I undo the latch of my front door
It’s not the kung pao chicken I’ve been waiting for
It’s not a man carrying bags of food
It’s only you, and you’re up to no good.
“Delivery”
Written by Heather Wells
Fraternity Row, otherwise known as Waverly Hall, is a huge building on the opposite side of Washington Square Park from Fischer Hall. Set back from the street by a stone wall around a courtyard, and entered beneath an archway, it’s more Parisian in style than other buildings around the square, and for that reason, more distinctive. Maybe that’s why it was determined by the trustees that this building would house the college’s Greek fraternities (the sororities, of which there are fewer, are housed in a more modern building on Third Avenue), one frat per floor.
I, of course, never learned Greek, so I don’t understand what all the symbols on the buzzers by the front door mean.
But I recognize Tau Phi Epsilon right away, because the sign TAU PHI EPSILON, in subdued black lettering, instead of the Greek symbols.
Unlike the well-swept sidewalk in front of Fischer Hall, the courtyard in front of Waverly Hall is filthy, littered with beer cans. The potted shrubs on either side of the front door are decorated with women’s underwear instead of twinkly Christmas lights—all different sizes and colors and styles of women’s underwear, from black lacy thongs to white Calvin Klein briefs to polka-dot bikini bottoms.
“Now, that,” I say, looking down at the panties, “is just a waste of good lingerie.”
Cooper, however, continues to look murderous, not even cracking a smile at my semi-joke. He yanks open the door and waits for me to enter before going inside himself.
The heat inside is so intense, I feel my nose begin to defrost at once. We enter a fairly clean foyer guarded by a gray-haired New York College security officer, whose face is crisscrossed by so many broken capillaries that his off-duty (one can only hope) predilection for whiskey is plainly obvious. When I show him my staff ID and tell him we’re there to see Doug Winer of Tau Phi Epsilon, he doesn’t even bother buzzing up to see if Doug’s there. He just waves us toward the elevator. As we pass, I realize why: he’s busy watching soap operas on one of his desk monitors.
Joining Cooper in the tiny, three-person elevator, I’m silent during the bouncy ride…until the cab lurches to a stop on the fifth floor, and the door opens to reveal a long, somewhat dingy hallway, along which someone has spray-painted in three-foot-high flourescent pink letters: FAT CHICKS GO HOME.
I blink at the letters, which reach nearly to my hip, and are scrawled across doors and walls indiscriminately. The Tau Phi Epsilons are going to have some pretty hefty floor damage charges come the end of the school year.
“Well,” I say, staring at the wall.
“This,” Cooper bursts out, “is exactly why I don’t think you ought to be getting involved in this investigation.”
“Because I’m a fat chick, and I ought to go home?” I ask, struck to the quick.
Cooper’s expression darkens even further…a feat I hadn’t thought possible.
“No,” he says. “Because…because…guys like this…they’re animals.”
“The kind of animals who would chop off a cheerleader’s head and cook it on a stove in a dorm cafeteria?” I ask him pointedly.
But he’s apparently speechless with indignation. So I knock on the door closest to the elevator, the one with TAU PHI EPSILON written over the frame.
The door swings open, and a dark-haired woman in an honest-to-God maid’s uniform—not one of those sexy ones they sell on Bleecker Street, but a real one, with long sleeves and a skirt below the knees—blinks at us. She’s fairly young, probably early forties, and has a dust rag in one hand. She’s not wearing a lace cap, though. Thank God.
“Yes?” she says. She has a heavy Spanish accent. Heavier than Salma Hayek’s, even.
I show her my staff ID. “Hi,” I say. “I’m Heather Wells, and this is my friend Cooper Cartwright. I’m with the Housing Department. I just wanted to—”
“Come in,” the woman says disinterestedly. She steps out of the way so that we can enter, then closes the door behind us. We find ourselves in a spacious, well-lit loft—the old-fashioned kind, with high ceilings, crown molding, and parquet floors—in a foyer surrounded by doors on all four sides.
