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  Clarisse’s brow furrowed. “Do you think the police have made the connection? Three gay men strangled in six months?”

  “Somebody at Gay Community News will point it out to ’em,” said Valentine. “Then Bay Windows and the Mirror will print editorials cautioning against panic in the community.”

  The recorded cha-cha crescendoed. Valentine and Clarisse looked over as Niobe and her husband ended their dance with a flourish. The two men at the end of the bar and the man by the jukebox applauded briefly as the couple walked over and slid up onto stools on either side of Valentine. Niobe was slightly winded, not so much from the exertion as from the fact that her clothes were so tight it was impossible for her to take a deep breath.

  Niobe was Chinese, large boned and solidly built but not heavy. Her thick black hair was discreetly greased and spiked. She wore a black, low-cut, snugly fitting leotard top and a short black-and-white checked skirt, white hose, and black kung-fu slippers with white embroidery. Beneath her leotard her breasts were hiked up by a stiff old-fashioned brassiere with nose-cone cups. Whatever Niobe wore, she always gave the impression of being trussed.

  Niobe’s husband was short and slender. His name was Ricky Newton, which everyone who knew him shortened to “Newt.” He and Niobe had been married for four years, three and a half of which they had spent apart in a legal separation. Their proceedings for divorce had become so extended and complicated that they had become friends again in trying to sort out the matter. Also, in that time, Newt had come out of the closet, and it was through one of his new gay friends that Niobe had gotten the job at Slate. Niobe Feng had retained her maiden name for esthetic rather then political reasons— she couldn’t imagine allowing the name Niobe Newton to be imprinted on her checks.

  “A Pearl Harbor, please,” Niobe said. Her voice was low and breathy. “And Newt wants a Whiskey Sour.” Niobe reached inside her leotard top and violently yanked at the right strap of her brassiere. On Valentine’s other side, Newt wore a pair of green army fatigues and a starched tan shirt with epaulets, open to the sternum to display a hairy, tightly muscular chest. He was handsome, with short, wavy black hair, dark eyes, and a beard kept at the five-o’clock-shadow stage.

  When Clarisse delivered their drinks, Niobe grabbed her glass and angled it toward Clarisse. “Congratulations!” she said, then added with a rush, “Welcome to the wonderful world of long, thankless hours, lousy tips, inadequate pay, and an endless flow of slurred sob stories.”

  Valentine drew back. “I pay you well!” he exclaimed, though not angrily. “The customers slap down everything but their lives for you. It’s your own fault if you let men slobber their life stories down the front of your dress. And while we’re on this, what other employer would let you take dancing lessons on the job?”

  “Newt came all the way across town to teach me two new steps,” said Niobe, quite obviously changing the drift. “Wasn’t that sweet?”

  “Very sweet,” said Clarisse.

  “How are things in Cellulite City?” Valentine asked Newt. Niobe’s husband was employed as an instructor of aerobic ballroom dancing at the Universal Woman’s Health Spa in Government Center.

  “If my girls ever heard you say that, Daniel, they’d come over here en masse and practice their Urban Street Defense moves on your head.”

  “Oh, you’re teaching that now, too?” Clarisse said.

  “Sure,” said Newt, sipping his drink. “It’s your basic knee-in-the-groin, eye-gouging, Adam’s-apple-crushing stuff. For the up-and-coming professional woman who is tired of being raped in garbage-filled alleyways.”

  “The All-American Boy could have used some of those moves,” Niobe said with a sigh. “I’m gonna miss him. He was my four-thirty regular.”

  “We were gonna go dancing at Chaps on Sunday night,” mused Newt. “Date called on account of death.”

  Valentine and Clarisse exchanged glances.

  Clarisse asked, “Who are you two talking about?”

  “Mr. Pike,” Valentine said.

  “Yes,” Newt said. “Barry Pike.”

  “I never did know his name,” said Niobe. “I always called him All-American Boy. That’s where he bought all his clothes.”

  “He was a regular in here?” asked Valentine in surprise.

