a chair around and sat in it facing the desk, his chin propped on top of the back. “But you the top dog, Mr. Dude. I mean you bark and the others, man, they shit. You know what I’m saying?”
“It doesn’t quite work that way, Sixy. The curators have a very large say about what goes on in their collections, and I know what they’ll say.” My response didn’t seem to faze him in the least.
“I’m mellow with that, man.” He shook his gleaming skull. “This crib is totally killer, man. I mean cool with double K’s.”
It went on like this for a while longer until they finally took their leave. Diantha gave me another one of those kisses that stay on the lips. I’m not going to bring it up with her, of course, but I do think it would be for the best if she and Mr. Shakur were to part company. She deserves so much better. But I confess I would feel a proprietary sense regardless of whom she associated with.
At the same time, Mr. Shakur’s effect on me borders on disorientation. I felt I had been in touch with a different kind of consciousness, not necessarily lower, but off to the side, like off the edge, man. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up speaking like him.
Mr. Shakur’s productions came up later that afternoon when I went over to the Pavilion to drop in on a party for Marge Littlefield, who is retiring as comptroller of the MOM. She’s taking early retirement, because, she told me, she and Bill don’t need the income and she has grandchildren to enjoy.
Anyway, in the course of this little affair, held in what used to be the “rec room” for Damon Drex’s literary chimps, I ended up talking about Anglo-Saxon poetry with Maria Cowe’s assistant, a comely young woman with nervous eyes from Human Resources. She said she had just read a translation of Beowulf by the Irish poet … whose name escapes me now (a senior moment, Izzy would say). I remarked that I thought there were similarities between rap music, so called, and the rhythmic scheme in Anglo-Saxon poetry. As a demonstration, I proceeded to quote to her some of the lyrics Sixpak had shown me.
I was amazed to see this young woman blush quite red, stammer something, and on the flimsiest of pretexts turn from me and pretend to listen to people in another conversation. But then, I’ve come to accept that manners among young people and a lot of others aren’t what they used to be.
19
It’s been one of those days. I sit here in my perch at home like some old gangly bird full of hankerings more suitable to a man half my years. My unseemly yearnings stem in part from th
e “enhanced” video I received from Worried this morning showing the three people having sex in an office at the Genetics Lab. Worried e-mailed me last night, telling me I would find the tape in a bag labeled TOXIC next to the recycling area on the second floor. I was to remove the tape and replace it with an envelope containing $350, which I did, no questions asked.
I played the tape alone in the audiovisual room. You can imagine my surprise when I was able to identify the gentleman being fellated as none other than Professor Ossmann. What I found interesting was the manner in which he contorts his face as though in pain or from pleasure bordering on pain as he holds on to the back of the woman’s bobbing head. She had, as far as I could tell — it is a black-and-white print — thick blond hair done in a braid that fell to one side of her neck. The woman is, I’m willing to bet now, Celeste Tangent.
The gentleman behind her is tall, more slender than thin, with dark hair and very white buttocks, which twink, as buttocks are wont to do, with his thrusting motions. I have a distinct feeling the unknown man is Dr. Penrood, but I can’t be sure as I have not been privileged to see him in that situation before. His face does appear in profile, but only for an instant. When their various culminations are reached, to judge from their motions, parts are disengaged and they move off into shadow and darkness.
I immediately supervised the making of a copy — keeping the screen blank throughout — and sent the original to Lieutenant Tracy by special courier. In an accompanying note I identified Ossmann, but I also wondered aloud, so to speak, about how useful, at this point in the investigation, the information really was. Had Ossmann and the other two been working on some kind of love potion and decided to give it a try? Had he tried again with Dr. Woodley and gotten the dose wrong? Or was the effect of a lethal dose known and for some reason used against Ossmann and Woodley? If so, why experiment on Bert and Betti?
Speaking of whom, the spotlight of unseemly publicity has once again been turned on the Museum of Man. Amanda Feeney-Morin wrote a front-page story in yesterday’s Bugle disclosing details from the autopsies of Bert and Betti. She revealed that the biochemical analysis turned up compounds identical to those found in Ossmann and Woodley. Ms. Feeney quoted an unidentified source within the SPD to the effect that the compounds constitute “a blockbuster aphrodisiac.” It sounds like my friend Sergeant Lemure is at it again.
Then Ms. Feeney got to the real point of her story. “Norman de Ratour, Director of the museum, did not return calls.” Of course the woman called me. She calls every day to ask me if I beat my wife or molest donkeys. So of course I don’t return her calls. But that’s not the kind of thing I can include in the press releases I put out stating that no research on aphrodisiacs is taking place in the Genetics Lab. It would get twisted around until it sounded like an evasion.
Which reminds me, I have yet to look at the rest of Corny’s tape. Why me? I complain to the air. Why not send it to Murdleston or Brauer? Because Murdleston’s too foggy and Brauer, who has his own geek show in progress, can’t be trusted.
But none of the above, I must confess, is what has me dithered like a teenager. Sixpak Shakur has moved out, lock, stock, and amplifiers, and while a measure of peace reigns here at home I find myself beset again with the worst kind of temptation.
More accurately, the King of the Redneck Rappers was thrown out by Diantha, for whom I feel heartfelt sympathy, genuine love, and a low, cunning, opportunistic lust. Even when I try to be high-minded, when I lift my head and straighten my shoulders and think, yes, indeed, the breakup will be the best thing for her in the long run, I find myself in the equation. I find my imagination flaring, conflating with images from the video so that I am behind her, in front of her, on top of her … Which is shameful beyond words because the dear girl is, for the nonce, very upset.