“They’re in there.” She nods her head toward a set of closed French doors off to the right.
“Um, well, we’re actually looking for someone in particular,” I say. “Doug Winer. Do you know which room is—”
“Look,” the woman says, not unpleasantly. “I just clean here. I don’t actually know any of them by name.”
“Thank you for your time,” Cooper says politely, and, taking me by the arm, steers me toward the closed French doors. He’s muttering something beneath his breath that I don’t quite catch…possibly because the minute his hand closed over my arm, my heart began to drum so loudly in my ears, it drowned out all other sound. Even through seven layers of material, Cooper’s touch excites me no end.
I know. I really am pathetic.
Rapping sharply on the glass panes of the double doors, Cooper calls out, “Hello, in there.”
A voice from within hollers something indistinguishable. Cooper looks down at me, and I shrug. He throws open the French doors. Through the thick gray fog of marijuana smoke, I’m able to make out the green felt of a billiard table, and, in the background, a wide-screen TV transmitting the flickering images of a football game. The room is lit by a bank of windows that let in the uneasy gray of outdoors, and by the warm glow of a brass and stained-glass lamp that hangs over the pool table. In a far corner, a spirited game of air hockey is taking place, and to my immediate left, someone opens a mini-fridge and pulls out a beer.
That’s when I realize Cooper and I must have just died—possibly on that rickety old elevator—and I’d somehow ended up in Guy Heaven by mistake.
“Hey,” says a blond kid leaning over the pool table to make a difficult shot. He has a joint pressed between his lips, the tip of which glows red. Incredibly, he’s dressed in a red satin smoking jacket and a pair of Levi’s. “Hang on.”
He draws back the cue and shoots, and the click of balls is drowned out by the sudden thunder of the football fans as they cheer on a favorite player. Straightening, the kid removes the joint from his mouth and studies Cooper and me from behind a hank of blond hair. “What can I do you for?” he inquires.
I look longingly at the beer the kid reaches for and sucks back while he waits for our response. A glance at Cooper tells me that he, too, is fondly recalling a time in his life when it was okay—even encouraged—to drink beer before lunchtime. Although I never actually lived through a time like that, never having gone to college.
“Um,” I say, “we’re looking for Doug Winer. Is he here?”
The kid laughs. “Hey, Brett,” he calls over his red satin shoulder. “This babe wants to know if Doug’s here.”
Brett, at the air hockey table, snorts. “Would we be enjoying this excellent ganja if the Dougster wasn’t here?” he inquires, raising his beer bottle in the air like that guy in that play who held up the skull and said he knew him well. “Of course the Dougster is here. The Dougster is, in fact, everywhere.”
Cooper is staring longingly at the wide-screen TV, apparently unaware that I’ve just been called a babe—which, while still sexist, is a nicer welcome than I’d have expected, based on the signage outside.
Still, with my partner apparently in a trance, I feel it’s up to me to steer the conversation in a more profitable direction.
“Well,” I say. “Could you tell me where, specifically, I might find Mr. Winer?”
One of the guys in front of the TV suddenly swivels around and barks, “Christ, Scott, it’s a cop!”
Every joint in the room, and a surprising amount of beer, disappears in a split second, crushed under Docksiders or stashed behind sofa cushions.
“Cops!” Scott, the kid at the pool table, throws down his joint disgustedly. “Aren’t you guys supposed to announce yourselves? You can’t peg me for nothing, man, ’cause you didn’t announce yourself.”
“We’re not cops,” I say, holding up both gloved hands. “Relax. We’re just looking for Doug.”
Scott sneers. “Yeah? Well, you gotta be buyin’, ’cause in threads like those, you sure ain’t sellin’.” A number of snickers sound in agreement.
I look down at my jeans, then glance surreptitiously at Cooper’s anorak, which he has unzipped to reveal a Shetland sweater featuring a green reindeer leaping over a geometric design in which the color pink figures prominently, a sweater I happen to know he received for Christmas from a doting great-aunt. Cooper is quite popular with the more elderly of his relatives.
