Scorpio Rising by Alan Annand
“Maybe Dr. Cassidy was a rotten husband. A cheater or a beater…”
“Still, it’s kind of weird. What about phone and internet activity?”
“Nothing of consequence.” Green checked his log. “Her brother-in-law called her from Denver to discuss funeral arrangements but it turned pretty nasty. You’d think they’d have had the decency to set aside their differences during a time of mourning.”
“One man’s mourning is another woman’s new beginning.”
“What do you mean?”
Horton told Green that, given material motive, the FBI hadn’t ruled out Mrs. Cassidy as a potential suspect.
“And you don’t agree?”
“I don’t buy the money angle. There were easier ways to do him in. With all the speed freaks in New Mexico, breaks-ins are common. One of them could have turned ugly, got a resident killed.”
“So you’re still thinking, national security angle.”
Horton stared at the monitor. “Guilty until proven innocent.”
“Do we share this with the FBI?”
“Let’s just keep it between the two of us.” Horton patted Green on the shoulder. “It’s completely illegal, after all.”
Green looked over his shoulder. “I thought nothing was illegal so long as it’s vital to the national interest.”
“I’m so glad we understand each other. Keep me posted.” Horton took a last look at Carrie Cassidy doing the funky monkey in her underwear, and went back upstairs.
Chapter 38
New York
Axel Crowe paid the cover charge at The Whammy Bar and led Tracey inside. Tonight’s act was The Dirty White Boys, a four-man Dallas blues band. No tables were free so they sat at the bar. Crowe bought a club soda for himself and a Corona for Tracey.
“You don’t drink?” she said.
“Not on the job.”
“This is working?”
“It is for me. Isn’t it working for you?”
She caught the double meaning of his words and laughed as the bartender placed their drinks before them.
Onstage, lead guitarist Little Stevie Highrider, one part Comanche and three parts Texas redneck, was doing some fancy finger work on the upper frets. Crowe gave the music his full attention for three songs, applauding at the conclusion of each, until the band finished their set and took a nature break.
The lead guitarist and bassist stepped down from the stage, the latter joining one of the stage-side tables. Highrider came up to the bar just behind Crowe and ordered a beer. He wore black jeans, snakeskin boots, a turquoise silk shirt and a red bandanna to keep his shoulder-length hair out of his eyes.
Crowe gave the guitarist a nudge with his elbow. “Hey!”
Highrider looked at Crowe. His face broke into a grin, his dark complexion accenting his fine white teeth. He gave Crowe a hug. “Damn it, Axel, what’re you doing here? If I’d known you were in town, I’d have got you a pass.” He looked over Crowe’s shoulder. “And one for your foxy little friend here too.”
“Didn’t that sort of talk go out with the eighties?” Tracey shook hands with Highrider as Crowe introduced them.
“Where’d you find her?” Highrider asked Crowe.
“She found me,” Crowe said.
“Well, you always led a charmed life. You still living in Toronto?”
“Yep, but now I’ve got a house in The Beaches.”
“I might see you this summer. We’re talking about a Canadian tour.”
“That’d be great.”
Highrider raised his bottle in salute. “I need to talk to some guys from Swamp Music who want us to switch labels. Come up and join us next set?”
Crowe shrugged.
“Don’t worry about leavin’ this little cutie alone a few minutes. Seein’ those shit-kicker boots she’s got, I wouldn’t mess with her.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Tracey said.
Highrider laughed and went off to join his bassist at the stage-side table.
“How do you know him?” Tracey said.
“Client privilege,” Crowe said.
“What, you’re his drug connection?”
“Astrologer,” he said with some reluctance, but only because people in the West had such a clichéd view of it. Tell someone you were an astrologer, first thing they said was, guess my sign. For most, their understanding was limited to newspaper horoscopes. Entertainment for the masses.
“I thought you were a private investigator.”
