CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) Page 10

  “You weren’t supposed to eat your whole corn muffin. So you might as well tell me the rest.”

  “No much more to tell. We’d grown apart. He wanted to move to Mamaroneck with all his bond buddies. I wanted to stay in the Village. We divorced. It was amicable. We exchange cards at Christmas. Financially, he treated me well. But I still needed a job if I wanted to keep my apartment in the city. A friend mentioned that there was an adjunct position available here to teach Philosophy, which was what I majored in at UCLA, and I applied, and here I am. I’m working toward my doctorate and was given tenure last year.”

  “Congratulations. Are you going to stay with the swim program?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I got the teaching position because they noticed my swimming background on my resume and they needed a coach. I don’t really need the extra money anymore, but I love it. A lot of the kids in the Performing Arts Department take philosophy because they think it will help them understand their characters. Some of them are so bright and committed it’s frightening. They energize me.”

  “Are you still writing?”

  “Not as much as I thought I’d be able to. Teachers have plenty of time off. But with the coaching and my commute to the city, it hasn’t worked out. I often stay on campus on weekends. They let me keep some clothes and things in one of the old dorm rooms. That’s why you saw me so early on Saturday. Something has to give, soon, I know. I’m afraid it may be the swim team.”

  “What is your novel about?”

  She shook her head.

  “Sorry. I like you, but I don’t know you well enough to talk about that. In fact, I realize that I hardly know you at all. Now it’s your turn.”

  The small room had begun to fill up. Most of the patrons looked like teachers or college staffers. It occurred to me that we had talked well into the lunch hour. I could smell and hear meat grilling in the serving area.

  “Sure. But before we get to that, I’m hungry. Could I talk you into joining me in suicide by Grizzly Burgers?”

  She crossed her legs and smiled at me.

  “Could I talk you into splitting one,” she said.

  “With fries?”

  “Extra crispy?”

  “Jesus, you’re a tough negotiator.”

  “Look who’s talking. I only wanted a cup of coffee.”

  The burger was just as I’d remembered it, piled high with several layers of meat and cheese, as well as onions, tomatoes, lettuce and pickles. Cutting it in half qualified as major surgery. I felt that I should have tied off a few bleeders. Unlike me, Alice Watts somehow managed to eat her portion without juice dripping down her chin.

  “I’ll have to swim the Narrows to work this off,” she said.

  I told her about myself. She was one of those people who really concentrate on the person talking, and don’t interrupt needlessly. But she seemed to sense things that I’d left out, and tried to get me to talk about them.

  “Maybe when you can tell me about your book,” I said at one point.

  “Touché. But just one thing. Are there any other wounds I should know about?”

  “You saw me in a bathing suit. Not much to hide. Are you thinking of The Sun Also Rises? I didn’t think anyone read Hemingway anymore. Would Jake Barnes waste a Grizzly Burger on mere friendship? Believe me, my intentions are purely dishonorable.”

  Alice Watts colored.

  “No. I didn’t mean that. I meant. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot for even mentioning it.”

  “You want to know if I suffered emotional damage.”

  “Please, forget I even brought it up.”

  “Alice, I’m about the same as I was before I left.” I smiled. “Some people would say that’s what you should worry about.”

  Her eyes drifted over my shoulder as I felt someone approach. She smiled but I could tell it was forced. I knew who it was before she said, “Hello Pierce.”

  Lancaster sat down without asking.

  “You remember Alton, don’t you?”

  Not “Mr. Rhode.” That was a good sign.

  “Yes. The gumshoe.”

  Shamus. Gumshoe. I was beginning to think I was in a Dashiell Hammett novel. I scowled, trying to look the part, which is hard to do with Grizzly Burger drippings on your shirt. So I went back to my pleasant smile. It didn’t matter. Lancaster was ignoring me. He wouldn’t have been able to do that if I’d had an entire burger. My shirt would have resembled the Shroud of Turin.

