‘Full Moon’ 
GEORGE BAXT

NAME: Pharaoh Love, Homicide Detective 
PLACE: New York 
TIME: 1994

CASES: ‘A Queer Kind of Death’ (1966), ‘Swing Low, Sweet Harriet’ (1967), ‘Topsy and Evil’ (1968), ‘A Queer Kind of Love’ (1994) etc.

DOSSIER: Pharoah Love, the New York City investigator, has been described flippantly in the kind of language he enjoys as ‘gay, black and as fast with a pun as he is with his gun’. In fact, he enjoys a much higher rating in the pantheon of great fictional detectives as the first homosexual sleuth. A muscular Afro-American, Love rejects the conventional dress style of officers of the law and favours a T-shirt-normally complete with an obscene motif-and wears a ponytail. He is a confirmed pacifist who recoils from violence, but is still a streetwise detective with a particular ability to spot hidden clues. Famous among his superiors for breaking just about every rule in the book, his lack of modesty is equally legendary. When not working, Pharaoh is struggling to become a writer and has already had several short stories published. He is attractive to other gays, and despite his offhand remarks is very careful about his liaisons in these days of Aids, which he refers to as ‘the plague’. Pharaoh first appeared to solve a murder in ‘A Queer Kind of Death’ which critic Jeff Banks has described as unique because of ‘its verisimilitude-laden portrayal of the homosexual underground of New York to which victim, murderer and detective all belong’. Several cases later, he is firmly established as a major figure in contemporary crime fiction.

CREATOR: George Baxt (b. 1923), who was born and raised in Brooklyn, ‘exploded across the skies of mystery fiction like a meteor in 1966’, according to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, which joined all the other newspaper and magazine critics in praising his debut novel about Pharaoh Love. At a stroke, Baxt showed himself to be at the forefront of writers in the late ‘sixties who were putting the emphasis in their work on black humour. He was also a pioneer through his introduction of faithfully portrayed homosexuality into the mystery story. Despite the fact that some critics have found his later books ‘grotesque and nasty’, he has built up a huge circle of admirers, won several awards, including an Edgar from the Mystery Writers of America, and become a busy film and television scriptwriter. ‘Full Moon’ is the most recent exploit about Pharaoh Love, and a curious link with the earlier story about the Saint finds him in the world of publishing, too-though this time the criminal is a killer...

THE STORY:

Poor Richard’s Almanac was the talk of New York City within hours after the first issue went on sale. There were many who wished this offspring of the eccentric millionaire Lucian Wallace had been stillborn. It was nasty, mean spirited, frequently hilarious, carefully walking the tightrope of slander, dishing the dirt about anyone and everyone, slinging the mud with the uncanny eye of a major league baseball pitcher, and wallowing in its rarefied notoriety like a pig in a trough of slop.
Pharaoh Love, who referred to himself happily as detective no class, loved the rag. Lucian Wallace was a special friend of his, having once helped Pharaoh solve a particularly knotty problem by hiring two goons to beat up and torture Pharaoh’s number one suspect. The killer’s confession brought Pharaoh accolades from his immediate superior, chief of detectives Walt Mclntyre, who Pharaoh suspected couldn’t spell accolade.
Pharaoh recalled the chief asking him suspiciously, ‘You’re sure you didn’t lay a hand on him?’
‘Not a finger.’
‘Would you swear on a stack of Bibles?’
‘You got a stack of Bibles?’ Pharaoh smiled. ‘You know I’m a pacifist. I never strike the first blow or throw the first stone. What’s your beef, Walt? He confessed to cutting the victim’s throat.’
‘But he was so eager when he confessed. In a room full of cops he kept looking over his shoulder, even with his right eye almost hanging out of the socket.’
‘He never tried to recant. Even safe behind bars he didn’t yell frame-up. He didn’t even try for a plea bargain.’
Mclntyre stated flatly, ‘You know who did the number on him.’
‘Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. You’re such a blabbermouth. Your wife says you talk in your sleep.’ He added slyly, ‘And that nothing’s sacred.’
