Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 09/01/12 (12 page)

“You look a mess,” he said, and I guess
I did, because I hadn’t washed or changed my clothes and Frank noticed my hands were
shaking, and I explained how I’d stayed up finishing my newest artwork and looked at
Frank in his black jeans and black turtleneck and his dark hair slicked back all
perfect and handsome except for the small scar that remained from what must have
been a harelip that he tried to hide with a moustache, though it didn’t really work,
and I thought how much better he’d look without that scar.

But I forgot about
it when I brought him into the bedroom I use as my studio and showed him Elise and
he said, “Jesus,” and took a step closer. “How did you make that? With some sort of
resin? It’s so . . . lifelike. It kind of reminds me of a Duane Hanson sculpture.”
He was referring to a ’60s artist who made these super-realistic sculptures of
cleaning women and security guards and tourists, nothing at all like my beautiful
Elise, and I was sort of insulted but I kept my cool and just said, “It’s my own
mix,” and Frank said, “Well, it stinks! Not the piece. That’s a knockout. I mean the
smell. Will it go away? I can’t sell it if it smells like that,” and I explained how
I’d used a lot of oils and varnish, and Frank said, “It smells like cheap perfume.
But it’s amazing, so detailed and . . . those eyes, wow, they’re so . . .
perfect!”

That made me incredibly happy and I was feeling really good when it
happened: One of Elise’s eyes opened and closed, really quickly, like only for a
second or two, but I saw it, and I must have made a noise or something because Frank
said, “What?” but I didn’t answer, I just stared at Elise—her eye was shut now—and
thought I must have imagined it, that I was tired and my eyes were playing tricks on
me, and then Frank reached out to touch Elise but I grabbed his arm a little too
hard and he said, “Hey!” and I said I was sorry and explained how the paint might
still be wet, and Frank walked around Elise rubbing his arm like it hurt, then
tapping his finger against his harelip and I started picturing how he’d look without
it, my heart beating like I’d run a marathon though it was probably the Coke and
coffee, and I felt like I was going to jump right out of my skin if he didn’t stop
tapping his scarred lip, and when he wasn’t looking I swiped a palette knife off my
paint table, a really sharp one, and hid it behind my back. Frank said, “I’d like to
get this to the gallery as soon as possible,” and for a minute I forgot all about
his scar and got excited about showing Elise in Frank’s gallery and people coming to
see her and that’s when it happened again—the flawed eye opening and closing, but
Frank only asked, “When will it be dry enough to move?” and I said, “I—I don’t
know,” and Frank swiped at his nostrils and said, “You’ve got to stop using that
awful-smelling varnish,” and I noticed the bottle of Happy perfume sitting on my
palette right next to him, so I shifted my body to hide it and when I looked back at
Elise it happened again—her eye opened and closed like she was winking at me, and I
jumped.

“What’s the matter with you today?” Frank asked.

“Too much
coffee,” I said, starting to think Frank was playing with me, teasing me. The way he
was staring at Elise he had to have seen it—how the painted lashes separated from
the real ones, and the way the real ones were flicking back and forth as her eye
opened and closed.

Frank said, “You’d better lay off the caffeine,” and I
stared at his lip and tightened my grip on the palette knife, but then Elise’s eye
did a slow yawning blink and I saw the flaw had grown bigger and darker, the brown
now closer to a deep black-purple, and I started shivering.

“Maybe you’re
coming down with something,” Frank said, taking a step back from me but still
staring at Elise. “You did a really great job with the eyelashes, but you may have
to do a little touch-up; it’s a bit smudged, almost like I’m seeing double, you see
where I mean?” He leaned in and pointed. “What’d you do, use false eyelashes as well
as paint?”

I shook my head up and down while Elise’s real lashes batted
against the painted ones and I knew Frank had to see it. He
had
to.

“Stop!” I screamed, and Frank froze. “I know you see it!”

