Richard Stevenson

SHOCK

TO THE SYSTEM

A Donald Strachey Mystery

St. Martin's Press New York

shock to the system. Copyright © 1995 by Richard Stevenson. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Stevenson, Richard

Shock to the system: a Donald Strachey mystery / by Richard Stevenson, p. cm. ISBN 0-312-14732-5

1. Strachey, Donald (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—New York (State)—Albany—Fiction. 3. Gay men— New York (State)—Albany—Fiction. I. Title. PS3569.T4567S74 1995

813'.54—dc20 95-34505

CIP

First Stonewall Inn Mystery Edition: December 1996 10 987654321

For Joe Wheaton

1

The voice was a combination of Locust Valley lockjaw and Marge Schott, by way of the Albany Gardening Club and the Mary Lou Whitney Lounge at the airport Americana.

"I'm not gonna bullshit around," Phyllis Haig said, a little louder than was necessary even amid the lunch-hour din at Le Briquet. "Bullshitting around is not my style, you can ask anybody who knows me. I'm telling you, Don, I'm telling you straight out, no bullshit, that I am convinced Larry Bierly killed my son, Paul, for his money and then covered up the dastardly deed by trying to make it look like suicide. Do you get what I'm saying? Am I making myself clear? Larry Bierly is a murderer, and the police are not doing beans about it, and I want to pay you whatever your rate is—if it's in reason, of course—to put that little pissant Larry Bierly in the caboose where he belongs." She peered at me unsteadily across her uneaten arugula with Gorgonzola vinaigrette and corrected herself. "Calaboose."

Mrs. Haig seemed to have six or eight drinks lined up in front of her and three or four cigarettes smoldering in each hand, but there couldn't have been more than a couple of each. She was well on her way to ruin—fifty-nine pushing ninety—but still turned out with care and expense in pale blue—eyes, linen skirt, jacket—and pale orange—hair, lipstick, tangelo sections among the arugula.

When she'd phoned the day before, I'd suggested we meet at my office on Central, but she didn't like the sound of the address ("Is it safe to park a car up there?") and proposed lunch instead

at Le Briquet. Situated on a shady lane off State Street down the hill from the Capitol, Le Briquet catered to the comfortably well-off general public but existed mainly to provide highly enriched nutrients and hydration to New York State's elected representatives and their paid staffs. These meals were customarily compliments of the pols' fellow diners, officers of business and professional associations with an interest in the legislature's proceedings. It was a place where your car was safe, if not your soul or your wallet.

I said, "I knew your son and Larry Bierly slightly, Mrs. Haig, if they were the couple I'm thinking of. Weren't they lovers?"

She sniffed. "If that's what you want to call it, 'lovers,' " she said dejectedly. "It's not easy for a mother, Don." She fired up another two or three more Camel Lights. "You know, Don, when my daughter, Paul's sister Deedee, went through the entire basketball team at Albany High before she was seventeen, I wasn't crazy about it, but I survived. I figured, What's a little fornication among the young? Am I right? This was before AIDS, naturally, and Condoms 101, so what the hoo. I knew Deborah would outgrow her throwing-it-around-for-nothing phase, and she did, years ago. But when Paul went through the boys' swim team, that was another matter. You can imagine your daughter with some guy's big, stupid hard-on jammed in her jaw, but not your son. Do you get what I mean? Am I right? Try to put yourself in my place."

I said, "Yours is not an uncommon reaction among parents, Mrs. Haig."

"Oh, I know what you're thinking. It's PC now to say it's all the same—women and men, women doing it with women, men and men acting like real couples and shoving it up each other's patoo-ties. But it's not the same. I know it, and I think you know it, Don. It's not what nature intended. Yes, my son was a homosexual, and he was crazy enough to go off with that little fart Larry Bierly and flaunt it in Lew's and my face. Lew was ripshit, as you can imagine, but not all that surprised. Paul wasn't the first Haig, Lew always said, who might've been better off in the bughouse." She took a long drag and shot a smokeball across the room.

"But that's my point, get it? Sure," she went on, "Paul was a prime candidate for the bin. But that's just the way he was, another Haig who was a little off plumb, and he was used to it. I'd kid him about it and we'd laugh. Did Paul get depressed sometimes? You bet he did. But who doesn't, am I right? So you go out and have a couple of drinks and get on with your life. Paul and I put a few away together, so I should know. The last time we tied one on was right after Lew died. Anybody wants to get depressed, they can get depressed about that. Pancreatic cancer— don't ever pick that one up, Don."

Another drag and another blunderbuss shot. "But what I'm telling you, Don, is, that's it. When life unloaded on you, Paul coped. He'd get knocked down and he'd bounce right back up. Paul was a survivor, like his old ma. That was one thing we had in common. It was his style to get the hell on with it. I know that about Paul as well as I know anything on God's green earth, and I know Paul would not destroy himself. Paul did not—Paul never could—commit suicide. And if Paul didn't kill himself, then it stands to reason, if you ask me, that somebody else did. Am I right? And that somebody—I'll bet the bank on it—is that miserable little faggot Larry Bierly."

She sucked up another slug of her Dewar's and gave me a look that dared me to contradict a single word she'd spoken.

I said, "I catch the drift of what your suspicions are, Mrs. Haig, and why you might want to hire an investigator. But I'm a little unclear as to why you went out of your way to consider hiring a gay detective—this is known about me around Albany—when you have, to put the most generous interpretation on it, conflicted feelings about homosexuals. Can you clear that up for me, Mrs. Haig?"

"Call me Phyllis," she said.

"Phyllis."

"Well, Don, that's a reasonable question and it deserves an honest answer. Number one, this is business. Lew always said that in the business world you have to consort with people you wouldn't dream of letting past your front door. And in return you

can usually expect those people to be nice to you even if the ground you walk on makes them want to heave. Take you, for instance. You've been listening to me badmouthing gays for the last five minutes, and all you've done is sit there picking the label off your beer bottle. You're not doing what you feel like doing, which is to get up and reach across the table and wring my neck. Because this is business. Am I right?"

"You nailed me on that one, Phyllis."

"You bet. I've got a fat checkbook in my handbag, and you haven't taken your X-ray vision off of it since the second I sat down."

"I always like to share a moral outlook with my clients," I said, "but it's not a requirement. Prompt payment can sometimes form a bond too. In your case, however, Phyllis, even beyond considerations of differing outlooks on life and the human personality, if I were to consider taking your case, I'd need to know more about the basis of your suspicions of Larry Bierly, and about how and why you think I might confirm your suspicions. Those are serious charges you've made against Bierly, Phyllis."