Mclntyre bristled. ‘When did you talk to my wife?’
‘When I needed a suggestion as to what to get you for your birthday. She suggested a high colonic.’
Pharaoh swiftly dodged the ashtray that went sailing past his ear to crash against the wall behind him. Pharaoh wigwagged a finger and admonished, ‘Temper, temper.’
That was forgotten months ago. A lot of murder cases under the bridge. Walt Mclntyre was almost abnormally fond of Pharaoh Love. The young Afro-American broke every rule in the book, and was eagerly awaiting some fresh ones to turn topsy-turvy. He sported a ponytail despite ponytails being frowned upon and considered much too frivolous for an officer of the law. He wore shirts that were frequently paradigms of obscenity. He claimed they made a collar easier while the perp was temporarily paralysed with shock. Take for example his Madonna T-shirt which he had flashed at her in a restaurant. He insisted it took minutes before she could raise her jaw. The rest of his attire was distinctively colourful and showed to advantages his muscular, well-proportioned body, while camouflaging his holster.
Now Pharaoh sat in Mclntyre’s office, his feet up on the desk and chuckling while reading today’s issue of Poor Richard’s Almanac.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Mclntyre, who would never admit to sneaking a peak at the rag when no one was looking.
‘This obituary of Norman Taylor.’
‘Wall Street Norman Taylor? When did he die?’
‘Not a moment too soon. The Feds were catching up with him. A stock swindle of some kind.’ Pharaoh looked at his chief.
‘I never understand these guys who have to pull a swindle when they’ve got more money than they can ever spend in their lifetime,’ said Mclntyre.
‘It’s August. There’s always a lot of everything in August. Tonight’s a full moon. Second one this month. It’s called the Blue Moon. Two full moons in one month is very rare. But it’s August.’ Pharaoh winked at Mclntyre. ‘August is the bad luck month.’
‘Where’d you hear that?’
‘I read it someplace.’
‘Probably in that rag you’re reading.’
Pharaoh said, ‘August is also the crazy month. That’s when most psychiatrists take their vacations and go offshore to check up on their hidden bank accounts. There’s more hidden bank accounts then hidden ids.’
Mclntyre did not pretend to hide his astonishment. ‘Where do you find out things like this?’
‘Mostly from Lucian Wallace.’
Mclntyre gestured lavishly. ‘How the hell does a nothing like you come to meet a Lucian Wallace?’
‘In the men’s room of the Metropolitan Opera during a very bad performance of Manon. I remember the Times, headline, “Manon Overboard”.’
‘He cruised you?’
‘Don’t be crude, it’s unbecoming in nothings like us.’ Pharaoh bore down on the last three words. He didn’t look to see if the chief got his point. ‘We got to talking washing our hands and yes, I could hear him with the water running. When I told him I was a detective he invited me for a drink. We never did get to see the rest of Act One. I fascinated him.’
‘Modesty was never your strong point,’ said Mclntyre wryly.
‘When you’ve got it, flaunt it. Nobody’ll do it for you.’ He set the newspaper aside. ‘Lucian is a very fascinating guy. It’s three, maybe four years I know him now. He’s been a good friend, a very good friend. He’s done me a lot of favours.’
‘Such as hire some thugs to beat up a murder suspect so your hands can stay clean.’
‘Lucian admires my clean hands. He thinks they should be sculpted. He encouraged me to write those early short stories of mine.’
‘Oh yeah. Them. I forgot you’ve got two careers now. How many you’ve published?’
‘Four.’ Pharaoh preened at the wall mirror while reciting the names of the magazines in which he had been published.
‘Doesn’t Lucian Wallace publish those?’
That’s right.’
Mclntyre was lighting a cigar and squinting as the smoke attacked his eyes. ‘You having an affair with him?’
Pharaoh smiled at the expected question. ‘I don’t have affairs, they’re too expensive. And much as I loathe it, I have a great deal of respect for the plague. I respect anything I can’t beat.’