“Sure,” he
said. “I can see it. And it’s great work. I keep telling you that.” He smiled and
the scar tugged his lip and moustache into a weird angle and it was just too much,
too much, his knowing smile, his scar, Elise’s eye blinking over and over, the flaw
worse than ever.

“Stop teasing me! Stop taunting me! I
know
you can
see it!”

“See
what?”

“Her eye. Her
eye!”

“What
about her eye?” Frank looked from me to Elise, frowning. “You’ve got to take it
easy.”

Elise’s eye was open wide now, that black-purple zigzag the only thing
I could see—and I knew Frank saw it too.

“I was just trying to make her
perfect!” I cried. “You have to understand! You have to see that!”

“I can see
that you need to
relax,”
said Frank, and he reached out for me, but I
grabbed him and tugged him down so that he was only inches from Elise’s face, from
her open eye.

“Look,” I said.
“Look.
You see it. You
must
see it. I
know
you see it.” I tried to hold him there but he struggled and
used Elise to push himself away and when he did his hands slid off her body, leaving
streaks, and he stumbled back and stood there a minute just staring at his hands, at
the flesh-colored paint on his fingertips, his face all screwed up and his mouth—his
lip—
all twisted. Then he looked back at Elise, and said, “Oh my God . .
.” really slow, his scarred lip quivering, and if my hands hadn’t been shaking so
bad I might have helped Frank become a better version of himself and stripped him of
his scarred lip, but it was all suddenly too much, I was just so tired, my back and
leg aching so much I could hardly stand, so I just lay down next to Elise and stayed
there for I don’t know how long, and then the police came and took me
away.

 
The newspapers made it sound so much worse than it was, IN BED
WITH DEAD LOVER, and they called me a “sicko” and said that I slept beside a
“rotting corpse for days,” which was a lie—I didn’t sleep for
days,
and I
did my best to make sure Elise smelled good and she wasn’t rotting.

Lately,
I’ve started making tattoos and it turns out I’m really good with a ballpoint pen
and a pin and the guys in here line up with all sorts of requests— anchors and
hearts and names and pictures of their girlfriends that I copy perfectly onto their
arms or legs or chests, and it fills the time and gets me respect too.

I hear
they’ve got Elise on display at some science lab in Washington, D.C., because the
linseed oils and varnishes I used—and maybe even that awful Happy perfume—preserved
her body pretty well and they want to find out why. I would have liked it better if
she were on display at Frank’s gallery or at the Guggenheim Museum or the Museum of
Modern Art, but you don’t get everything in life, right? I’m just glad my artwork is
being seen and appreciated, and it keeps me going in here, to think about all those
people gazing at my work, at Elise. I’m just hoping someone had the decency to close
her eye.

Copyright © 2012 by Jonathan Santlofer

 
Lou Manfredo began his Gus Oliver series in
EQMM
with
the August 2009 story “Central Islin, U.S.A.” and continued it with January
2012’s “Home of the Brave.” This new episode brings in characters from his
non-series 2006 story “The Alimony Prison.” In it, Oliver is presented with a
case involving the former madam of a New York City brothel who has come to live
in his small town in Long Island. Lou Manfredo’s latest novel is
Rizzo’s
Daughter
(Minotaur 3/12).
 

 
Early Wednesday morning, March 2, 1960, Gus Oliver sat in the jury
box of the county courthouse with eleven fellow citizens, quietly awaiting the
judge’s appearance. The courthouse was located in the Suffolk County seat at
Riverhead, Long Island, New York.

Gus finished the
Newsday
article he had been reading. He shook his head
grimly, reflecting on the story: A crowd estimated at over one hundred thousand
had given a rousing, confetti-strewn welcome to Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev
as he rode through the streets of the capital city of some strange country
called Afghanistan. Apparently, the United States had offered only a few million
dollars in aid to the Afghans. The Soviets had then stepped in with 300 million
more in aid and material to strengthen the Afghan army in its struggle with
neighboring Pakistan.

