Death Trick - Stevenson Richard (читаем книги онлайн бесплатно без регистрации txt) 📗

"I doubt that," I said. "Eighty percent of the homosexuals in this country would patronize Anita Bryant's place if she had a hot dance floor and sold drinks two-for-one on Friday night. Ten years ago ninety percent would have, but there's still enough indifference around to feed any amount of greed. It's changing a little, but we're still a minority. Face it, Mike."

He nodded. "I have. I know. Do I know."

"You're a rare one, though, Mike, and there are people who appreciate it. You'd better know that, too. You're a—a credit to your sexual orientation."

He tried to laugh, but it wasn't in him. I felt for him and didn't want to bring up what I knew I had to. I said, "Mike— this is hard, but—I'm sort of going through a process of elimination. I'm hard-headed and thorough, you must have heard that, and I've got a thing about making lists and crossing things off. Or, to put it in the more positive light that's appropriate in your case, I'm trying to establish alibis for the night of the murder for all the people Steve Kleckner knew best. I know you and Steve had an affair once and that you were—well, sort of jealous of Steve's other men." He froze. I said, "For the sake of my obsessive neatness, then, just tell me where you went that night after you left here at four."

He stared at me through his alcoholic haze, stricken, and for an instant I thought he was going to cry. My inclination was to keep rambling on in the same convoluted vein, but I knew it would only come out worse. Not that it mattered. His hurt altered into anger, and he said—croaked the words out, "I wouldn't have believed it! After everything I've done—"

That irritated me. "Mike," I said, "that's beside the point— in a thing like this. Just rattle it off and that'll be the end of it. Really—"

"Fuck you, Strachey!"

"Look, Mike, you know I'm discreet to the point of—"

"I said fuck you, Strachey!"

"Mike, if you were with someone underaged, or whatever the hell it might have been—"

He looked at me with ferocious scorn and—I was sure of it—with fear.

"Okay," I said. "It's okay, Mike. Look—we'll talk again. After you've given some thought to what I'm trying to do. One request, though. I want to talk to Harold the cleaning lady. Could you give me her address?"

He didn't move. "You've hurt me deeply, Don. Please leave." Tears ran down his cheeks.

"Yeah. Okay." I stood up. "One last thing, Mike. Do you know anyone who owns a late-model gold-colored Olds Toronado?"

I watched his expression, but it didn't change. He just sat there, the tears rolling down his face and dripping onto his invoices.

I asked him if he'd been with Frank Zimka that night. He flinched when I said the name, but still he didn't move.

I said, "Okay, friend," and left him.

I got Harold the cleaning lady's address from one of the bartenders and drove back down Western into town. I kept the radio off, and I wanted a cigarette.

13

I STOPPED FOR GAS AND REACHED HAROLD SNYDER FROM A PAY

phone. I explained who I was and what I wanted, and he said, "Fuck off, dear," and hung up.

I drove over to his place on South Lake Avenue. I went in a side entrance of the old frame house and knocked on the second-floor door that had Snyder's name painted on it with what looked like shiny red nail polish.

The door opened and a movie star stood there in a filmy negligee and boxer shorts.

I said, "I'm Donald Strachey. I'm persistent."

"Did I tell you to fuck off, or did I tell you to fuck off? Hey?"

She stamped her foot and made an indignant flouncy movement with her shoulders and hips. I'd always found effeminate men unappealing, but once when I'd made a crack to Brigit about "that faggy guy over there," she'd replied, "Faggy is as faggy does." Which missed the point by a mile but still left an impression on me. I tried to become more tolerant.

"If you're interested in having Steve Kleckner's killer caught," I said, "you'll want to talk to me. And what happened to Steve could happen to someone else if the killer isn't found. Another gorgeous man lowered forever into the cold, cold ground. Help me make that not happen."

She looked interestedly at my face for a moment, and then at my crotch, and then at my face again. "What are you, anyway, doll-face? You're mu-u-uch too cute to be an Albany cop, but you did say you were a detective. You said that on the phone. Explain yourself, luv."

"I'm a private detective." I showed her the card. I half-closed one eye like Bogey and said out of the side of my mouth, "I work alone, sweet-haht."

She gave me what I took to be a Lauren Bacall look. "Well, you do look a little like Robert Mitchum. You should have mentioned that when you called, hon, it might have made a difference. Even if you didn't, it might not be too late for us." She gave me a sultry look with no apparent humorous intent, though it still appeared to have been learned from Carol Burnett.

I said, "You got a cold beer? It's warming up again."

"H-well! I just don't know if I should have a man in my apartment who's drinking. Who knows what might happen?"

"I wasn't going to drink it, I just wanted to hold it in my left armpit. I'm naturally hot-blooded."

I thought: "A smile played about her sensuous slash of mouth." A smile played about her sensuous slash of mouth. She said, "Do-o-o come in."

I went in and she shut the door. I sat on the divan across

from a plaster model of an Academy Award Oscar painted gold. She brought an open bottle of Valu Pack beer from the kitchen and seated herself beside me.

I said, "I hear you cared a lot about Steve Kleckner." I took a swig of beer.

She reached over and felt my cock through my khakis. The damn fool thing stiffened.

She said, "I could go for you, Donald."

I said, "The day after Steve was killed, you told people out at Trucky's you'd known something bad was going to happen to him. How did you know that?"

"Let's not talk about that," she said, and her mouth went wetly over my ear.

"No, let's. It's, uh—important."

She continued to massage me, and I found myself shifting so she could get a better grip on it. A spot appeared on my damn cream-colored pants. I said, "Do you know—-anyone who—who owns an—an Olds—"

"Oooo, Donnie—it's like a Molson's bottle!"

"Look, Harold—"

"Sondra."

"—Sondra. Look—I have an appointment in half an hour. If we could just talk, now, then maybe another time—"

"Gaw-w-w-d, you're fantastic! I've seen you around, Donnie, at Trucky's and here and there, but I never dreamed you'd go for a woman like me. I figured you were like all the other pansies in this candy-ass town—that you liked men, and you were just another faggot. There are so many of them these days. It can get so very lonely for a woman like me. With so few real men around." She was working at my belt buckle.

"Look," I lied, "I really do have an appointment at three." Our hands fought over the belt buckle. "What about—tonight? Are you busy tonight?"

"Now, baby, now! You know you want me!"

She was panting and squirming against me. Underneath it all, she was slim and hard and muscular—male. She was getting to me fast. I yanked myself free and stood up. She fell back against the arm of the couch, the erection in her shorts poking up through the front of the negligee.