Flashback

“I haven’t had anyone come to talk to me for several days,” said the middle-aged woman. Her eyes looked like small, pale oysters that had been swallowed by successive layers of makeup. Nick thought that her plastic surgeon should be arrested and tortured for crimes against humanity. “I was beginning to think,” she continued, inhaling smoke from her No-C stick at the end of a pearl cigarette holder, “that the police had lost interest in the case.”

Why would that be, just because the world is burning down here? thought Nick. He shook his head. Vigorously. “Oh, no, Ms. Kschessinska, the case is still very much open and we’re very interested in finding the culprit or culprits who shot your son… and for his death, let me say again, I’m very, very sorry.”

The woman lowered her eyes and gave herself a half-moment of dramatic silence. “Yesss,” she said finally, sending the pitiful purr-hiss out through projected pain. “Poor William.” Whatever her relationship with her son Billy had been, thought Nick, her mourning period for the kid hadn’t quite lasted the past week. And she’d obviously enjoyed the attention she’d received from the media and cops and wanted more of it. Today she seemed either drugged or drunk or a bit of both. Between her mild accent and the more-than-mild slurring, Nick had to concentrate to understand what she was saying.

Nick had flashed his Rent-a-Detective badge with his name on it, so if she’d known Val’s real last name, Nick’s cover—such as it was—was blown. But Ms. Kschessinska hadn’t paid close attention. Nick had the feeling that she hadn’t paid very close attention to many things—including her recently deceased son—for some years now.

“You mentioned that your son William gave this missing boy, Val Fox—the one we’re looking for—a gun shortly before the… ah… incident at the Disney Center?” said Nick. He had a small notebook out and pen poised, but so far all he’d scribbled in it in his tiny cop script was She smells bad.

“Oh, yes, Detective… uh… Botham, William did tell me that not long ago. Yes.”

And you didn’t call the cops to tell them that your kid was dealing guns? thought Nick. He didn’t correct her on his name and was phrasing his follow-up question carefully when Ms. Kschessinska forged ahead.

“You understand, Detective, my William was always concerned about my safety, about his little friends’ safety, about everyone’s… why, this is a very dangerous city in which to live, Detective! Just look out the windows!”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Nick. “Do you remember what kind of gun it was that your son gave to the Fox boy?”

“Oh, the other policemen mentioned it. Just talk to them. It started with a ‘B,’ I seem to remember.”

“Browning?” said Nick. “Bauer, Bren, Beretta…”

“That’s it,” said Ms. Kschessinska, “that last one. Beretta. Pretty name. Would you like a little drinkie, Detective? I always allow myself a little one in the afternoon, especially in these terrible days since William was… was…” She threatened to dissolve into tears.

“No, thank you,” Nick said hurriedly. “But you have one, please. I know this is hard for you.” He didn’t point out that it was not quite ten o’clock in the morning.

She mixed and poured and stirred with a serious drinker’s full attention. “You sure you won’t join me, Detective? There’s plenty to…”

“Did you happen to see the Beretta, Ms. Kschessinska?”

“What? Oh, no! Of course not.” She returned to her favorite chair with a tall glass. “But William told me about it. He used to share everything with me. He told me that this friend of his, Hal…”

“Val,” said Nick.

“Whatever. He told me that this friend of his was part of their little club, their little boys’ club, but that this Hal, Val, whatever it was, wasn’t really a team player.”

“How’s that?” Nick asked quietly.

“Oh, just little things… like the fact that this other boy wouldn’t take part when the boys were doing their little experiments.”

“Experiments?”

“Oh, their little experiments into sex and such. All boys do it, you know.”

“You’re talking about experiments with sex with girls, Ms. Kschessinska?”

“Of course I mean with girls!” shouted the heavy woman with the painted face of melting clay. She was truly angry. “William would never… could never…”

“So you’re saying that this Val Fox boy didn’t take part when the ga… when William’s boys’ club had sex with one or more girls?”

“Yes, exactly,” Ms. Kschessinska said primly, still not mollified.