  “Why aren’t you in the faculty lounge?”

  “This was more convenient,” Alice said. I could tell she didn’t like to be interrogated by him.

  Now he looked at me.

  “And why are you here?”

  I, on the other hand, relish being interrogated by a pantywaist academic. It offers so many opportunities.

  “I heard it had the best yoghurt and salad bar on campus.”

  “It has neither.”

  Lancaster was not into irony.

  “I was misinformed.” It wasn’t a very good Bogart but Lancaster probably didn’t know that. He was seated with one booted foot on the table. I suppressed an urge to knock it off. He was dressed much the same as he had been at the cocktail party. He probably thought every female on campus wanted to jump his bones. And would be privileged to do so. I wanted to ask him what he was doing in the Bear’s Den but didn’t want to embarrass Alice. He’d probably been looking for her. Instead I said, “I don’t suppose you’ve remembered if William Capriati was ever one of your students.”

  Lancaster tried for a bored look, but I sensed there was something else behind it.

  “I haven’t given it a thought.”

  “Do you keep records?”

  “Not that far back.”

  “The registrar’s office probably does,” Alice said. “Isn’t that right, Pierce?”

  Lancaster shot her a look.

  “Yes, I suppose so. But what is your interest in an old student?”

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential information.”

  Actually it wasn’t. Ellen James wouldn’t care who knew about Capriati if it would help locate him in time. But Lancaster had lied to me. Letting him stew about my motives might prove productive. How, I didn’t know. But hunches often have to do when clues are scarce. I didn’t want to confront him in front of Alice, so I said, “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it professor. As you said, your field was probably too esoteric for a wrestler. By the way, what is your field?”

  I think he was relieved I didn’t call him “Pierce,” because he answered me.

  “Theoretical Modern History. I hope to set up a separate department devoted to it.”

  “Theoretical Modern History?”

  I suspected that was a curriculum that predated President Bradley coming on board.

  “Yes,” he said. “Traditional history is an overrated and dangerous discipline that ties us to outdated thinking and leads to misguided political decisions.” I shouldn’t have called him “Professor.” Now he had a full head of steam. “There is a new cultural paradigm that obviates the need for studying the histories written by the victors. We should be looking at what their victims can tell us about ourselves and our world.”

  “I thought that those who ignore history,” I said, “are doomed to repeat it.”

  He almost yawned.

  “Quoting Santayana is typical of what the stunted, or should I say ignorant, so-called students of history believe.”

  I heard Alice draw in her breath. Punching gasbag academics would be a full-time job, so I settled on delivering a devastating riposte.

  “Actually, Pierce, I was paraphrasing Edmund Burke, as Santayana did.”

  “Whatever.” He looked at his watch. It was one of those out-doorsey chronographs with a thick leather strap and more buttons than an old car radio. “I have a meeting in Tolentine. I’ll call you later, Alice.”

  He uncurled himself from his chair and walked away. Alice and I were silent for a moment. Then sh
e said, “I presume you aren’t carrying a gun today.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You didn’t shoot Pierce.”

  I spilled some coffee laughing at that.

  “Actually, I am carrying. I’m hoping to impress you with my restraint.”

  “And the Edmund Burke reference.”

  “That, too. Did it work?”

  “I don’t eat Grizzly burgers with just anybody.”

  I walked her to her next class. She commented on my limp.

  “The docs say it will be gone in a couple of weeks. I’m exaggerating it to gain sympathy from you. I thought crutches would be overkill.”

  We reached her building. Students were streaming in and out. I told her I wanted to see her again.

  “You can do better,” I said, “than Pierce the Precious.”

  “That’s an unkind thing to say about a man I’m seeing. And about me.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry, Alice.”

  “Pierce has many fine qualities. He’s not himself around you. You project authority and he likes to see himself as a nonconformist. He feels threatened.”