“That’s part of it…” In India, if you told someone you were an astrologer, they’d show you their hands, because they understood that being a ‘seer’ – someone with an ability to predict – involved a range of techniques wherein astrology, palmistry, ayurveda, numerology and omens were part of a larger continuum.
They spent the next fifteen minutes talking about astrology. Tracey had lots of questions and Crowe, having heard them all before, had the answers. Like many women, she was open-minded to the notion that astrology and other psychic arts had potential to reveal things the rational mind might overlook. As Crowe was fond of quoting from Guruji, The subtle has the capacity to penetrate the gross, but not vice versa.
Upon hearing Crowe had a guru, Tracey wanted to know more. But by then The Dirty White Boys had returned to the stage and plugged in their guitars. As the other players checked their tuning, Highrider came to the microphone and addressed the crowd.
“Folks, with your indulgence, I’d like to invite onstage a friend of mine from Toronto who plays a pretty mean guitar – Axel Crowe.”
The crowd responded with polite applause. Crowe wove his way through the tables and bounded onstage. A roadie handed him a Stratocaster and plugged it into a Marshall amp. Crowe slipped the guitar strap over his shoulders and adjusted the controls.
The drummer used his sticks for a four-count. Highrider launched into the lead riff of a little-known number by ZZ Top called Brown Sugar, he and Crowe trading riffs all the way through the solo and into the back end. They slowed it down a bit for Stevie Ray Vaughan’s The Sky is Crying, where Crowe played the lead solo. Then they were off again, tearing into Freddie King’s Palace of the King. Crowe hung back for the first half, providing fills to Highrider’s lead, then took turns on lead riffs, a bar each, and went smoking on out through the last chorus and wrap-up.
“Ladies and gents, a tip of the hat to some of the greats of Texas blues,” Highrider said. “And thanks again to that extra guitar from Toronto, please give us a hand for Axel Crowe.”
Half the crowd rose to their feet amid the extended applause. Crowe bowed and handed the Strat back to the roadie. He gave Highrider a hug and descended from the stage, face flushed with the excitement of performing before a live audience.
“You’re full of surprises!” Tracey said. “Who taught you to play like that – your guru?”
Crowe drained his club soda. “He was more of a percussion guy. But that’s it for me, nothing else up my sleeve.”
A waiter beckoned for them to take a vacated table where they watched the band finish their second set. Tracey bought the next round of drinks. Highrider came over for a couple of minutes, thanked Crowe again for joining them onstage and apologized that he couldn’t hang out, but had to finish his conversation with the label reps.
“We’ll catch up this summer,” Crowe said. “Give me a call when you know you’re coming to Toronto.”
~~~
Crowe and Tracey left The Whammy Bar at midnight. He took her hand to cross the street. As they walked through Washington Square Park, he felt a frisson that had nothing to do with the cool night air. He looked over his shoulder. Two men were following them, coming on at a brisk pace. Crowe scanned the area, looking for the nearest point of safety, an all-night convenience store a hundred yards away. At the same time he made sure the two men following weren’t part of a coordinated gang attack, something that could end badly, no matter how prepared he was.
“Don’t look around,” he murmu
“How many?” she said, cool as an East Villager, as if this happened every night on the way home.
“Two. They’ll come up on us in about fifteen seconds. I’m going to turn and confront them. I want you to run.”
“Sure. You want me to climb a tree too?”
“Don’t be a smartass.”
“Don’t be a hero. Let’s both run.”
He squeezed her hand. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Crowe glanced over his shoulder. The two men were only six feet away. He turned and snapped a photo of them with his phone. The brief flash startled the men, one of them raising his hand to shield his eyes or block the view of his face. The other man charged Crowe.
Crowe pivoted on his heel and shoved the phone into his pocket. As the other man tried to tackle him from behind, Crowe snapped his arm back, driving his elbow into the man’s cheek. Guruji had taught him there’s a point immediately in front of the ear where the lower jaw connects to the skull. Fingertip pressure into the ligaments at the top of the mandible reveals a sensitive nerve bundle, whereas a powerful blow delivered with an elbow produces excruciating pain, loss of hearing, visual black out and nausea.