“Um,” I say, thinking fast, “yeah. What you said.”
Scott rolls his eyes and pulls his beer out from the ball socket in which he’d stashed it. “Outside and down the hall, first door on your left. And be sure to knock, okay? The Winer usually has company.”
I nod, and Cooper and I retrace our steps back to the FAT CHICKS GO HOME hallway. The maid is nowhere to be seen. Cooper looks as if someone has hit him.
“Did you,” he breathes, “smell that?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Why am I thinking they’ve got a slightly better source for their weed than Reggie?”
“Isn’t this part of the Housing Department?” Cooper wants to know. “Don’t they have an RA?”
“A GA,” I say. “Like Sarah. But in charge of the whole building, not one for each floor. He can’t be everywhere at once.”
“Especially,” Cooper says, under his breath, “when Tau Phis are obviously paying him not to be.”
I don’t know what makes him think that…but I’m willing to bet he’s right. Hey, grad assistants are students, too, and more often than not, financially insolvent ones.
The first door on the left is covered with a life-sized poster of Brooke Burke in a bikini. I knock politely on Brooke’s left breast, and hear a muffled “What?” in response. So I turn the knob and go in.
Doug Winer’s room is dark, but enough gray light spills from around the shade to reveal a very large water bed, on which two figures recline, amid a plethora of beer cans. The predominant decorating theme, in fact, seems to be beer, as there are piles of beer cans, bottles, and cases strewn about the room. On the walls are posters of beer, and on the shelves creative stacks of it. I, who like beer just as much as the next person, if not slightly more, feel a little embarrassed for Doug.
After all, drinking beer is one thing. Decorating with it is quite another.
“Uh, Doug?” I say. “Sorry to wake you up, but we need to talk to you a minute.”
One of the figures on the bed stirs, and a sleepy male voice asks, “What time is it?”
I consult Cooper’s watch—since I don’t own one—after he presses the button on it that lights up the face. “Eleven,” I say.
“Shit.” Doug stretches, then seems to become aware of the other presence in his bed. “Shit,” he says, in a different tone, and pokes the figure—rather sharply, in my opinion.
“Hey,” Doug says. “You. Get up.”
Mewling fitfully, the girl tries to roll away from him, but Doug keeps poking, and finally she sits up, blinking heavily mascaraed eyes and clutching the maroon sheets to her chest. “Where am I?” she wants to know.
“Xanadu,” Doug says. “Now get the hell out.”
The girl blinks at him. “Who are you?” she wants to know.
“Count Chocula,” Doug says. “Get your clothes and get out. Bathroom’s over there. Don’t flush any feminine hygiene products down the john or you’ll clog it.”
The girl blinks at Cooper and me in the doorway. “Who’re they?” she asks.
“How the hell should I know?” Doug says crankily. “Now get out. I got stuff to do.”
“All right, Mr. Cranky Pants.” The girl swings herself out of bed, awarding Cooper and me with a generous view of her heart-shaped backside as she struggles into a pair of panties that didn’t make it to the shrubs outside. Clutching a spangly-looking dress to her chest, she simpers as she wriggles past Cooper on her way to the bathroom, but gives me a narrow-eyed glare as she passes.
Well, same to you, sister.
“Who the hell are you?” Doug demands, leaning over and lifting the blind just enough to allow me to see that he’s built like a lightweight wrestler, small, but muscular and compact. In the odd New York College campus fashion of the day, his head is shaved on all sides, but rises in a spiky blond flattop at the crown. He appears to be wearing a St. Christopher medallion and little else.
“Hello, Doug,” I say, and I’m surprised when my voice comes out dripping with animosity. I hadn’t liked the way Doug had treated the girl, but I’d hoped I’d be able to hide it better. Oh, well. “I’m Heather Wells and this is Cooper Cartwright. We’re here to ask you a few questions.”
Doug is fumbling along his bedside table for a pack of cigarettes. His square, stubby fingers close around a pack of Marlboros.