  “Regular isn’t the word,” said Niobe. “In at four-thirty, out at six-thirty. Wait’ll you start working Happy Hour,” she groaned to Clarisse. “Remind me to show you how to administer a Vodka IV.”

  “So that’s why I haven’t been able to place him,” said Valentine. “He was always gone by the time I came on duty.”

  “When did you last see him?” asked Clarisse.

  “This is Thursday,” Niobe said thoughtfully. “I didn’t see him yesterday. Monday or Tuesday, I guess.”

  “According to the paper, he was killed Monday night,” said Valentine.

  “Very late Monday night,” Newt said emphatically.

  “How do you know that?” asked Valentine.

  “Because I spoke to him at two A.M. Monday night— that’s actually Tuesday morning, I guess. Right out there in front of the bar. We made a date for the weekend. I was probably the last person to see him alive.”

  “Except for the guy who killed him,” Niobe pointed out.

  “Then he was in here that night?” Valentine said, perplexed. “But I still don’t remember a man in an All-American Boy T-shirt—especially not one who stayed till last call.”

  “I didn’t say he had been in here,” Newt said. “I said I saw him outside here. He told me he was meeting somebody.”

  “Who makes a date for two o’clock in the morning?” put in Clarisse, coming back from providing more beers to the men down at the other end of the bar.

  “When you’re unemployed,” said Niobe, “time is irrelevant. People make dates at two o’clock in the morning all the time. If they didn’t, this bar would be out of business. However,” she went on severely, glancing at her husband, “men separated from their wives who should be working hard and saving up for substantial alimony payments have no business prowling the streets in the middle of the night, making dates with potential murder victims.”

  “Niobe, by the time our divorce comes through, I’ll be mailing your alimony payments to the Golden Lotus Nursing Home for Decrepit Chinese Divorcées.”

  “Why a necktie?” Clarisse wondered aloud. “Why not a gun or a knife?”

  “A necktie is a perfect murder weapon,” said Valentine. “Everybody has a tie at home, on the closet door or on their bureau. The murderer doesn’t have to worry about carrying a concealed weapon around with him. The victim provides the weapon.”

  “Same goes for belts, too,” Niobe added. “In case a victim doesn’t happen to wear neckties.”

  “True,” Newt agreed, and finished his drink in one swallow. He edged off his stool. “I better get back to the health spa. The All-American Boy is dead. What a depressing thought! Good luck, Clarisse—you’ll need it if you’re going to work with the scourge of the Orient here.”

  Niobe swiped a clawed hand at Newt but missed. He said his final farewells and left the bar.

  “Why does this sort of thing have to happen just when I’m starting to work here?” Clarisse asked Valentine and Niobe. “Now every time I serve a man a drink, I’ll wonder if he’s a potential victim.”

  “Or murderer,” Valentine said quietly.

  “Whatever,” said Niobe. “As long as they tip.”

  At that moment, Clarisse was called away by a man who had just come into the bar. She served him, and while making change at the register, another man carrying several long and slender cylinders of rolled paper entered Slate. He paused briefly on the threshold to remove his sunglasses and allow his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. He was short and slender, with auburn hair. His blue T-shirt intensified his dark tan. A folded softball glove was nestled up under his arm, and a gray patch with a stylized script S adorned the cap that was pushed back on his head. H
e crossed the bar and stopped just behind Valentine.

  “I wouldn’t advise sliding into home plate in that getup,” said the man.

  Valentine looked up into the bar mirror at Jed Black’s reflection, then said with apprehension, “You’re not going to tell me I forgot about practice? Is it this afternoon? I thought it was tomorrow.”

  “We moved it up—” Jed looked at Niobe. “I called and left a message yesterday afternoon.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Niobe, “I forgot to bring up the Jim Beam.”

  “I’ll get it,” Clarisse volunteered. “How many bottles do we need?”

  “I like going down in the cellar.” Niobe slipped off the stool, rushed to the back of the bar, lifted the trap door by its massive iron ring, and descended the steep, narrow wooden stairs to the storeroom.

  “Anyway,” said Jed, “the practice game is today.”

