A Body to Dye For Page 3

  Calvin rustled his magazine pages loudly.

  Nicole caught my eye, then shifted her gaze to Calvin. Meanwhile, Calvin looked up at the three of us, scowled, then stuck his face back into his magazine. Roger asked, “Is that okay with you, Calvin?”

  “I suppose so, if you don’t think you’ll be too tired.”

  I thought it strange for Calvin to give a hoot about anyone else’s comfort. Roger said, “No problem. I just need a nap, a couple of hours.”

  Calvin replied harshly, “Then I suppose it’s fine, I’m going back to Cambridge now. Don’t forget your keys, Roger.” He nodded toward his sport coat, a hand-tailored garment in creamy shantung, which hung near my station, within eye’s view. Calvin believed that people were always about to steal his precious clothes. “They’re in the left pocket of my jacket there,” he said to Roger.

  Roger went to Calvin’s jacket, pulled out a flat snakeskin-bound case, and held it up. “This?” he asked.

  Calvin nodded. “It keeps the keys from ruining the lines of my clothing.”

  Roger waved the key case angrily at Calvin. “Don’t you know where this stuff comes from?” he asked.

  “I don’t care!” answered Calvin. “Just take the extra set on the copper ring.”

  Roger got the keys, then put his hand out to me again. “See you later, Stan.” My heart hopped a few times. Then he took Nicole’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Miss Nicole.”

  Nicole gave a resigned sigh and said, “I’ll walk you out, Roger.” As she went by, she poked my shoulder. “You get back to work!” She led Roger back through the shop like a docile bull back from pasture. Nicole was not a creature found in Roger’s version of Nature, and he was clearly smitten with the patina of her glamour. I was smitten with his smile, among other things.

  As I put the finishing touches on Calvin’s hair, I carelessly released a large cloud of hair spray around his face. Calvin squinted and turned his head away to avoid the mist. I said, “Oh, is that getting in your eyes, love? Sorry.” But it was a moment of satisfaction for me.

  I removed the nylon drape and Calvin stood up. He turned his body sideways and admired himself in the mirror. He wore pleated linen slacks the color of rich cappuccino, a pale mauve shirt of fine Egyptian cotton, and a raucous bow tie with abstract patterns in violet, blueberry, raspberry, and gold. As he gently tweaked the tie back into shape, he said, “What do you think?”

  I said, “I’m thinking of animal husbandry.”

  “I meant my new outfit.”

  “Calvin, you’re flawless as a fag-rag photo.”

  “Hmmmmm. Yes.” He passed his fingers through his hair a few times, messing up my fine work. Then he got his jacket and took out his wallet. He thumbed carefully through the pile of money inside and handed me a single wrinkled dollar bill. “That’s for you.”

  “Thanks, Calvin,” I said, accepting the chintzy tip. “You’re a sport.”

  He draped the silk jacket carefully over his shoulders like a cape. He cocked his head and raised his nose a bit. “Did I tell you I’m in line for a promotion? The project I’m on now almost guarantees it. It’s a junior partnership. That’s pretty impressive for someone our age.”

  “I’m impressed, Calvin.” I handed the dollar bill back to him. “But maybe you should keep this. You might need some breath mints later.” He scowled at me, then grabbed the money and jammed it into his pants pocket. I clucked my tongue and said, “Don’t wrinkle your pants.” He turned abruptly and stormed out of the shop.

  “And don’t hurry back,” I said in his wake.

  Nicole came by as I prepared my station for the next client. I muttered, “I’d like to kill that bastard..He always stiffs me.”

  “Darling,” she almost sang, “how can you think of tips after meeting someone like Roger?”

  I sighed. “I wouldn’t mind him stiffing me.”

  Later, with the shop closed and locked, Nicole and I unwound with a cocktail in the back room. Though Nicole owns Snips, she doesn’t let the customers know. Instead, she maintains the guise of the manicurist. She claims people will open their hearts and wallets to a sympathetic working woman but not to a shrewd entrepreneuse. She must be right, because the shop is a gold mine, and she hears scandalous stories every day, which is the stuff of her life.