That’s when Cooper takes two long strides forward, seizes the kid’s wrist, and squeezes very hard. The kid yelps and turns a pair of angry pale blue eyes up at the larger man.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he brays.
“Smoking stunts your growth,” Cooper says, reaching down and pocketing the cigarette pack. He doesn’t let go of Doug’s wrist, but subtly begins applying pressure to it, in response to the kid’s trying to pull it away. “And have you ever seen a photograph of a smoker’s lungs?”
“Who the fuck do you guys think you are?” demands Doug Winer.
I think about saying something smart like, Your worst nightmare, but I glance over at Cooper and realize that what we are, really, is an assistant hall director whose BMI is in the overweight range, and a Shetland-sweater-wearing private detective, neither of whom has ever belonged to a fraternity.
Still, Cooper could intimidate by his sheer size alone, and apparently chooses to do so, looming over the kid’s bed like a six-foot-three headboard.
“Who we think we are doesn’t much matter,” Cooper says, in his scariest voice. And that’s when I realize Cooper hadn’t liked the way Doug had treated the girl, either. “I happen to be a detective, and I have few questions I’d like to ask you concerning the nature of your relationship with Lindsay Combs.”
Doug Winer’s eyes widen perceptibly, and he says, in a high voice, “I don’t have to tell the cops shit. My dad’s lawyer said so!”
“Well,” Cooper says, lowering himself onto the pitching water mattress, “that’s not strictly true, Douglas. If you don’t tell the cops shit, they’ll have you arrested for obstruction of justice. And I don’t think either your dad or his lawyer is going to like that.”
I have to hand it to Cooper. He’s scared the living daylights out of the boy, and without even lying to him. He is a detective…and the cops could arrest Doug for obstruction of justice. It’s just that Cooper isn’t a police detective, and wouldn’t be able to do any arresting himself.
Seeing the kid’s truculent expression go suddenly soft with fear, Cooper lets go of his wrist and stands back, folding his arms across his chest and looming quite menacingly. He manages to look as if he feels like breaking Doug Winer’s arm—and might still do it, if provoked.
Doug massages his wrist where Cooper grasped it, and looks up at him resentfully. “You didn’t have to do that, man,” he says. “It’s my room, I can smoke if I want to.”
“Actually,” Cooper says, with the same amiableness that, I’m sure, always misleads his less savory clients into thinking he was secretly on their side, “this room belongs to the Tau Phi Epsilon Association, Douglas, not you. And I think the Tau Phi Epsilon Association might be interested to learn that one of their pledges is conducting a lucrative business in dealing controlled substances from their property.”
“What?” Doug’s jaw drops. In the gray light, I can see now that the kid’s chin is peppered with acne. “What are you talking about, man?”
Cooper chuckles. “Well, let’s leave that aside for a while, shall we? How old are you, Douglas? Tell the truth, now, son.”
To my surprise, the kid doesn’t say, I’m not your son, the way I would have, if I’d been him. Instead, he sticks out his pimpled chin and says, “Twenty.”
“Twenty,” Cooper echoes, looking pointedly about the room. “And are all these beer cans yours, Douglas?”
Doug isn’t quite as stupid as he looks. His face grows dark with suspicion as he lies sullenly, “No.”
“No?” Cooper looks mildly surprised. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I suppose your fraternity brothers, the ones who are over twenty-one, I mean, which is the legal drinking age in this state, drank all these beers and left them in your room as a little joke. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the New York College campus a dry one, Heather?” Cooper asks me, though he knows the answer very well.
“Why, yes, I believe it is, Cooper,” I reply, seeing his game and playing along. “And yet, in this young man’s room, there are many, many empty beer containers. You know what, Cooper?”
Cooper looks interested. “No, what, Heather?”
“I think that Tau Phi Epsilon is perhaps in violation of that dry campus ordinance. I think the Greek Association will be very interested to hear about your room, Mr. Winer.”
Doug props himself up on his elbows, his bare, hairless chest heaving suddenly. “Look, I didn’t kill her, all right? That’s all I’ll tell you. And you guys had better stop harassing me!”