Night bait, page 24
"Say, no offense, Captain," Chet said, "but, uh, that suit you're wearing looks like you slept in it."
"That's because I did sleep in it," Dignazio returned, almost ashamed. "Didn't go home last night. Fuck, I was hoping no one would notice. I must look like Joe Shit the Ragman. I've got to find time to go home today and get into some pressed clothes, or else everyone back at headquarters will think I buy my clothes at a fucking surplus store." He continued brushing his sleeves. "Let me know if you find anything out about this butt. Then go home and get some sleep. Try to be out on the street early tonight."
Dignazio walked toward his car with an annoyed scowl, still trying to pat the lint from his jacket as though it were covered with ants.
"Sometimes Dignazio kills me," Vickie said after she and Chet got into the car. "He's in charge of the homicide squad, which has got to be about the grungiest job in the world, yet he's always so concerned about his appearance that you'd think he was a male fashion designer or something."
"Yeah, I know. He's a real scream, but he's a good man, probably the best detective the force has ever had. You should see all the valor medals and certificates of achievement he has. If anyone can break this case, it's him." The car's starter grated again as Chet fired the ignition. Then he drove toward the hospital exit. "Are you too tired to check out a few tobacco shops with me? I can drop you off first if you want."
"I'm not tired," she said, fibbing slightly, preferring to stay with Chet rather than go back to her lonely apartment before she had to. "There's a big tobacco store on Pennsylvania and 7th, right across from the Mall."
After the tedious drive through South East, they parked in front of Charing Corner Tobacconists. A cowbell tinked when they opened the front door and entered the shop. An effeminate man stood behind the counter and eyed them as they approached. The air of the shop was thick with the aroma of cedar and rich pipe tobacco. Breathing in the pleasant smells around her, she came to a halt beside Chet and placed her hands on the glass counter which displayed dozens of pipes.
"Do you sell imported cigarettes?" Chet asked the man.
"Oh, of course," the tobacconist replied, patting his meticulous hairdo with a proverbial limp wrist. "Our stock is the most complete in the city."
"What was the name of that brand?" Chet asked Vickie.
"Sobranihad," she said, twitching her nose like an irritated rabbit. It occured to her that the tobacco dealer was wearing perfume.
Chet looked back at him. "Do you carry them?"
"Certainly. We carry the entire Sobranihad line." His voice sounded like a woman's.
"You mean there are different kinds?"
"Yes. What blend are you interested in?"
Chet paused. "The kind in black paper."
"Ah, Sobranihad Black. They're the most expensive cigarettes you can buy, but they're the best. How many packs would you like?"
Chet pulled his leather badge clip from his belt and held it to the tobacconist's face. "I'd just like to ask you a few questions."
The man brought his hands to his mouth. "Oh, police. Is there any trouble?"
"No, just tell me about the cigarettes. What's so special about them?"
"Well, they're packaged in England, but the blend is from the Middle East. And as I said, they're the best we carry."
"Do many people buy them?"
"Well, no, due to the price of course. Our biggest selling imports are Dunhills."
"Can you remember the last person who bought any?"
The man stroked his chin. "Let me think—now that you mention it, a man did buy some about a week ago. Funniest thing ..."
"What do you mean?"
Sobranihad Blacks cost a dollar for a pack of ten, so when we do sell them, it's usually just a pack at a time. But last week, this man comes in and buys a whole case of them. Not a carton—a case."
"Do you know who he was?"
"No. It was the only time I've seen him here."
"Did he pay with a check or a credit card?"
"That's the funniest part. He paid cash. I gave him a house discount since he was buying so many. Two hundred dollars."
Chet's face was showing excitement. "Did he have a dark complexion? Dark hair? Kind of wiry?"
"Why, yes, as I recall, he did. Shorter than average. Handsome and well-dressed. And he spoke with an accent, very slight, but he was definitely a foreigner. But I couldn't tell you where he was from. Really dark eyes, too. A cold-looking face, but he acted very polite."
Chet grinned over at Vickie. "That's great. Thanks. Look, some detectives will probably come by a little later to ask you some more questions. They'll want you to look at some pictures, if you don't mind."
The tobacconist came out from around the counter and showed them to the door. "My pleasure, officer. Is this something important?"
"It could be."
Now the man had taken up a feminine pose by the door, with his hands on his hip, and the fingertips of the other hand pressed against his chest. He took a deep breath and lightly touched Chet on the shoulder. "I'm always happy to help the police."
"Thanks. We appreciate it," Chet said, then held open the door for Vickie.
"I can't believe all the shit that's gone down today," Chet told her when they were in the wagon.
"I think that guy liked you," she said.
Chet chuckled. "I'm too tired to worry about it. Dignazio will be happy as hell when he hears about this."
A few minutes later, they were back at Vickie's apartment. By then, Chet was groggy-eyed and sleepy. He turned the motor off and said, "I have to use your phone and tell Dignazio."
"I'll make coffee."
Inside, Vickie went to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee, then meandered out into the living room, where Chet was talking to his boss on the telephone. She plopped down on the couch and lit a cigarette, pretending not to listen to Chet's end of the conversation.