Mclntyre was flipping pages in the New York Times. He found the page he was looking for and grunted. ‘There’s no obituary of Norman Taylor in the Times.’
‘Maybe they didn’t like him. He once cornered the market in newsprint and monopolised it for years, sending the price skyrocketing and breaking the hump of a lot of newspapers and magazines across the country.’
‘Lucian Wallace tell you that?’
That’s right.’
‘Do you suppose he could find out what the winning numbers will be in today’s lottery?’
Pharaoh moved away from the mirror while brushing nonexistent lint from his lapels. ‘Shame on you, Walt Mclntyre, for even suggesting the lottery might be rigged.’ He looked at his wristwatch. ‘My goodness. It’s time for tea.’
‘What’s new with the homeless murders?’ It was feared a serial killer was stalking the homeless population. There had been four killings in the past two weeks and Mclntyre fretted it might reach epidemic proportions.
‘It’s not an easy one, chief, it’s just not an easy one.’
Mclntyre said with sincere confidence, ‘My money’s on you, Pharaoh.’ And then he added unkindly, ‘The only good thing about it, there’s four less homeless in the city.’
‘Now that is unbecoming.’ As he left Mclntyre’s office without waiting for a response, he wondered if the killer was someone fed up with being badgered on the streets for contributions to a battered, used cardboard coffee container. He walked slowly down the hallway to his office. He passed the office of his friend and colleague, Albert West, whom he could see through the open doorway sitting at his desk and seemingly staring into space. West, as always, was immaculately attired, as though expecting an invitation momentarily to an executive dinner.
Pharaoh said, ‘Albert, you look embalmed.’
West sat back in his chair and invited Pharaoh to join him. ‘Cute T-shirt.’ It said, I owe, I owe, so off to work I go.
‘One of your least offensive.’
‘I must do something about that.’ He saw a copy of Poor Richard’s Almanac on his confrere’s desk. ‘I thought you disapproved of such literature.’
‘How dare you dignify this crap by calling it literature.’
‘I like it. It’s funny.’
‘It’s outrageous.’
‘It’s outrageously funny.’
‘How can Lucian Wallace publish this garbage and crow about it?’ He rearranged himself. ‘I saw him on Geraldo and he was positively offensive.’
‘I missed the show. You sure it was offensive as opposed to defensive?’
‘I have to admit, he gave as good as he got. He left Geraldo staggering against the ropes a couple of times.’
‘I must ask Lucian about that.’
‘He still a friend of yours?’
‘No reason for him not to be.’
‘Then how’s about helping a friend who’s on the horns of a dilemma?’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘I know you read that rag of his religiously, so you’ve probably read Norman Taylor’s obituary.’
‘It was a scream.’
‘His family doesn’t find it particularly funny.’
‘Who told you?’
‘His son, Shea. We were at Yale together.’
Pharaoh’s eyes widened. ‘Yale? You went to Yale? How come you never brag about it?’
‘What’s to brag? I was there less than a year before they caught wise and gave me directions to the nearest exit. I saw Shea today. He asked me to his office. He thinks there’s something suspicious about his father’s death.’
‘Meaning murder?’ Albert nodded. ‘Then ask the family to release the body for an autopsy,’ suggested Pharaoh.
‘I have and they did. Over the past six months there have been three other deaths of financiers under circumstances similar to Norman Taylor’s. Those three were also in danger of investigation and having the boom lowered on them.’
‘Coincidence?’
‘I don’t think so. They were all involved in a stock scheme called “Valley Forge”. Maybe you’ve read about it.’
‘I did but I have no head for finances. You know that. I’m always in trouble when we’re splitting a cheque.’
‘Shea told me it was a kind of pyramid thing, perfectly legal on the surface.’
‘But the surface is being penetrated.’