As his assailant dropped to his knees, screaming that he’d been blinded, Crowe turned to deal with the other attacker.
Tracey had run but hadn’t gone far. She’d circled around the nearest tree and led her pursuer in a circular chase that left him empty-handed and panting for breath. In the meantime, she’d called 911 and taken a photo of her winded adversary.
When the guy saw Crowe coming, he made a run for it. Crowe chased him across the park to a van waiting on the south side. It squealed off down the street before he had a chance to get a look at its plates.
Crowe jogged back to Tracey, cursing himself for leaving her alone. As it turned out, she’d followed him, thinking he might need help.
“Are you okay?” she said.
“Yeah.” He hugged her. “You?”
They walked back to where Crowe had felled the first attacker. The guy was gone. They heard a door slam and looked to the north side of the park. The van had circled the block to pick up their other team member. They drove away, doubtlessly cursing their ineptitude.
“Shit,” Crowe said.
Tracey waved down a police car that had just entered the park. She showed some ID and talked to the cops for a few minutes. They gave her a brief salute and drove away.
“I said I’d file a report in the morning. Nobody got hurt, and there’s nothing they can do without license plates.”
“What about the photos?”
“Even with good pictures it could take days, even weeks. If one of us had been killed it’d be different, but shit like this happens all the time.”
“Like battlefield triage? To get any attention, you’ve got to have a limb blown off?”
“Let’s get out of this park.” She beckoned. “You want to walk over to my place?”
“My hotel’s closer.” Crowe didn’t want to go back to Tracey’s place in case they were still being followed. He didn’t think this attack was one of those random events, part of the essential New York experience... Or was that just self-centered paranoia?
The ego’s identification with the body makes it believe that the world revolves around it, Guruji used to tell him, when in fact the world consists of six billion egos, each thinking it’s at the center.
They headed across the park to the Washington Square Hotel, just a couple of egos seeking shelter for their bodies.
Chapter 39
New York
As soon as Crowe and Tracey were in his hotel room, they used their phones to compare snapshots of their assailants. Crowe’s picture had caught both men, although one had raised his arm to cover his lower face. Crowe looked at the other guy. Hadn’t he seen him at the Whammy Bar? Crowe and Tracey exchanged phones. He examined the picture of the guy who’d chased her. He didn’t recognize him but it was a clear shot.
“You know either of these guys?” he asked her.
“No, but I’ve got access to a database that might. Email me your picture. I’ll submit it with the incident report. Maybe we’ll get lucky and ID both of them.”
He asked for her email address and sent the picture.
She looked in his minibar. “Do you mind? I could use a drink. I’m still shaking.”
“Be my guest.”
“Are you having something?”
“I’m not much of a drinker.”
“You nursed two club sodas at the bar. What are you, a recovering alcoholic?”
“Just a moderate in all things.” And grateful for it, he thought. Had he been drunk in the bar, he might not have got out of the park.
“They have Glenlivet here. Can I get you anything? Another club soda…?”
“It has been a long time since I tasted single malt.” When in Manhattan…
Guruji used to say, The road to hell is walked with hesitation and half-measures because, even though we desire oblivion, we fear it.
She took two small bottles of Scotch from the fridge. She unwrapped the drinking glasses and inspected them. Like a forensic scientist, he thought. Was she looking for fingerprints too?
She went down the hall to get some ice. While she was gone, Crowe checked the day’s results for Santa Anita. Not much cause for celebration on the west coast track. He’d barely made $100.
She came back with ice and poured the Scotch. She gave him a glass and they tapped rims together.
“Santé,” he said. “To your health.”
“Mud in your eye.”