  “I think we both know what he feels threatened about.”

  “I have to go,” she said. “Thank you for lunch.”

  She started up the steps. Then she turned and looked down at me.

  “Call me. But not right away. A few weeks? I have some thinking to do.”

  A couple of students greeted her and she disappeared through the door. I went to find Pierce the Precious and ask him some non-theoretical questions.

  CHAPTER 12 – TENURE

  Lancaster was in his office in the History Department but had his door closed. I heard male and female murmuring and laughter. There was an uncomfortable looking chair in the anteroom and I sat in it. After a few minutes the door opened and the good professor came out, his hand on the shoulder of an attractive black co-ed.

  “I’m sure that with a little more effort on your part, Darlene, we’ll be able to get that grade up,” he said. “Don’t forget what I said about being available to help you after school. I do a lot of work and research at home but I can always carve out some time if you want to stop by.”

  His fatherly smile evaporated when he spotted me. He dropped his hand from the girl’s shoulder so abruptly she gave him a quizzical look. Then his mask came back on.

  “Just call me next week, Miss Plumb. And don’t forget that paper.”

  The kid stammered a quick thank you and hurried out. He turned to me.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “I just wanted to see if the theoretical history instructor worked in a real building.”

  “I’m very busy, Rhode.”

  “I can see that,” I said, nodding my head at the rapidly retreating co-ed. “I didn’t realize that you were still interested in the exploitation of women.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “America’s Real Manifest Destiny: The Subjugation and Exploitation of Women?”

  “I haven’t taught that course in years.”

  “Yeah, I would guess that Oprah has negated some of its impact.”

  “Women are still being exploited.” I smiled. He realized he was painting himself into a corner. “But there are other subjects with more immediate relevance,” he ended lamely.

  “Look Pierce, I’m not here to debate your sex life or your bullshit politics. I just want to know why you lied to me about remembering William Capriati.” Some students and staffers were walking by. He glanced at them nervously. “Why don’t we take this into your office?”

  “I didn’t lie,” he said. But he motioned me inside his door and closed it. “I don’t remember him. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

  There was a chair and it looked a lot more comfortable than the one in the anteroom. Probably made the co-eds feel at home. I sat without asking.

  “Because he took your ‘Manifest’ course. Because you gave him a lousy mark and tried to run him out of school. I can check the grades you gave the other students. I’d bet my mother’s Hummel collection they all got ‘A’s’. You hated Capriati’s guts for stealing your girlfriend. What happened? Were you running low on co-eds?”

  He sat down heavily in his desk chair and scowled at me. ‘If looks could kill’ was a nice phrase and I’d seen a couple that fit the bill. Maks Kalugin probably had a doozy. But no one named Pierce Lancaster could pull it off. He just appeared to be constipated.

  “You should try more roughage,” I said, to lighten the moment.

  “Fuck you.”

  I waited.

  “Who told you this crap? That bitch Kaplan?”

  Yeah. He remembered. Guys like Lancaster never forgot a blow to their ego. But we weren’t getting anywhere. I leaned into him. I noticed his irises were abnormally large. Fright? I didn’t think so. Drugs, maybe.

  “Tell me everything you remember about Capriati.”

  “I don’t remember anything except the guinea bastard thought he was God’s gift to the universe. I’m through talking to you. And you can have Watts all to yourself if you want. Good riddance. I’m tired of waiting for that quiff to spread her legs. Must be a lesbo. Probably why she coaches the women’s swim team. Now get out before I call security.”

  He swiveled his chair away from me in dismissal. Before it stopped I swung it full around so that he almost fell out.

  “What are you doing?”

  Now it was fright. I pulled him out of the chair by his collar and slammed him against the wall, then squeezed his throat so he couldn’t squawk. He did manage a squeak.

  “Listen, I don’t know how a turd like you gets to be a professor of anything, but if you ever talk about Alice Watts like that again I’ll matriculate your balls.”