  While Nicole poured us each a drink—cognac for her, gin for me—I pulled the gold cigarette case out of her purse. She caught me.

  “If you insist on taking one, at least try to smoke it before you destroy it.”

  I chose a mint-green cigarette and put it to my lips. “If it’s the last thing I do this year, I’m going to learn how to smoke.”

  “You’re a fool!”

  “I’m a thirty-year-old Newbury Street hair burner! I have to smoke!”

  “Just don’t waste it. You know I order those special from Perrini’s Tobacco Shop.”

  I repeatedly snapped my thumb in vain at her lighter, a slender gold ingot adorned with red lacquer. She took it from me and gave it one delicate flick. It jumped to life and I lit my cigarette. I took a long drag and tried to relax, but my throat burned and my eyes stung. I croaked, I’ll never figure out how you people do this and enjoy it.”

  Nicole inhaled deeply on her own maize-colored cigarette and released the smoke in slow pleasure. “Its something you learn to enjoy.”

  “Just like most perversions,” I said. “What I want to know is, how do people like Calvin get to meet people like Roger, while people like me are still looking?”

  “Stani, there are no simple answers in love.” Nicole and my Czech grandmother were the only two people who could ever use the diminutive of my true given name, Stanislav.

  “I’ve given up on love,” I said with a lie. “I’ll settle for serial monogamy.”

  “That should be easy enough to find.”

  “Easy when you have a lot of money or a prestigious career like Calvin.”

  “Don’t whine! You had all that when you worked in the psych clinic.”

  “Yeah. I had a studlet then, too.”

  Nicole shrugged. “Maybe you should go back.”

  “Never. I’ll shrink ‘em at the sink, thank you.” I nervously tapped the ash from the end of my cigarette.

  “Stanley!” Nicole used my full Anglicized name whenever she was serious. She frowned at me. “Stanley, I’ve told you before … roll the ash off, don’t bang it.” Then she calmly sipped her cognac and continued our previous topic. “Maybe it’s the simple law of opposites. Roger is nice, Calvin isn’t. Therefore, they’re together.”

  I took what I thought was a graceful puff from my cigarette. “With that reasoning, Calvin and I should be having a torrid affair.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  I coughed on the smoke. “Never, ever, past, present, or future, would, could, or might such a thing happen!” I smashed the cigarette out violently.

  Nicole grimaced at the cigarette’s untimely demise. “I thought differently,” she said sadly, but her remorse was for the crushed stub lying in the ashtray.

  “You thought wrong.”

  “In any case, just behave yourself tonight.” She poured herself some more cognac. “Calvin was extremely annoyed about the invitation.”

  “He’s always annoyed.”

  “After that tango d’amore between you and Roger this afternoon, he won’t appreciate losing Roger to you tonight.”

  “Nothing will happen, Nicole.” But secretly I hoped Roger and I would greet the dawn together.

  “Stani, have you already forgotten last summer?”

  I paused, then remembered the sordid episode as though it had happened that afternoon. It was the moment of truth between Calvin Redding and myself. While drunk, Calvin had tried to have sex with me in the men’s room at Caffè Gianni, and I refused him. But then, in a rage, he proceeded to slander me throughout the bar all night, saying I had made the move on him, and wasn’t it disgusting the way some people had to have sex all the time? The memor
y of it always provoked me. Calvin, of course, didn’t remember a thing.

  “Maybe I will try to win Roger tonight.”

  “That neatly folded laundry ought to do the trick,” Nicole said.

  I kissed her on the lips. “Wish me luck.”

  “Just stay safe.”

  2

  HOW THE OTHER HALF KILLS

  IT WAS AROUND 8 P.M. WHEN I LEFT SNIPS. The warm day had turned into a bleak, dank night, reminding me that mukluk season in Boston was approaching. I’d looked up Calvin’s address and discovered that it was only a few blocks from the shop, in the ultrachic area near the Boston Public Garden, so I walked. As I stood in front of the six-story brownstone structure, I thought hopefully of Roger’s smiling face and wondered if he really awaited me in there. It all seemed too good and too sudden to be true.

