Black House

7

GOD MAY KNOW where Henry Leyden found that astounding suit, but we certainly do not. A costume shop? No, it is too elegant to be a costume; this is the real thing, not an imitation. But what sort of real thing is it? The wide lapels sweep down to an inch below the waist, and the twin flaps of the swallowtail reach nearly to the ankles of the billowing, pleated trousers, which seem, beneath the snowfield expanse of the double-breasted waistcoat, to ride nearly at the level of the sternum. On Henry's feet, white, high-button spats adorn white patent-leather shoes; about his neck, a stiff, high collar turns its pointed peaks over a wide, flowing, white satin bow tie, perfectly knotted. The total effect is of old-fashioned diplomatic finery harmoniously wedded to a zoot suit: the raffishness of the ensemble outweighs its formality, but the dignity of the swallowtail and the waistcoat contribute to the whole a regal quality of a specific kind, the regality often seen in African American entertainers and musicians.

Escorting Henry to the common room while surly Pete Wexler comes along behind, pushing a handcart loaded with boxes of records, Rebecca Vilas dimly remembers having seen Duke Ellington wearing a white cutaway like this in a clip from some old film . . . or was it Cab Calloway? She recalls an upraised eyebrow, a glittering smile, a seductive face, an upright figure posed before a band, but little more. (If alive, either Mr. Ellington or Mr. Calloway could have informed Rebecca that Henry's outfit, including the "high-drape" pants with a "reet pleat," terms not in her vocabulary, had undoubtedly been handmade by one of four specific tailors located in the black neighborhoods of New York, Washington, D. C. , Philadelphia, or Los Angeles, masters of their trade during the thirties and forties, underground tailors, men now alas as dead as their celebrated clients. Henry Leyden knows exactly who tailored his outfit, where it came from, and how it fell into his hands, but when it comes to persons such as Rebecca Vilas, Henry imparts no more information than is already likely to be known. ) In the corridor leading to the common room, the white cutaway appears to shine from within, an impression only increased by Henry's oversized, daddy-cool dark glasses with bamboo frames, in which what may be tiny sapphires wink at the corners of the bows.

Is there maybe some shop that sells Spiffy Clothes of Great 1930s Bandleaders? Does some museum inherit this stuff and auction it off ? Rebecca cannot contain her curiosity a moment longer. "Mr. Leyden, where did you get that beautiful outfit?"

From the rear and taking care to sound as though he is muttering to himself, Pete Wexler opines that obtaining an outfit like that probably requires chasing a person of an ethnicity beginning with the letter n for at least a couple of miles.

Henry ignores Pete and smiles. "It's all a matter of knowing where to look. "

"Guess you never heard of CDs," Pete says. "They're like this big new breakthrough. "

"Shut up and tote them bales, me bucko," says Ms. Vilas. "We're almost there. "

"Rebecca, my dear, if I may," Henry says. "Mr. Wexler has every right to grouse. After all, there's no way he could know that I own about three thousand CDs, is there? And if the man who originally owned these clothes can be called a nigger, I'd be proud to call myself one, too. That would be an incredible honor. I wish I could claim it. "

Henry has come to a halt. Each, in a different way, shocked by his use of the forbidden word, Pete and Rebecca have also stopped moving.

"And," Henry says, "we owe respect to those who assist us in the performance of our duties. I asked Mr. Wexler to shake out my suit when he hung it up, and he very kindly obliged me. "

"Yeah," Pete says. "Plus I also hung up your light and put your turntable and speakers and shit right where you want 'em. "

"Thank you very much, Mr. Wexler," Henry says. "I appreciate your efforts in my behalf. "

"Well, shit," Pete says, "I was only doing my job, you know? But anything you want after you're done, I'll give you a hand. "

Without benefit of a flash of panties or a glimpse of ass, Pete Wexler has been completely disarmed. Rebecca finds this amazing. All in all, sightless or not, Henry Leyden, it comes to her, is far and away the coolest human being she has ever been privileged to encounter in her entire twenty-six years on the face of the earth. Never mind his clothes ¡ª where did guys like this come from?

"Do you really think some little boy vanished from the sidewalk out in front of here this afternoon?" Henry asks.

"What?" Rebecca asks.

"Seems like it to me," Pete says.

"What?" Rebecca asks again, this time to Pete Wexler, not Henry. "What are you saying?"

"Well, he ast me, and I tol' him," Pete says. "That's all. "

Simmering dangerously, Rebecca takes a stride toward him. "This happened on our sidewalk? Another kid, in front of our building? And you didn't say anything to me or Mr. Maxton?"

"There wasn't nothin' to say," Pete offers in self-defense.

"Maybe you could tell us what actually happened," Henry says.