Gus didn’t possess great insight into international affairs, but he knew this
much: The news could mean only one thing—trouble for the U.S. somewhere down the
road.

He folded the newspaper and dropped it to the floor. Idly, he began looking
around the courtroom. After a moment, he smiled. Well, now, he thought. That’s
mighty interesting.

 
Superior Court Justice Robert Basil Maull gazed across the large
mahogany desk in his chambers. Sitting before him were County Prosecutor Jack
Daino, prominent Long Island attorney Andrew Saks, and Gus Oliver.

“Mr. Oliver,” Judge Maull began. “As a prospective juror in this case, you have
been challenged for cause by Mr. Saks. What that translates to is, he does not
wish to use one of his limited peremptory challenges—one which would excuse you
from consideration for no specifically stated reason. Instead, he has chosen to
use one of his
unlimited
challenges for cause by raising the issue of
your thirty years’ service as town constable in Central Islin. He believes your
law-enforcement background may inadvertently
prejudice you toward the
prosecution. How do you respond to that, sir?”

“Well, Judge, as everyone here knows, I retired some time ago. I’m just a local
farmer now, and Central Islin has hired itself a police chief and two
patrolmen.”

“Yes,” Saks said from Gus’s right. “But since your retirement, Mr. Oliver, you’ve
been involved in two private investigations, and with some spectacular results,
I might add. As far as my clients’ interests lie, you are, sir, still active in
law enforcement.”

Prosecutor Daino spoke up. “Now hold on, Andrew, that’s just nonsense. Are you
going to challenge every citizen that ever supported his local police
department? If you want Oliver off this panel, you use one of your peremptories.
I will not agree to—”

Judge Maull held a palm up and outward as he spoke. “All right, just relax, Jack,
hold your horses.” He turned to Gus before continuing. “I think we can settle
this matter easily enough if you’ll answer me one question, Mr. Oliver.”

Gus shrugged. “Sounds reasonable, Judge. Go ahead. Ask.”

“I was delayed for a bit in my robing room. After you and the other prospective
jurors were seated in the box, you had some fifteen minutes before I came into
the courtroom.” The judge sat back in his seat, his large blue eyes twinkling
with what Gus believed to be mild amusement.

“Tell me, Mr. Oliver. From your experiences as a policeman, did you happen to
draw any inferences as you sat there? Notice anything that might be, shall we
say, an impediment to your impartiality?”

“Funny you should ask, Judge,” Gus said, returning the man’s smile. “I did sorta
make an assumption or two.”

Judge Maull nodded. “I suspected as much. Would you mind telling us what they
were?”

“Well, now, Judge, I believe you said I’d have to answer only one question, and
by my count that one’s number three. But—no, I don’t mind one bit.”

Gus turned slightly to his right, addressing both attorneys.

“We were told this here was a drug case. That young fella sitting at the defense
table is accused of sellin’ narcotics to some of those rich city folk who’ve
been coming out to the Hamptons these last coupla summers and partying a lot.
Now, I don’t have much experience with drug dealers per se, but I ain’t stupid
either. That young man out there has a codefendant, also represented by Mr.
Saks, only he’s not present in the courtroom. You folks are trying one defendant
and one empty chair. I also noticed the county sheriff’s deputy sittin’ way
across the courtroom reading a magazine, not payin’ the slightest bit of
attention to the defendant. That means the young fella is out on bail, not
incarcerated, so that deputy ain’t at all concerned about a possible escape.
Now, you’re pretty well known, Mr. Saks, and I’m figurin’ your services don’t
come cheap. That there wristwatch you’re wearin’ is probably worth more than my
fifty-nine Edsel. So, what have we got? A local young man accused of sellin’
drugs who somehow has enough money to A) post his bail and B) hire himself a
big-ticket lawyer. Plus, we got a second defendant who isn’t even here. That
sorta puts a bee in my bonnet, gentlemen. I’m thinking that second young man
musta posted his bail too. Then he skipped out, forfeiting every dime. If he
gets acquitted, he comes back to town and apologizes. ‘Oops, sorry. I forgot.’
If, on the other hand, he gets convicted, good luck findin’ him. Either way,
he’s not real concerned about that lost bail money.”