  Like almost every decent old building in Boston, Calvin’s place had been converted to luxury condominiums. At least with this one they’d retained the sense of the old architecture during the renovations. Even the windows were double-hung with sashes that slid up and down. No cranks. No louvers. No anodized aluminum. Just wood and glass. And class.

  I opened the outer door, a slab of inch-thick plate glass. When I entered the foyer, I faced another door, this one of solid oak panels. The oiled wood glowed softly under the simulated gas fixture overhead. I pressed a small button near Calvin’s name and waited. There was no response. I checked to make sure I was pressing the right one, then tried again. Nothing. I wondered, Was it over already? Had the plans changed? Had Roger become content with Calvin after all?

  Frustrated, I turned to leave just as a stranger was entering the foyer from outside. He was about my height, five ten, but very slim, with dark hair and beard, probably in his late twenties. He was dressed completely in black leather: pants, jacket, and cap. The drag was severe, but the scent was appealing. Peering over a brown paper bag full of groceries, he acknowledged me with a wary smile and a silent nod. He unlocked the big oak door, then he turned to me and said in an unnaturally low voice, “Coming in?”

  I nodded and followed him. “I’m here to see Calvin Redding, but he doesn’t answer.”

  “Doorbell must be out again.” He was diligent about keeping his voice in the bass register. “Follow me.”

  He led me into a small elevator and pressed one button for the fifth floor, and another for PH. I asked, “Whats PH?”

  “That’s where Cal lives, the penthouse.”

  I thought, A penthouse in a six-story brownstone? If my building had an elevator, the button would say TF—for top floor.

  The ride up was slow and bumpy, which made me wonder if the authentic restoration of the building had been carried a bit too far. We stood in silence but stole brief glances at each other. I reeled at the heady aroma of the guy’s leather. Finally, the tiny chamber bounced to a halt and the door opened with a groan. As he ambled out he said, “If Cal’s not home, I live right under him.”

  I wondered how literally he meant that, then realized it was an invitation of sorts. “Thanks,” I said, but the gesture was wasted on me, who would soon be in Roger’s presence.

  One floor up, Calvin’s apartment was easy to find. I’d figured correctly, that of the two suites on the top floor, his was the one with the view of the Charles River. Opposite his door was an alcove with a small garden of ficus trees, miniature rhododendrons (fashionably out of season) ranging in reds from claret to rose, and a ground cover of lamb’s ear. The aroma of fresh mulch and the dark night visible through a large glass skylight over the garden gave a sense of being outdoors. Roger would like that, I thought.

  I pressed on a discreetly concealed button in the woodwork around Calvin’s door. I waited for him to answer. A minute later I pressed it again, then remembered the leather man’s comment about the doorbell being out of order. As I raised my fist to knock, the door in front of me swung inward with such sudden force that I almost got sucked in. Calvin stood there, clad only in a flimsy silk robe. The way it clung to his body, I knew he was naked underneath. His hair was disheveled and he looked surprised and angry, but he said nothing. I waved a hello; he blanched. I’d never seen a live persons skin turn gray the way Calvin’s did at that moment.

  “Am I, er, interrupting something?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t.

  He didn’t answer. We stood and looked at each other in silence. Seconds passed.

  “Should I come in, Calvin?” I felt awkward.

  He twitched his hand nervously and gestured me in, so I stepped through the doorway into his apartment. He closed the door soundlessly and whispered, “Did anyone see you?”

  I said boldly, “Your downstairs neighbor sure showed a lot of interest.”

  “Ssh!”

  “What’s wrong with you, Calvin?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Where’s Roger?”

  Calvin’s body jolted stiffly. “Roger? He’s … he’s not here.”

  The energy in that place sure was strange. I handed him the bag containing Roger’s dry clothes and said, “Maybe I’d better come back another time for that drink.” I was turning to leave when Calvin grabbed me.

  “Help me!” he wheezed. “Something’s happened.”

  Why did I have the feeling I wasn’t in for much fun that night? He fell onto me and sobbed heavily. In spite of my dislike for Calvin, I tried to comfort him. Counseling experience comes in handy sometimes. I felt his body shaking in my arms. I hadn’t held another man for what seemed like centuries, and now I was embracing the wrong one! What would Roger think if he found us waltzing together like that? I looked over Calvin’s shoulder into the living room behind him. All was still. I asked him again where Roger was.