  In summer, each gay bar in Boston formed its own softball team, made up of staff, staff’s friends, and bar regulars. The teams play in heated competition against each other as well as against teams representing bars and other organizations all over New England. Besides the complex schedule of regular games, the league had two weeks of playoffs for the New England championship. The first game of this current season was scheduled for the following weekend, at which time Slate was pitted against the team from Buddies.

  “I knew you’d forget,” Jed went on. He glanced at the clock behind the bar. “We’ve got twenty-five minutes. Ten minutes for you to change. Ten to walk me by my office to drop off these plans.” He tapped the rolled papers. Jed was an architect with a firm specializing in hospital design. “And five to get to the Common on time.”

  “Did you forget about practice again?” asked Clarisse, coming up to them.

  “It won’t take me ten minutes to change,” Valentine said, getting up. He crossed the room and disappeared up the spiral stairs.

  “Jed,” Clarisse said, “that exotic tan looks suspiciously real to me. But please tell me it’s Tan-o-rama. Don’t tell me it’s—”

  “Maui,” Jed cut in with malicious pleasure. “I was there for ten days consulting on a community health clinic. How are you?”

  “Pale and jealous.”

  “Come out in the sun, then. Watch us practice. We could use a little cheering on.”

  “I’m working here now.” Clarisse pointed to her diploma taped on the wall. “As of today, I am one of your friendly neighborhood barkeeps. All tips acknowledged with a smile or your next drink free.”

  “Diet Pepsi,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

  She waved away his hand. “No, we have an iron-clad policy against charging members of the house team for drinks on the afternoon before a practice.” She popped the top on his Pepsi, then discussed the question of whether Hawaii really was the Valhalla of the middle class. Valentine came down. He had changed into running shoes, gray running pants, and a long-sleeved jersey with a gray number twenty-three on it. His cap matched Jed’s. He was also carrying a bookkeeping ledger under his arm.

  “Clarisse,” he said, “if you don’t mind, I’d like you to work the first couple of hours of my shift tonight.”

  “Sure,” she began excitedly; then her eyes opened wide. “Wait—tonight’s Raffle Night! I can’t do Raffle Night on my first day! It’ll be a madhouse in here tonight.”

  “I know, but I have to see the accountant for a few hours right after practice.” Clarisse looked about to protest, but Valentine said, “This is your employer speaking. Besides, you’ll be fine. I should be back by nine-thirty or ten. Raffle Night’s not all that bad, and you know how you love giving out prizes. Besides, we probably won’t get more than two or three hundred in here tonight.”

  “Two or three hundred?!” Clarisse protested, but Valentine was already on his way out the door with Jed.

  Alone behind the bar, she glanced with some regret at her diploma. Then she noticed for the first time that the Harvard Extension School had spelled Clarissse with three s ’s.

  Chapter Three

  “TIME FOR ME TO GO,” said Niobe nonchalantly as she struggled into a paper-thin black nylon jacket three sizes too small for her. Clarisse glanced around the bar. At the eight o’clock change of shift, there were no more than fifteen customers scattered over the place. A few of the after work crowd lingered, others nursed beers till the prices went down later in the evening, and still others tried unsuccessfully to cruise the first two groups.

  “And now that you’ve learned how to handle a trickle crowd,” Niobe went on, “you won’t have any problem—”

  “Trickle? Good God, at five o’clock on the dot three dozen men surged through those front doors. I had to put up a barbed-wire barricade to keep them from lunging for the bottles on the house shelf. It was—” She broke off suddenly. “What do you do about your feet, Niobe?”

  Niobe glanced down. “For one thing, I don’t wear heels to work behind here. I dress sensibly.” She drew in her breath hard so she’d be able to catch the jacket’s zipper. “Kung-fu slippers are best—they’re flat and comfortable. So, I’m leaving now—good luck on your first outing here.”

  “Wait a minute—you’re leaving me alone?”

  “Sean’ll be here. He’s sometimes a little late. But it won’t start getting busy till ten, so you should be all right.”