Andrew Saks, color coming into his cheeks, interrupted. “Now you look here,
sir—”

Gus waved a friendly hand at him. “Take it easy now, Counselor, just relax. Seems
to me I’m gettin’ you that challenge for cause you’re looking for. A
really
good lawyer knows when to dummy up.”

Saks considered it. “Go ahead then,” he said.

“Well, here’s what I’m startin’ to suspect. We got us a coupla big-earning drug
dealers on trial here. Now, can I be wrong? Sure can. But—somebody’s maybe gonna
have to
prove
to me I’m wrong. That might be you, Mr. Saks. And the law
says the defense never has to prove any damn thing. That’s the prosecutor’s
job.”

Gus turned back to the still-amused face of Judge Maull. “So, your honor, what do
you
think? You ready to swear me in just yet?”

Maull chuckled. “You are excused for cause, Mr. Oliver. With our thanks and, I
might add, my compliments on your powers of observation. Please, sir, report
back to Central Jury. And, under punishment of contempt of court, do not discuss
any
aspect of what has transpired here with
anyone.
Am I
understood?”

Gus stood and reached for his folded copy of
Newsday.

“Perfectly, Judge. Couldn’t be clearer.”

 
Later, sitting on a hard-backed bench in Central Jury, Gus again
tossed down the newspaper and sighed.

“World can’t get much crazier than right now,” he said softly.

“And why is that, Mr. Oliver?” he heard. Looking up, he saw Andrew Saks standing
beside him. He smiled up at the lawyer.

“Well now, Mr. Saks, I just read that baseball fella, Willie Mays, has signed a
new contract with the Giants. Eighty-five thousand dollars, it was. For playin’
a game every young boy in the country is playing for free.” He shook his head.
“It’ll never get any crazier than that.”

Saks glanced around nervously. “Mr. Oliver, may I ask a favor? I’d like to speak
to you. Privately. As you can imagine, Central Jury is the last place a lawyer
on trial is supposed to be. The clerk is a friend, he allowed me in, but I must
leave immediately.” He handed Gus his card. “Please, call me. Perhaps we can set
up a meeting, at your convenience and at a location of your choosing. But I’m
afraid I must ask that it be soon, quite soon.” He leaned downward, lowering his
voice. “A woman’s life may well depend on it,” he said.

Gus glanced at the card, then raised his eyes back to Saks’s.

“Well then, guess I don’t have much choice,” he said. “I’ll call you later this
evening. How’s five-thirty sound?”

 
It was six o’clock the following evening. Gus sat at a rear table in
The Green Lantern Tavern on Central Islin’s Main Street. Sitting across the
red-and-white-checkered tablecloth was Andrew Saks.

“I guess you’re accustomed to more fancy eating than this, Mr. Saks,” Gus said.
“As for me, this is my favorite place. Food’s simple and cheap, but very good. I
hope you’ll like it.”

“May I call you Gus?” Saks asked. “And I’m Andrew.”

“Sure, Andrew.”

Saks nodded. “Good. And as for The Green Lantern, I grew up in East Patchogue on
the South Shore. Real blue-collar town. My dad worked a charter fishing boat for
thirty-five years, my mother was a housewife. I think you may have the wrong
impression of me.”

Mabel Taylor, owner-operator of The Green Lantern, approached the table, a large
serving tray in hand. Balancing the tray on the table’s edge, she placed two
sirloins, baked potatoes, and tossed green salads before them.

“Enjoy it, gentlemen,” she said. “More beers?”

Both said yes, and she hurried off to get their drinks. They seasoned their meals
and arranged their napkins. After Mabel had left them a second time, Gus,
cutting into his steak, spoke casually to Saks.