  “He’s gone,” he said as he sobbed into my shoulder.

  “Gone where?” I asked, still hoping Roger had got smart and walked out on Calvin.

  He released his grip just enough so that he could look at me. His face was only inches from mine. “He’s … oh, God!” His eyes were wet with tears and I found myself vaguely fascinated to see him crying so helplessly. Must be my perverse Slavic blood that appreciates people expressing pain.

  Finally Calvin let go of me. “Come and see.” He turned and led me into the living room. Then he pointed to a hallway leading out toward the river side of the apartment. “In there,” he said. “Go. You’ll see.”

  “Where?”

  “The bedroom. At the end, on the left.”

  I went where he pointed and stepped into a long corridor whose left wall and entire ceiling were enormous glass panels. It was like walking into a European crystal palace at night. The parquet floor was lined with narrow Persian runners. The glass wall on one side faced out over the Charles River. The other wall was paneled with huge mirrors, which reflected the river view. The only light was from the outside, just stars and street lamps and automobile lights glittering and reflecting in the mirrors. Nice to see how some people lived.

  The bedroom door at the other end of the walkway was open. It looked inviting, with a nice warm glow coming from within. The whole corridor smelled of wool carpeting and dried eucalyptus. The comforting aroma relaxed me somewhat and rekindled my lovey-dovey hopes as I approached the room. It certainly didn’t prepare me for what was in there.

  Roger was on the bed, lying on his left side, facing the door. Behind him, a continuation of the glass wall and the river view provided a romantic urban backdrop. The sheet was drawn up in front of him, with his right arm and shoulder exposed. He could have been sleeping, and it would have been my dream come true to find him like that, waiting for me after a hard day at the shop, eager to lie together and help each other forget the troubles of the working world. But there was an ugly stillness in that room: Roger wasn’t breathing.

  My stomach lurched. I could have run and screamed, but hysterics have never been my style. Instead, I deliberately switched myself into a detached state of mind. My heart’s response was sealed off and frozen for now. It was a surviva
l tactic I’d learned as a boy dealing with unpleasant situations. I would face this nightmare with objective, focused senses.

  I went to Roger and touched his face. Cool and dry. I lifted the exposed wrist in search of a pulse. The arm was leaden. I felt along his neck for a signal from his heart, but all was still.

  Next thing I knew, my legs were wobbling and my mouth was dry as French talc. The soft lights pulsed in waves of brightness. I bit my tongue to get the saliva running again, a trick I’d learned from a dancer friend. I steadied myself against the bed. When I was sure I wouldn’t faint, I lifted the sheet away from Roger’s body. The odor of recent muscular exertion wafted upward. His skin was pale except along the mattress, where it was darker, almost bluish. The stagnant blood had already begun to settle. Then I saw them.

  “Calvin!” I yelled. “Get your ass in here!”

  Calvin appeared at the door in seconds. He was still sniveling. I screamed, “What the hell are these bow ties doing on him?”

  “I … I don’t know.” Sniff. “He was like that.”

  Roger’s body had been tied with two expensive silk bows, one around his cold neck and one around his bluish genitals.

  “What the hell were you guys doing?” I noticed a glassine envelope of white powder on the nightstand. “Damn, Calvin! Are you still messing with that shit?”

  “No. Honest!” he wailed. “I came home and he was lying like that!”

  “Then what are you doing dancing around in that robe?”

  Calvin caught his breath, then he stammered, “I … I came in here … and saw him lying there like that … naked. And I figured it was an invitation.”

  “So you took drugs and got into one of your stupid scenes.” My body wanted to punch and kick and hurt him—a typical male response. “You went too far this time, Calvin.”

  “I didn’t do it! All I did was get my clothes off and jump in with him.”

  I noticed Calvin’s clothes were neatly laid over a leather sling chair in the corner, not flung into a rumpled pile any old place. I snarled, “Just admit it, Calvin. You killed him!”