"Yeah," Chet was saying into the receiver, "and the guy who runs the place said he sold a case of that brand last week to someone who matches one description to a T." Chet stopped talking for a moment, and Vickie could hear the distorted squawk of Dignazio's voice through the receiver. Next, Chet told him everything that happened at the tobacco shop and gave him the address. Then he hung up. "Dignazio's going to get a complete report from that salesman. Sending people over there now."
"The whole thing could just be a coincidence."
"No, I don't think so. Look at it realistically. First, we find a cigarette butt—some crazy brand that hardly anyone smokes—right next to a body. Then, we find that a guy who buys them fits our description of the killer right down to the curly hair. That's too much of a coincidence. I'm positive that the guy who bought those cigarettes is the same guy who killed all those girls. Now, all we have to do is find him." He looked at his watch and rolled his eyes. "Christ, it's almost eleven. I have to go home and get some sleep."
"You can't go yet," Vickie exclaimed. "I made coffee. It won't kill you to stay and have a cup with me."
"No, really, I have to go." He looked at her strangely.
At that moment, something happened in Vickie's head; she felt swallowed by a wave of some ill feeling, a blatant defensiveness, or perhaps paranoia. Her good cheer snapped like a pencil. "What's the matter? Can't stand the sight of me?"
"What?"
"You just can't wait to get out of here, can you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. Why would you want me to stay?"
"Because I hate being by myself all the goddamned time, that's why. Is that so stupid? I get so sick of sitting around here alone all the time. It's a pretty shitty feeling—you don't know what it's like."
"I know what it's like," he returned, still standing by the phone. "That's the way it is."
"That's the way it is," she mimicked. "That's all you ever say. I used to think you were a nice guy, but you're really no different than those clowns you work for. You don't give a shit about anyone."
"That's not true."
"Yes it is. All you care about is putting people in jail, not because you want to help society, but because you have nothing else to do. It's just a big party to you. But what about me? I've sacrificed a lot for this shit. Where does that leave me?"
"That's a problem you'll have to figure out yourself."
She crushed out her cigarette in bitter stabs. "It just tickles you pink to know that other people are miserable, doesn't it?"
"No. But if you're miserable, then it's up to you to do something about it."
"What? You're the man with all the answers. What should I do?"
"I've already told you that."
"You've told me a lot of bullshit," she said with a mock smile.
"It's bullshit to you because you don't understand it."
"Then I guess that makes me pretty fucking stupid, huh?"
"No, but you're being pretty fucking difficult."
"You just make excuses for things you can't face up to."
"How so?"
"You lay all this shit on me about how we should separate ourselves from society because society's wrong. The fact is you hate people. No one's good enough for you."
"That's a cruel thing to say. I'm sorry you feel that way."
She sank back into the couch. "I'll bet you are. It's easy for you to ignore everybody, but I can't. I can't hack having no friends; I can't hack being alone all the time, or having no one to talk to, or even to look at. I don't see anyone anymore, and since I've taken this assignment, the only person I come in contact with is you. But you can't even pass the time of day with me; you're always running away like I got some contagious disease. Is there anyone that you do like?"
"What's the matter, Vickie?" he said, lowering his brows. "Why are you doing this? A minute ago, you were all smiles, and now you're upset. Feeling sorry for yourself won't do any good."
She continued to pour out her anxieties, without really knowing what she was doing. "That's a cop-out. Why don't you just admit it? You can't stand being near me because I used to be a whore. Once a whore, always a whore, right? Don't get too close—you might get dirty."
Chet sat across from her on the sofa. "Now you're being ugly."
"But according to you," she said without looking at him, "that's all there is in the world—ugliness."
"Then you've misread me. I only mean life is what one makes it. And it seems to me that you're making things pretty tough on yourself for nothing. I don't know where you got the idea that I don't like you, because I do. I can understand your being disillusioned, losing your roommate, and your fiancee dumping you and all. But that's no reason to get all fired up. You're beating your head against a door that won't open; you're looking for an answer to an unanswerable question. Furthermore, you're dropping all this frustration on my head. That's the cop-out."
Looking straight ahead, Vickie dwelled on her silence and realized that he was right. She felt like crying and screaming at the same time. An unbidden sense of futility washed over her like a dam-break. She didn't know what to do or to say, but she knew that making Chet a target for her guilt and despair was wrong. More silence ensued, and she lit another cigarette. She stared into the flame of her lighter for several seconds, thinking of a way to apologize. "I—I don't know what's happening to me. And I don't know why I said those things to you. You're right, though. I'm taking it all out on you to escape from the reality of myself. I'm really sorry, Chet. I've never acted like that before. I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything," he offered. "I know it's not easy for you. Things don't always go the way we'd like them to. That's the reality we all have to face. Most people do it wrong, and end up wasting their lives. But it's up to you and me to see that it doesn't happen to us. It's pretty hard to be happy in a world bent on folly and lies and self-destruction. That's why we have to 'alienate yourselves; otherwise we become just like all the rest. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
The fog was starting to clear from her head. "Yeah, I think so. I'm looking for a way out, when there's really no exit."