Diantha, in fact, was close to hysterics when I came in around seven thirty this evening. She met me at the door, her eyes fetchingly pink from weeping. She fell into my arms, sobbing again.
“Elsbeth?” I asked in alarm, fearing and expecting the worst.
“No, no, no,” she moaned. “It’s Sixy. He’s gone. Sixy’s gone.”
“You poor girl,” I said, taking her in my arms, my relief at the man’s departure mixing with my commiseration for her all-too-evident distress.
“But I still have you, don’t I, Norman,” she sniffled and gave me a big wet kiss on the lips, which I can still feel imprinted, like a stain I want to keep.
I decorously disentangled myself. “Gone,” I said, trying to dissemble the sense of giddy release that kept arriving like pleasant shocks as I hung up my topcoat in the hall closet. “Diantha,” I said firmly, putting my arm around her shoulder. “Tell me what happened. But first, how is your mother doing?”
Diantha nodded, my indirect rebuke and its implied perspective calming her. “Mom’s okay. She’s still sleeping. Do you want a drink?”
“A martini would do the trick.” I rootled around the drinks cabinet and made myself a strong one. Diantha poured herself a glass of white wine. For a strange moment it seemed we were an old established couple going through the routine of homecoming.
“So tell me what happened,” I urged her as gently as I could.
She sat demurely on the couch, one shapely knee pertly crossed over the other, and took a sip of her wine. “I threw him out. I told him to get out before I called the police.”
She began to grow tense again. I went over and sat beside her and put my arm around her shoulders. “It will be all right,” I said.
She put her face into my chest and snuffled. “I came in from shopping around four and found him screwing that little slut Candy Dolores from next door. Right in my own bed. In our own bed.”
“Oh, dear.”
“They didn’t even stop when I came into the room and started screaming at them. And her little sister, Shirleen, the one with the braces, she was standing there watching them. She was probably in line.”
“I’m not surprised, frankly,” I said, saying, I’m sure, the wrong thing. “It’s happened before, hasn’t it?”
She snuggled closer, and I felt the fullness of her breast nudging into my ribs. Oh, to find out what a loathsome, crawling monster one is! To find out that pity can be as much allied with lust as with contempt! Or is it just natural? To want to transform those sobs and sighs of hurt into moans of pleasure? Or is it all a matter of self-sophistry? Because right then I wanted nothing more than to take her in my arms, kiss her tear-wetted lips, and roger her silly, as the English say. And, indeed, she did pull even closer, her hips against mine, and kiss me full on the lips. How in that moment I kept my hands to myself I simply cannot explain.
But resist I did. Diantha suffered another outbreak. “I mean, Dad, they were both buck naked and f*cking like fiends. And no apology. He just got off the bed, steaming from that little slut, and telling me to ‘chill out, baby, chill out. I was just helping the chick find her groove.’ ”
I stayed with her, sensing that her tears and the flood of angry words gave her some release, a kind of purgation. I don’t remember what I said, nothing, really, just comforting noises disguised as words.
Until finally she calmed, wiped her eyes, beamed at me with a most endearing smile, very much like her mother’s, and said, “Go wake up Mom. I’m going to make us all one fabulous dinner.”
So that, despite everything, a new spirit descended on the house. I certainly felt liberated. And Elsbeth, poor dear, waking from her drugged sleep, caught something of the mood. I helped her to the bathroom. I helped her wash. It is painful to see how Elsbeth is wasting away. But what spirit. What courage! I helped her into what she calls her “frolic” clothes, a smart turtleneck jersey and a wraparound skirt. We chatted. Yes, she had heard the commotion. “Frankly, I’m glad he’s gone. The poor boy had begun to believe in his own wigger fantasies, as Di says.”
“Wigger?” I asked.
“It’s a Di word. She said we wouldn’t understand.”
Diantha served up a delectable seafood dish and a salad of fresh greens that we had with a deal of wine, a robust California Zinfandel Izzy had recommended. When we had finished, she excused herself to go upstairs and “hit the RESTART button on a whole new life.”
Elsbeth and I, mostly I, finished off the second bottle. And as I rinsed the dishes for the dishwasher — I must say I am enjoying the new kitchen very much despite my hesitations — Elsbeth said plainly and simply, “I want you to take care of Diantha after I’m gone.”
When I started in about how she still had a fighting chance, she repeated what she had said.
“But, of course, darling, I’ll take care of Diantha. She’s my daughter, after all.”
“I didn’t mean as a daughter.”
I told her straight out that I would hear no more of that kind of talk. At the same time, I suffered from such a sense of possibilities that I was left dizzy with a kind of experiential vertigo. And while I wanted to ascribe Elsbeth’s amazing statement to fatigue and perhaps even a low-grade delirium brought on by the medications for her illness, I could tell from her smile that she knows I fight the fiends within me when it comes to her daughter.
20
I still cannot quite believe what I witnessed earlier this evening, but the proof is there, in stark, horrific images. Yes, I have finally found the courage to watch the rest of the Corny Chard tape. It wasn’t easy, but I fortified myself for it.
First, I left work early to be with Elsbeth for a while. She is so appreciative of the time I give her, even if it was spent mostly watching soap operas that, for me, blend one into the other, with the same people saying the same things to one another again and again. (Perhaps they are more realistic than I give them credit for.)
Then, deliberately, almost self-indulgently, giving myself plenty of time, I dressed in a tuxedo in preparation for Father O’Gould’s presentation of the first Fessing Memorial Lecture and the dinner to follow. I kissed Elsbeth good-bye and drove over to the museum. From a bottle of good Scotch that I keep in the office closet, I poured myself a healthy double. I took the Scotch and Corny’s video down through the deserted exhibitions to the Twitchell Room.