Crowe brought the glass to his nose, not his lips. The single malt smelled like wood smoke on a rainy night. There’d been a time when he would have opened his mouth, let the tongue of fire go down his throat and lick his belly. But those days were mulch now, and he was growing something new.
He took another long whiff though, as if in honor of André Gide, for in every taste, touch, sound, color and smell there was a remembrance of things past. And some were hard to let go of, even when you wanted to… He set the untouched glass aside.
Tracey sat on the edge of the bed. “Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“You were good out there. Those guys could have creamed us if you hadn’t decked that one so fast. You know martial arts?”
“A little.” Crowe had been on the varsity judo team and studied some karate with a teacher in Toronto’s Koreatown. He’d also learned a few things from Guruji, not only special techniques but also states of mind, subtle things that could tip the scales between two evenly-matched opponents. Guriji had made sure he could protect himself, in more ways than one...
Crowe checked the time. It was after one. “When do you have to be at work?”
She hesitated. “It’s flexible.”
“We should think about getting some sleep.”
“Sure.” She picked up her phone. “I’ll take a cab home.”
“Maybe it’s better if you stayed here.”
An eyebrow twitched. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“For security reasons. We don’t know what those guys in the park wanted, and whether they’ve called it quits or returned to wait with a gun. All I know is, rats like the dark, so I’d feel better if you stayed here tonight.”
“Makes sense,” she shrugged. “I just need to get up early enough to go home and change clothes before going to work.”
“Six o’clock early enough?”
“Perfect.”
“You can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
Crowe peeled the coverlet off the bed. He liked her a lot, but he didn’t see any reason to act in haste. He folded the coverlet twice, making a thin underpad, and laid it on the carpet. It was nice to be with her no matter what the pace. He took a pillow from the bed and found an extra blanket in the closet.
The karma of sex is tricky, Guruji said. It ca
When Tracey returned from the bathroom, Crowe turned out the lights. They each got under their respective covers.
“You sure you’re okay down there?” she said in the dark.
“I’ve slept in worse conditions,” he said.
Sex was a sacred act for Crowe. Although Guruji had cautioned him against the perils of unethical coupling, Crowe had studied the Kama Sutra and discussed its obvious and hidden meanings with professors, swamis, and practitioners of Tantrik sex. As in all things esoteric, there were at least two layers of meaning – the gross and the subtle.
“Like a yogi on a bed of nails?” she teased.
“Something like that.”
If two people allowed themselves to be carried away by desire for physical pleasure alone, their union might give brief satisfaction but leave a bitter taste. If they connected at a soul level, driven by their karma to continue something started in a previous life, the experience was ultimately satisfying, regardless of the sexual details. No connection, no compulsion. But given a spark of recognition, an inner flame to ignite the soul’s passion, anything was possible.
They were quiet for a while. Then he heard her sigh.
“Are you okay?” he said.
“I usually can’t sleep unless I read a bit.”
“You want me to tell you a bedtime story?” he joked.
“I would like to know what got you interested in astrology.”
“It’s kind of boring.”
“Perfect,” she said.
Chapter 40
San Francisco
Shortly before midnight, Detective Jim Starrett parked his car on Market Street a few blocks northeast of Castro. Before leaving home he’d showered and splashed on a bit of Alfred Sung. He wore faded jeans that hugged him like a second skin, and a silk shirt with the top three buttons undone, revealing a silver chain and the key to his sailboat nestled in his abundant chest hair.
He strolled up Market, glancing into the windows of antique stores that lined the street. By the time he reached Castro Street, he was seeing men to women in a 20:1 ratio, and even the women were gay. Castro was a sloping street along which all the action gravitated to the block between 18th and 19th. Although it was Wednesday night, the sidewalk was thronged with guys who’d converged on the neighborhood to check out the scene. Men clustered at the corner of Castro and 18th, debating which of many clubs to hit. Starrett had the same problem, but for different reasons. Instead of a good time, all he wanted was a good lead. At least he wasn’t going in blind, having in hand the list of bars Munson had given him.