"Sure. What happened was, I went outside for a smoke, see?" This is less than strictly truthful. Faced with the choice of walking ten yards to the Daisy corridor men's room to flush his cigarette down a toilet or walking ten feet to the entrance and pitching it into the parking lot, Pete had sensibly elected outdoor disposal. "So I get outside and that's when I saw it. This police car, parked right out there. So I walked up to the hedge, and there's this cop, a young guy, I think his name is Cheetah, or something like that, and he's loadin' this bike, like a kid's bike, into his trunk. And something else, too, only I couldn't see what it was except it was small. And after he did that, he got a piece a chalk outta his glove compartment and he came back and made like X marks on the sidewalk. "

"Did you talk to him?" Rebecca asks. "Did you ask him what he was doing?"

"Miz Vilas, I don't talk to cops unless it's like you got no other choice, know what I mean? Cheetah, he never even saw me. The guy wouldn't of said nothing anyhow. He had this expression on his face ¡ª it was like, Jeez, I hope I get to the crapper before I drop a load in my pants, that kind of expression. "

"Then he just drove away?"

"Just like that. Twenty minutes later, two other cops showed up. "

Rebecca raises both hands, closes her eyes, and presses her fingertips to her forehead, giving Pete Wexler an excellent opportunity, of which he does not fail to take full advantage, to admire the shape of her breasts underneath her blouse. It may not be as great as the view from the bottom of the ladder, but it'll do, all right, yes it will. As far as Ebbie's dad is concerned, a sight like Rebecca Vilas's Hottentots pushing out against her dress is like a good fire on a cold night. They are bigger than you'd expect on a slender little thing like her, and you know what? When the arms go up, the Hottentots go up, too! Hey, if he had known she was going to put on a show like this, he would have told her about Cheetah and the bicycle as soon as it happened.

"All right, okay," she says, still flattening the tips of her fingers against her head. She lifts her chin, raising her arms another few inches, and frowns in concentration, for a moment looking like a figure on a plinth.

Hoo-ray and hallelujah, Pete thinks. There's a bright side to everything. If another little snotnose gets grabbed off the sidewalk tomorrow morning, it won't be soon enough for me.

Rebecca says, "Okay, okay, okay," opens her eyes, and lowers her arms. Pete Wexler is staring firmly at a point over her shoulder, his face blank with a false innocence she immediately comprehends. Good God, what a caveman. "It's not as bad as I thought. In the first place, all you saw was a policeman picking up a bike. Maybe it was stolen. Maybe some other kid borrowed the bike, dumped it, and ran away. The cop could have been looking for it. Or the kid who owned the bike could have been hit by a car or something. And even if the worst did happen, I don't see any way that it could hurt us. Maxton's isn't responsible for whatever goes on outside the grounds. "

She turns to Henry, who looks as though

he wishes he were a hundred miles away. "Sorry, I know that sounded awfully cold. I'm as distressed about this Fisherman business as everyone else, what with those two poor kids and the missing girl. We're all so upset we can hardly think straight. But I'd hate to see us dragged into the mess, don't you see?"

"I see perfectly," Henry says. "Being one of those blind men George Rathbun is always yelling about. "

"Hah!" Pete Wexler barks.

"And you agree with me, don't you?"

"I'm a gentleman, I agree with everybody," Henry says. "I agree with Pete that another child may well have been abducted by our local monster. Officer Cheetah, or whatever his name is, sounded too anxious to be just picking up a lost bicycle. And I agree with you that Maxton's cannot be blamed for anything that happened. "

"Good," Rebecca says.

"Unless, of course, someone here is involved in the murders of these children. "

"But that's impossible!" Rebecca says. "Most of our male clients can't even remember their own names. "

"A ten-year-old girl could take most of these feebs," Pete says. "Even the ones who don't have old-timer's disease walk around covered in their own . . . you know. "

"You're forgetting about the staff," Henry says.

"Oh, now," Rebecca says, momentarily rendered nearly wordless. "Come on. That's . . . that's a totally irresponsible thing to say. "

"True. It is. But if this goes on, nobody will be above suspicion. That's my point. "

Pete Wexler feels a sudden chill ¡ª if the town clowns start grilling Maxton's residents, his private amusements might come to light, and wouldn't Wendell Green have a field day with that stuff ? A gleaming new idea comes to him, and he brings it forth, hoping to impress Miz Vilas. "You know what? The cops should talk to that California guy, the big-time detective who nailed that Kinderling asshole two-three years ago. He lives around here somewhere, don't he? Someone like that, he's the guy we need on this. The cops here, they're way outta their depth. That guy, he's like a whaddayacallit, a goddamn resource. "

"Odd you should say that," Henry says. "I couldn't agree with you more. It is about time Jack Sawyer did his thing. I'll work on him again. "

"You know him?" Rebecca asks.

"Oh, yes," Henry says. "That I do. But isn't it about time for me to do my own thing?"

