Ray Tate and Djuna Brown Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Lee Lamothe
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the teasing of himself when he stopped for coffee or gas. But he liked a lot of leg room; the new Beemer 7, maybe.
Idly he thought of having Harv get some disposable workers up there to build an underground bridal suite for his future loves, something with running water, lights, some furnishings, and maybe a video hookup. It wouldn’t be necessary to saddle them with bad habits at all. He could just grind away on them, leave them healthy on the outside, keep them until they naturally advanced to their expiry date.
The mayor and an aide, followed by some news teams, came along the rail, the mayor stepping carefully in his suede Hush Puppies. He wore a blue tie decorated with horses, and waved up into the stands although nobody waved back. Someone booed, calling him a Commie cocksucker. People laughed but no one threw anything. The aide posed the mayor and several luminaries with the state flag and the Stars and Bars in the background. The mayor spoke about the city as a growing international sporting centre. He said the racetrack was a perfect example of equestrian sport, a pastime available to all the citizens of the city.
The aide spotted Connie Cook and waved him over.
“Mr. Mayor, you know Cornelius Cook? He was a great supporter in the campaign and is a patron of the arts community in the city.”
The Mayor shook hands with Connie Cook. The aide nudged them together until the photographers got their shot. The aide spelled Connie Cook’s name out for them.
Connie Cook heard the aide say, “Cook, he gives the limit.”
He heard the mayor say something that sounded like, “That whale should get to vote twice.”
The Captain’s wife beckoned him. He laboriously climbed the stairs to the box.
“Connie, Gabby is involved in the most delightful project. She wants to build a gallery for homeless art. I said we’d be glad to support it.”
“If art doesn’t have a home, it should go to a free gallery.”
Cora Cook told him to shush and affectionately pushed his arm. “Art by homeless people, Connie. Don’t be such a wiseacre. Some of those people have talents they’ll never get to develop.”
“Connie,” Gabriella Harris-Hopkins said, moving to interact her breast and his bicep, “I think if four of us start with a modest amount of seed money we’ll be able to find donors without too much difficulty. Then we’ll go to the city for matching funds. What do you think?” She was in the garb of racetrack patron: stylish tailored jodhpurs, sleek boots, and short, brown leather jacket over a knit sweater. Opera glasses hung from a beaded chain around her neck.
“Gabby,” Cora Cook said, “your breasts may be perfect but don’t flirt with my man.”
He noted the effect jodhpurs and boots had on Gabriella’s ass and then and there he decided a strong maybe. “Define: modest, Gab. Define: amount.”
“Connie …” His wife looked horrified. “Don’t be in a mood, Connie.”
Gabriella Harris-Hopkins shook her head. “You’re such a kidder, Connie.” She gave him the smile she’d hooked her old husband with.
“I’ll need a pack.”
“What, sorry? Connie?”
“I’ll need a plan, I said. Something that I can work from to determine my involvement. Just something for the bean-counters.”
“Oh, a plan. Well, let me have something put together for you. I knew you’d be onside.” She gave him an arch look. “If this gets going, we’re going to have to spend some … quality time together.”
“Soon, though, with something written down, okay, Gabby? How’s your week looking? My year-end, you know?”
“Well, Irv’s off to the Bahamas tonight. I’m staying at the apartment in Stonetown while we have the alterations on the house done. Let me work on it, all right? I’ll put something together and call you.”
“Perfect.” He made his decision and made a wide smile. “Perfect. We can do great things for those with great needs.”
“Oh, Connie,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re such a kidder.”
“That’s what they say, Gabby.”
Chapter 19
Ray Tate wanted to explore Djuna Brown’s faux lesbianism. He found he was excited. As she piloted the red Intrepid away from Willy Wong’s warehouse and headed back towards the Interstate to swing downtown, he said, “So, you, like, ah, do guys, huh?”
“Not white guys, no.” She shook her head gravely. “So, anyway, how’d Topper get the name? He’s a funny fuck.”
“How about artists? Artists aren’t black or white. We’re just, ah, I dunno … artsy.” He inflated his chest. “We’re all colours. We are, Djun’, men of the people. Of all people.”
“I never saw myself as an artist’s moll. Do I, like, sit on a stool and get painted or sketched or something? Spend my evenings in cafés and rundown bars? Sorry, Morrie, no can do, buckaroo.” She didn’t look at him and he could see by the edge of her cat smile she was having a good time. She bumpered up and beeped a car out of her way. “So, Topper?”
“You don’t have a husband or something, tucked away?”
“I bet it’s because old Topper tops everybody. They tell a joke, he tells a better one. They got a story, he tops them with a better one.”
Ray Tate thought about it. The rover called out to him and he was directed to call in on a hard line. He gave a ten-four.
“Topper. Topper was a uniformed sergeant downtown. He was assigned to an anti-Nazi demo and it was cold so he had a nip or two, deployed his guys around, daydreamed about retirement. A reporter from Chicago came up to him and asked for a crowd estimate. Topper said, I dunno, a thousand or something, who cared? The reporter said numbers were important and he pointed at a sign that said, Six Million Dead. Never Again. Topper says, Nah, four million, tops. The reporter is miked and Topper ends up on the news.”
“Pretty funny guy, Topper.”
“Well, there’s a disciplinary hearing at the Swamp and as he’s coming out, docked two weeks’ pay, another reporter asks if he’s anti-Semitic. He says, No way, hey my wife’s a fucking Hebe.”
She laughed. “I can see that. I liked him. Nice guy. That’s what you want to be, isn’t it, Ray? A Topper.”
* * *
While Djuna Brown was undergoing a complex, odiferous treatment at a Stonetown hair spa, Ray Tate used the reception desk console and called the Chem office. Gloria came on and said the F-250 came back to an address in a town up towards Indian country, registered to Franklin Chase. Frankie Chase came back as twenty-four years old, biker associate, convictions for possession, possession, intent to traffic, possession, extortion, assault, possession, and several traffic violations. “They’re sending his mug over.”
“Sounds like a bad boy, our boy, Gloria. Thanks.”
Behind him a hair dryer was activated. “Where are you? What’s that?”
“Ah, hair dryer. Djuna’s getting some work done.”
“She went already? Good.” She was quiet a moment. “The other name you gave me, Agatha Burns, with a U? I put it through and I got a call from Homicide asking why I was asking about a missing.” She paused and said Goodbye to someone in the background. “I didn’t know Homicide handled missing persons.”
“Yep. So, what’d you tell them?”
“I said I’d have to have the skipper call them.”
“She came back from the system, though, right?”
“She’s a missing person from last year. I looked around. Her old