  Just to make sure I got my point across I slammed him against the opposite wall. Some books and a cup of pens rattled off his desk. He face began to take on an unhealthy pallor. When I finally let go he slumped to the floor and flopped around like a flounder.

  “Now call security,” I said as he struggled to catch his breath. “I’m sure President Bradley would love to hear about your views on women and exploitation.”

  The wheezing stopped and he crawled back to his chair and sat. After smoothing his hair and clothes he looked at me.

  “Uncle Tom Bradley?” Lancaster was still having trouble breathing. “He only got the job because he’s black.” Several deep breaths. “He won’t last if we have anything to say about it.” Almost normal breathing. “And we will.”

  I thought about Darlene Plumb. Lancaster’s racial bias apparently didn’t extend to female students. His face began to lose its mottled look and he gave me a smug smile.

  “Besides, it’s my word against yours.”

  I don’t do smug. I tried for angelic.

  “Actually, it’s your words, your Pierceness.”

  I reached into an inside pocket and partially pulled out my cell phone. All he glimpsed before I put it back was some sort of small electronic device.

  “Digital recorder,” I lied.

  He blanched.

  “What are you going to do?”

  I opened the door. Several people were clumped outside. They were probably more used to soulful teacher-co-ed murmurings emanating from Pierce’s domain than the bowling alley sounds I’d just provided. There was another student sitting in a chair waiting for a session with Lancaster. She looked frightened.

  “Beat it,” I told her.

  She did. And so did I.

  “I have tenure,” Lancaster yelled after me.

  “And dandruff,” I shot back.

  Juvenile, I know.

  ***

  “Tenure is nothing to sneeze at,” Dave Clapper said. “I wish you had a real recorder, although it probably wouldn’t fly in court. But it might have carried some weight with the Disciplinary Committee of the Board of Regents.”

  I had just finished giving him a rundown of my meeting with
Lancaster.

  “Jesus Christ, Dave. You have a professor who teaches kids about alleged discrimination, twisting history along the way, and manages in the space of about 10 minutes to slur black men, women, Italian-Americans and gays. Not to mention that he preys on his students and probably trades grades for sex. You have to do something.”

  “Look, Alton. In the Coast Guard if we had a guy like that we’d probably take care of it. Come back to port one man short. But academics are a clannish bunch.”

  “Bradley shouldn’t put up with it. If for no other reason than that Lancaster is out to get him.”

  Clapper got up and walked to the window. He turned and sat on the sill.

  “He knows about Lancaster. And just between us, he’s trying to figure out what to do. And not just to save his job. But Lancaster heads the opposition to our reforms and if we move against him it will look like retribution.”

  “You could use my recording as leverage.”

  “There is no recording.”

  “Lancaster thinks there is.”

  Clapper smiled.

  “I like it. As long as he thinks it’s out there he may lay low. Buy us some time to figure out what to do about him.”

  “There’s a kid named Darlene Plumb. She was in Lancaster’s office when I got there. He was setting her up to be his next conquest. Maybe you can use her to get something on him.”

  “I don’t know. Why would she agree?”

  “Cut her tuition. Or promise her a bunch of A’s, for God’s sake. She looked like she needs them.”

  “You want Wagner College to countenance bribery and blackmail?”

  “How better to prepare students for the real world.”

  I headed to my car confident “Commander” Dave would eventually find a way to scuttle Pierce Lancaster. I was fairly certain that neither Lancaster nor Justine Kaplan knew anything about William Capriati’s current whereabouts. And the information I had gleaned from Dave and the Registrar’s office wasn’t much to go on. All I had accomplished was to stir up some still simmering libidos and scare the daylights out of an amoral, hypocritical academic, of which there was no shortage. To be sure, there was Alice Watts. Maybe it wasn’t a bad day’s work after all. But none of it helped me with my case. The clock was still ticking for Savannah James. I called her mother.