‘It doesn’t worry Shea if that’s what you’re thinking. Though he’s on Wall Street, his operation is in no way connected with his father’s company or anything else. He’s just a plain old legitimate stockbroker. Too square to manipulate. He’s strictly white bread and mayonnaise. But he knows his father was involved in this scheme and he suspected it was in some way fraudulent and that they’d sooner or later get caught and exposed. He convinced his father to get out just as the other three were trying to uninvolve themselves, but dying suddenly.’ Albert added matter of factly, ‘They weren’t elderly men, Pharaoh. They were middle aged.’
‘In other words, too soon to die.’
That’s right.’
‘How can I help? I’m up to my hips in a serial killer.’
Albert was on his feet pacing. ‘Pharaoh, in all four deaths, the Almanac ran the obituary before it appeared in any other daily.’
‘The Almanac is on its toes. You know that. They blew the lid of the Michael Jackson story before anyone else had it.’
‘Since when is a paper anxious to scoop an obituary? Who runs their obituaries?’
‘How the hell would I know?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Why don’t you phone them and ask?’
‘I did. They said lots of writers contributed.’
‘But they didn’t say who was in charge.’
‘No. They didn’t.’
‘What does it matter, anyway?’
‘Four deaths. Similar circumstances. The four of them involved in a dicey operation.’ He paused. ‘Couldn’t Lucian Wallace help?’
‘Probably. I’m having a drink with him up at his place. I’ll ask him. Were the other three corpses autopsied?’
‘If the results of Norman Taylor’s are suspicious, I’ll request permission for their autopsies.’
Pharaoh made a fist and dramatically pressed it against his forehead. ‘Oh God! Is there no rest for the wicked?’

Lucian Wallace’s twenty-room apartment on upper Fifth Avenue contained so many bathrooms, Pharaoh commented in his first visit, it could easily accommodate an epidemic of diarrhoea. It was one of many outrageous comments that endeared him to Lucian Wallace, whose own sense of humour was as perverted and off the wall. As a former friend of Lucian’s observed, ‘Lucian’s idea of a good time is driving someone to suicide.’
In his suitably decorated and furnished study, Lucian Wallace sat at his oversized desk staring at a family heirloom, a Smith-Corona portable typewriter which he was leaving to the Smithsonian Institute.
He typed a few words and then sat back with a sigh while directing his eyes to a framed portrait of his immediate family. He stared at his wife, a lovely woman with perfectly coiffured hair in a perfectly designed Balenciaga which was the height of fashion a decade ago. Rebecca sat in a throne chair guarded on the left by her oldest son, Myron, and on her right by his younger brother, Avery. The expressions on their faces were pained. They hated having their pictures taken. Myron was now almost two years deceased, having perished on an Alpine ski slope when he lost a race with a thundering avalanche. His body was never recovered. Lucian never stopped hoping that some day, like H. Rider Haggard’s Leo who was forever entombed in ice in the novel She, some future expedition might uncover Myron’s perfectly preserved body. If they did, he hoped they’d give it a proper Christian burial. Rebecca was also dead, having succumbed to the ravages of a cancer she had bravely battled for several years. On her deathbed she held on to Lucian’s hand so tightly he began to suspect she was planning to take him with her. Panicking, he slapped her hand away. With an enigmatic smile, she closed her eyes and set off on the big adventure.
And Avery. His favourite. Shea Taylor’s tennis partner at the club. Shea had suspicions about his father’s sudden death and shared them with Avery. This made Avery unhappy and when Avery was unhappy, he always sought solace from the father he loved and respected. He’d been with Lucian an hour ago, but Lucian, for the first time in Avery’s experience, had no words with which to comfort him. Avery left dissatisfied.
Pharaoh drove an unmarked police car to his appointment with Lucian Wallace. August. The crazy month. Full moon. Blue moon. He was uneasy for the first time in days. The serial killer case was a backbreaker, they always were. There were too many of them. Why doesn’t somebody think of something new in the way of murder cases? Maybe bring back the iron maiden (she was a load of laughs) or the garrotte. Pharaoh made his way up Madison Avenue, hung a left at Eighth and then another left into Fifth and parked in front of the building which contained Lucian Wallace’s apartment. The doorman came forth to do battle but Pharaoh held up his police sign and placed it against the windshield. The doorman backed off somewhat obsequiously once he recognised Pharaoh from previous visits. He hurried to the house phone to announce him.