"Yes, but that doesn't mean we have to suffer on account of our environment. We only have to live with it, work our way around it, pick up with all the con men and liars, all the thieves and gluttons and jerks. All The Electrocutionists. And when we part ourselves from the lunacy of others, then we'll find what we're looking for. Then we'll be happy."
"When you put it that way," she surmised, "then I guess it's not so bad after all. Things will work only if I let them. I can't let other people get in my way. Only I know what I want, so I can't let society shortchange me, make me settle for something less. It's hard to believe that it's taken me this long to realize that. I've been running around in circles all my life, never going anywhere, fooling myself. I see now that the average person's goals are meaningless. What good is money, a good job, romance, and material gain when there's nothing left inside of you? I used to think that those things were what made happiness."
"But they're not, are they?"
She shook her head. "No. There's something missing, like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. The only thing is, I'm not sure what that missing piece is."
"Self-actualization, I think...Essence."
"But what is that really?"
"Doing what you think is best, and forgetting about what everyone else thinks. Each person is a unit; each person had something that no one else has, and you're not going to find essence by doing what everyone else does. The missing piece is within you. You can't expose it by making a lot of money or by being a celebrity or whatever. You'll find it by dismissing all that, not by being like other people, not by joining the crowd, but by being yourself. You'll find it by being Vickie. Do you really think a movie star is happy because she's beautiful, or that an executive is happy because he's rich? They're not; they're in a dead end because they're too busy pitting themselves against the next guy. Those are the people who are truly miserable. It's just that they don't realize it until they're dying. They have money and beauty, but what good does it do them in the end? What's left?"
"It's like that man I saw yesterday," she said, thinking back. "That man who didn't have any legs. He has to push himself around on a board with wheels on it, and he has to beg for food. But he has more than me. He's found his essence. And if he can, I sure as hell can."
Chet fought off a yawn and smiled. "Looks like you and I have one up on the rest of the world."
"I hope so...Shit, I forgot about the coffee." She dropped her cigarette in the ashtray and skirted around the coffee table into the kitchen. Cups tinkled as she took them out of the cabinet, along with mismatching saucers. When she poured the coffee, she did so in a vague sort of half-consciousness, one part of her mind filling the cups, and the other part analyzing her behavior of the past few minutes. Despite the rain which had soaked her dress, and the wasted evening, and despite her seeing another dead body, she had taken the day in stride and had remained in a good mood throughout. Yet the minute it had become apparent that she would have to be alone again, her personality seemed to have revolted, and she had become cranky and defensive. And even worse, she had attacked Chet's sentiments mercilessly, the way children ridicule other children when something doesn't go their way. She couldn't remember a time when she had ever acted like that, so irrational and turnabout. But she had, and she was ashamed of herself for it. She suspected that her life had taken so abrupt a turn that she could no longer control her actions, that at any given moment, whether encroached by something foreign or objectionable, or whether faced by a situation she could not bear, she would strike out wildly at anyone she could. She knew why this was so—it was the pressure of her newfound predicament. The loneliness. She knew there was a difference between being a loner and total loneliness. She had never been the type of person who constantly needed to be around lots of people. Just a few would do, and she had always had those few. Even when she had been a prostitute, she had had Nora to relate to. And when she was done with that, there was Jennifer and of course Steve. She hadn't needed anyone else, and she had never guessed that that would change. But it seemed that overnight they were gone, and she was left alone. She had always taken them for granted. She never knew how much she needed them until they were no longer there. That was the pressure she couldn't handle. And rather than coping with it and trying to solve her problems, she was going apeshit. Just a few days of loneliness had sent her into a delicate frenzy, changing her into a time bomb set to detonate at the slightest bit of indifference.
And then there was Chet. She liked him so much, but she didn't know how to tell him—another assumed duty of a woman that was lost in her. As it stood, Chet was about the only person she could call a friend, seemingly the only human being who associated with her at all anymore. And instead of showing her appreciation, she had lashed out at him as if he were the cause of all her problems, treating him like shit when she should be doing everything in her power to gain his confidence, and trying to get him to like her. And she knew that if she weren't careful, she would lose him too, by her own abuse and moody unpredictability. She would have to do something about that; she would have to make him like her. He was all she had now.
She stood for a moment to regain her composure and to get hold of herself. Then she put a smile on her face, picked up the two cups of steamy coffee, and went back to Chet.
"Hope you don't mind it black," she announced. "I don't have any cream or sugar. .."
Chet had fallen asleep on the couch, his body angled to a peaceful slouch, arms folded across his middle, one leg propped up along the edge of the cushions. She looked at him for a few seconds without moving, and she noticed the stillness of his face, the closed eyes, the mouth drawn to a tranquil line. She marveled at the childlike picture of innocence he portrayed in his sleep. After putting the coffee back in the kitchen, she grabbed a blanket from the linen closet in the hall, then tiptoed back to the living room. Very carefully, she lifted his legs and moved them straight over the sofa, and she pulled off his Chuck Taylor's and placed them on the floor. Then she draped the blanket over him and went to her bedroom.