  Clarisse was left alone in Slate. She had shut the outside doors so as not to attract insects. She had changed the tape three times and now couldn’t find any more reels that hadn’t been played through. More customers were starting to arrive than were leaving, and still no Sean to back her up. She smiled…made change…opened beers…mixed vodka and tonics, and sliced a dozen lemons and two dozen limes, and— by nine o’clock—began to wonder whether it wouldn’t be a good idea to take up smoking again.

  Sean arrived an hour late with profuse apologies, with more profuse congratulations for Clarisse’s diploma, and with great excitement that she was taking Valentine’s place for the evening. He’d brought with him a reel of numbered orange tickets. One was given with each drink bought, and five times in the course of the evening a matching number was drawn from a roll bin behind the bar. In a deal with a theater chain and two gay-owned restaurants in the neighborhood, Slate gave away five prizes of a two-for-one film and dinner coupon. It had always been his ambition, Sean said, to work Raffle Night with a beautiful woman.

  “Has it been bad here?” he asked as he rewound the tape she had put on less than a half hour before.

  “Not at all,” said Clarisse. “The masked gunman’s Saturday night special fortunately didn’t go off. The explosions turned out to be in the next block. And the ambulance was here in minutes for those two men who had simultaneous heart attacks.”

  “Tips are always better on nights when there’s a little action.”

  There were too many people wanting drinks for Clarisse to carry on any lengthy conversation with Sean. She continued to fill orders. Sean continued to fiddle with the tape machine. He punched buttons, and adjusted dials, ran the tape backward and forward, stroked the sides of the machine lovingly, peered up at the speakers attached to the ceiling, and at last—music.

  Sean Alexander was of medium height, with the sleek muscularity of a gymnast. His complexion was ruddy, and his hazel eyes were deep-set. His smile was sudden and dazzling and frequent. Valentine had hired him nearly four months before, and though Sean worked full-time for Slate, he considered his work behind the bar as merely supplementary income. His real work was making reel-to-reel recordings of music for many Boston bars, both gay and straight. His Back Bay apartment, with its profusion of equipment and stacks of records and tapes, was more like a recording studio than a habitation. He made the tapes for Slate but didn’t charge, because he used the crowds to test certain mixes and to watch and solicit reactions.

  After ten minutes, Clarisse turned to find Sean with his arms crossed, watching her as he leaned back against a cooler.

  “Is something wrong?�
� she asked.

  “No. Thanks for covering me. My clock stopped, and I didn’t realize it was so late.” He angled his head toward the revolving tapes. “What do you think?”

  Clarisse listened a moment and then nodded. “What could I possibly say? Your tapes are always fabulous.”

  “Why do you look so worried, then?” asked Sean.

  “I’m thinking about handling the raffle crowd. I did fine with the trickle crowd this afternoon—”

  “Trickle?”

  Proud of her grasp of the jargon, she explained, “Trickle in, trickle out—” At that moment a group of five men, laughing and talking together, banged through the doors and headed toward the bar.

  “Well,” said Sean, “relax. Think of Raffle Night as the trickle crowd on speed and it’ll give you a handle. Don’t worry, all you really have to know is how to open a bottle of Miller Lite.”

  The five men reached the bar. A mustached man with red hair leaned toward Clarisse and said in a rush, “Vodka on the rocks with a twist, a Harvey Wallbanger, a Piña Colada, two Black Russians, beer chasers all round, three bags of potato chips”—he slapped a twenty down on the bar and smiled—“and change for the cigarette machine, please.”

  Clarisse glared at Sean over her shoulder as she reached for a glass.

  By ten-thirty, Slate was filled well beyond its legal capacity. Sean had turned on the air-conditioning system, and the stream of cooling air lazily stirred the smoke lacing through the beams of soft amber-and-blue lights.

  As Clarisse called out the second winning number of the evening, Valentine returned to the bar. He had on the outfit he’d worn to the practice game. She spotted him as he stood talking to Felix, the runner who sat at the door, collecting the one-dollar cover. When Valentine came over, she met him at the far end of the bar by the ice machine and pointedly flattened both her hands on the counter flap when he reached to lift it.

  He looked at her questioningly. “What’s wrong?”

  “You look haggard. Fatigued. Like you won’t make it through the rest of the evening.”