“Well, Andrew, maybe I have misjudged you. Didn’t know you came from humble
beginnings. I figured you for a New York City hot-shot transplant.”

“Nope. Born and raised right on Long Island. Been practicing law here since day
one.”

“So,” Gus went on. “What can I do for you? Who is this woman whose life you fear
for?”

“She’s a client of mine. Her name is Lily O’Rourke. Are you familiar with the
name? It’s been in the papers.”

Gus thought for a moment. “No, it’s not ringing a bell.”

Saks put his utensils down and patted at his lips with the white linen napkin. He
cleared his throat before going on.

“Gus, you’re aware of the kind of practice I have—I make quite a good living.”
Here he smiled. “Nearly as good as Willie Mays, and I’m not the greatest center
fielder in baseball. But here’s something you may
not
know: I often do
pro bono work. Are you familiar with the term?”

“Sure. You take on cases for free.”

“Exactly. When I believe in a defendant’s innocence and I know they can’t afford
me. Especially when there are other considerations.”

“Such as?” Gus asked.

“Such as societal pressures—prejudices or preconceived police notions.”

“Is this O’Rourke some kinda victim here, Andrew? Is that what you’re
saying?”

“Yes. She’s a victim of her own past. Lily is fifty-nine years old. O’Rourke is
her maiden name. In nineteen twenty-seven, she was known as Lily Cosenza. She
was married to Big Dominick Cosenza, a low-level gangster and owner of a
speakeasy called The Alimony Prison. Ever hear of it? It was in New York City,
Greenwich Village, specifically.”

Gus shook his head. “No, can’t say as I have. Back in those days I was just a
young kid doin’ a three-year hitch in the Navy. I did my drinking legal, all
over Europe, not in some New York speakeasy.”

“Lily had some shady days back then. In fact, she was the madam of a brothel her
husband ran at The Alimony Prison. When Prohibition ended, Mr. Cosenza branched
out into other rackets. In nineteen fifty-two, he crossed the wrong man and was
shot to death. Lily’s life has been—shall we call it—colorful. Then a couple of
years ago, she moved out to the town of Shirley, about fifteen miles east of
here. She bought a small cabin and has been making do with local work:
supermarkets, clothing stores, things like that. In fact, that’s how I came to
be involved. She once worked at a dress shop my wife frequented, and they became
somewhat friendly. When Lily was arrested, my wife had me go see her, and after
I did, every bit of my experience told me she was innocent. She’s been around,
remember: She knows you
never
lie to your lawyer. Not if you want to
win at trial anyway.”

Gus considered it, cutting more steak. Then he raised his eyes to Saks’s.
“Unless, of course, she figures she’s better off with
you
representing
her under a false impression than some kid from the public defender’s office
with the truth. And, maybe she figures you’d only take the case pro bono if you
figured her innocent.” Gus took some steak, chewing it slowly. “You ever
consider that angle?”

Saks’s face was impassive, and Gus couldn’t tell for certain, but he strongly
suspected that the lawyer had not, in fact, considered it.

After the briefest moment, Saks replied. “Yes. I have, and I’m still convinced
she’s not responsible for this murder.”

Gus nodded but remained silent. After a few seconds, Saks leaned closer to Gus,
his voice intent as he spoke.

“Lily’s certainly been no angel. God only knows what she’s done in the past. And
the police are aware of that. But now she’s all alone in the world, just growing
old, barely making ends meet. The police are blinded by her history. I’m telling
you, Gus, she’s not guilty. Private investigators, particularly the ones I
generally use, are expensive. Lily can’t afford them. I’m willing to do my part
with free legal representation, and I’ll even agree to pay you for your time if
we can come to a reasonable fee. I know what you’ve done in the recent past,
Gus. Two wrongly accused people freed by your efforts, and two murderers brought
to justice.” Saks paused, picking up his knife and fork once more. “Will you
take a look, Gus? That’s all I’m asking.”