"Soon. They're all still outside. "

Rebecca leads him down the rest of the corridor and into the common room, where all three of them move across to the big platform. Henry's microphone stands beside a table mounted with his speakers and turntable. With unnerving accuracy, Henry says, "Lot of space in here. "

"You can tell that?" she asks.

"Piece of cake," Henry says. "We must be getting close now. "

"It's right in front of you. Do you need any help?"

Henry extends one foot and taps the side of the flat. He glides a hand down the edge of the table, locates the mike stand, says, "Not at the moment, darlin'," and steps neatly up onto the platform. Guided by touch, he moves to the back of the table and locates the turntable. "All is co-pacetic," he says. "Pete, would you please put the record boxes on the table? The one on top goes here, and the other one right next to it. "

"What's he like, your friend Jack?" Rebecca asks.

"An orphan of the storm. A pussycat, but an extremely difficult pussy-cat. I have to say, he can be a real pain in the bunghole. "

Crowd noises, a buzz of conversation interlaced with children's voices and songs thumped out on an old upright piano, have been audible through the windows since they entered the room, and when Pete has placed the record boxes on the table, he says, "I better get out there, 'cuz Chipper's probly lookin' for me. Gonna be a shitload of cleanup once they come inside. "

Pete shambles out, rolling the handcart before him. Rebecca asks if there is anything more Henry would like her to do for him.

"The overhead lights are on, aren't they? Please turn them off, and wait for the first wave to come in. Then switch on the pink spot, and prepare to jitterbug your heart out. "

"You want me to turn off the lights?"

"You'll see. "

Rebecca moves back across to the door, turns off the overhead lights, and does see, just as Henry had promised. A soft, dim illumination from the rank of windows hovers in the air, replacing the former brightness and harshness with a vague mellow haze, as if the room lay behind a scrim. That pink spotlight is going to look pretty good in here, Rebecca thinks.

Outside on the lawn, the predance wingding is winding down. Lots of old men and women are busily polishing off their strawberry shortcakes and soda pop at the picnic tables, and the piano-playing gent in the straw boater and red sleeve garters comes to the end of "Heart and Soul," ba bump ba bump ba ba bump bump bump, no finesse but plenty of volume, closes the lid of the upright, and stands up to a scattering of applause. Grandchildren who had earlier complained about having to come to the great fest dodge through the tables and wheelchairs, evading their parents' glances and hoping to wheedle a last balloon from the balloon lady in the clown suit and frizzy red wig, oh joy unbounded.

Alice Weathers applauds the piano player, as well she might: forty years ago, he reluctantly absorbed the rudiments of pianism at her hands just well enough to pick up a few bucks at occasions like this, when not obliged to perform his usual function, that of selling sweatshirts and baseball caps on Chase Street. Charles Burnside, who, having been scrubbed clean by good-hearted Butch Yerxa, decked himself out in an old white shirt and a pair of loose, filthy trousers, stands slightly apart from the throng in the shade of a large oak, not applauding but sneering. The unbuttoned collar of the shirt droops around his ropy neck. Now and then he wipes his mouth or picks his teeth with a ragged thumbnail, but mainly he does not move at all. He looks as though someone plunked him down by the side of a road and drove off. Whenever the careering grandkids swerve near Burny, they instantly veer away, as if repelled by a force field.

Between Alice and Burny, three-fourths of the residents of Maxton's belly up to the tables, stump around on their walkers, sit beneath the trees, occupy their wheelchairs, hobble here and there ¡ª yakking, dozing, chuckling, farting, dabbing at fresh strawberry-colored stains on their clothing, staring at their relatives, staring at their trembling hands, staring at nothing. Half a dozen of the most vacant among them wear conical party hats of hard, flat red and hard, flat blue, the shades of enforced gaiety. The women from the kitchen have begun to circulate through the tables with big black garbage bags, for soon they must retire to their domain to prepare the evening's great feast of potato salad, mashed potatoes, creamed potatoes, baked beans, Jell-O salad, marshmallow salad, and whipped-cream salad, plus of course more mighty strawberry shortcake!

The undisputed and hereditary sovereign of this realm, Chipper Max-ton, whose disposition generally resembles that of a skunk trapped in a muddy hole, has spent the previous ninety minutes ambling about smiling and shaking hands, and he has had enough. "Pete," he growls, "what the hell took you so long? Start racking up the folding chairs, okay? And help shift these people into the common room. Let's get a goddamn move on here. Wagons west. "

Pete scurries off, and Chipper claps his hands twice, loudly, then raises his outstretched arms. "Hey, everybody," he bellows, "can you truly believe what a gol-durn gorgeous day the good Lord gave us for this beautiful event? Isn't this something?"

Half a dozen feeble voices rise in agreement.

"Come on, people, you can do better than that! I want to hear it for this wonderful day, this wonderful time we're all having, and for all the wonderful help and assistance given us by our volunteers and staff!"

A slightly more exuberant clamor rewards his efforts.