Free Vermilion by Nathan Aldyne Page A

large white chef’s apron, the breast of which was smeared with blood.
    â€œProfessor Lawrence?” Searcy asked.
    Lawrence nodded. “Are you a reporter?” he asked.
    Searcy reached inside his coat and pulled out his wallet. When he flipped it open, the plastic crackled in the cold.
    â€œI’m not going to ruin my eyes trying to read in this light. Are you the police?”
    Searcy introduced himself. Lawrence smiled for the first time. “That’s very clever,” he said.
    â€œWhat?” demanded Searcy.
    â€œThe name. Circe. Patroness of Pigs.”
    Searcy cringed. “It’s S-E-A-R-C-Y.”
    â€œPity,” said Lawrence. “Well, please come inside. My apron’s getting stiff in the cold. What can I do for you?” They moved into a long hallway, wood-paneled and lighted from above in dim yellow. The floor was soft with thick Oriental runners.
    â€œI’m sorry to be bothering you now, but I was wondering if you might answer some questions?”
    â€œTwo men came over and ruined my morning, I typed out a statement myself, I signed it in triplicate. It had down everything I know about what happened, and my little part in the drama. What more is there?”
    Searcy seemed embarrassed. “I—I, ummn…haven’t seen your statement…”
    Lawrence said, wearily, “Come in back, then.”
    They moved past the darkened living room into the dining room, where a hardwood fire burned evenly in the hearth. The warm light was caught and flashed off the heavy crystal glassware on a formal table set for six.
    Lawrence passed through this room into a narrow L-shaped kitchen. He picked up a Chinese cleaver and continued to slice thinly a large slab of pinkish-brown meat on a thick cutting board. Searcy stood in front of the fireplace, warming his hands behind him. He could see the professor easily, and so did not move nearer the kitchen.
    â€œWould you like a drink, Lieutenant Searcy? It’s still a good name,” he added, apparently to himself, “even if it’s spelled differently.”
    Searcy hesitated. “Coffee, if you have it.”
    â€œWith cognac?” Without waiting for a reply, Lawrence disappeared around the bend in the L. Searcy removed his overcoat, and laid it carefully over the back of a chair. He turned down his collar, and rubbed his hands gratefully in the warmth of the fire.
    He glanced back toward the kitchen and started. At the cutting board stood a Chinese boy, no more than twenty-one, who had silently taken up the chore of slicing the meat. His black hair was worn fairly long, and shone almost blue. He wore black pants and a black sweater, and his blue-veined feet were shod in thick black sandals with black velvet straps and woven grass tops. He did not look at Searcy.
    Lawrence came around the corner of the L again, carrying two large cups of coffee. He stood at the threshold to the kitchen. The Chinese boy carefully wiped the cleaver and disappeared.
    â€œHere you are.”
    Searcy crossed and took the cup from Lawrence, who returned to the cutting board, and sipped from his cup as they talked. Searcy leaned in the doorway.
    â€œI didn’t know that a professor’s salary could afford a houseboy,” said Searcy casually.
    â€œHouseboy?”
    â€œThe Chinese kid.”
    â€œOh. Neville’s not a houseboy. He lives here, with me.”
    Searcy swallowed hard. “Oh, I’m sorry…Jesus Christ, isn’t anybody straight anymore?”
    Lawrence raised the cleaver high. “In Boston?” He brought the cleaver down and neatly halved a morsel of meat. “Well, there’s Scarpetti, who claims to be straight. That’s one. Are you straight?”
    â€œYes,” said Searcy.
    â€œSo, that’s two,” said Lawrence. He scooped up the meat and dropped it into a shining steel bowl. He lifted the cutting board and held it out beside him. Neville suddenly