In the library, Lucian told the butler to bring Pharaoh straight in. He typed one last sentence and then pulled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter, folded it neatly and placed it in an envelope which he then sealed. Pharaoh came sailing into the room with a false jauntiness to mask his unease and they greeted each other warmly. Pharaoh indicated the typewriter and asked, ‘Writing your memoirs?’
‘Who’d want to read those?’ asked Lucian as he poured two vodkas on the rocks.
‘I certainly would,’ said Pharaoh. ‘That was a real funny obit in today’s Almanac.’
‘Oh? Which one?’
‘Norman Taylor. I liked that bit about him leaving a wife, a son, two grandchildren, a mistress and a pile of debts. You write this one yourself? It smacks of your own bitchy style.’
‘It does, come to think of it, doesn’t it? We were occasional business associates.’
‘Yeah. Albert West told me. You remember Albert, the detective with the rigid spine, as you described him.’
‘Of course I remember him. He’s quite memorable.’
‘He went to Yale with Shea Taylor. Briefly. Shea thinks there’s something fishy about his father’s death. A little too sudden.’
‘Heart attacks are always a little too sudden,’ said Lucian.
‘How do you know it was a heart attack?’
‘I’m just surmising as much. Heart attacks. Strokes. Cerebral haemorrhages. They’re endemic to financial circles.’ Lucian shifted in his seat.
‘Well, we’ll know for sure within the next couple of days. Albert’s asked for an autopsy.’
‘Albert sounds terribly competent.’
‘Three other associates of Taylor’s died recently under similar circumstances.’
‘I’m aware of that.’ Lucian sank into silence. Then, ‘Is your drink OK?’
‘Real cool.’
Lucian briefly wondered if there was too much ice.
Then Pharaoh asked, ‘What’s Avery up to these days besides making money?’
‘I saw him today. He didn’t seem too happy. Avery and Shea, Taylor’s son, are friends. Shea has also shared his suspicion of his father’s death with Avery. Avery thought I might have some suspicions of my own.’
‘Do you?’ asked the detective.
‘Pharaoh, I’ve written you a letter.’ He crossed to the desk, picked up the envelope and brought it to Pharaoh. Pharaoh started to open it. ‘Not now,’ said Lucian, sharply. ‘I meant for you to read it later.’ Pharaoh stared into the man’s eyes. There was no twinkle where there was usually a twinkle. ‘It’s only for you. A scoop. I’m sure you know what a scoop is, in the newspaper world at any rate.’
‘Getting it first. Like some of your obituaries.’
‘Yes, I did have a few scoops there. I love the Almanac. It’s outrageous. It’s nasty. It’s every awful thing everyone says it is, but no one has ever accused it of being dishonest. It told the truth because all my life I have always insisted on the truth. I was brought up that way. The Almanac doesn’t make up gossip. It tells it like it is. There’s no excuse for its outlandishness, for its pandering to the prurient and the morbid, and it has found a large readership. Here’s a scoop for you. Today was the last edition.’ Pharaoh reacted but said nothing. ‘It’s all in the letter.’
Pharaoh put the letter in his inside jacket pocket. ‘We having dinner?’
‘Forgive me, but I’m begging off. I’m having a really bad day.’
‘Full moon.’
‘Oh, is there one tonight? Well, that explains it. Well, old buddy, forgive me if I don’t see you out.’
‘Lucian, I don’t like the way you look.’
‘It’s my medication. I took some before you arrived. Norman Taylor and the others took the same medication. We have the same doctor. I pay him handsomely. Pharaoh, give me a hug.’
Pharaoh hugged him and hurried out.
Lucian shut the study door. He returned to the desk, sat, closed his eyes, and waited.

Pharaoh, back at the precinct, shared the letter with Albert West and Walt Mclntyre. It was succinct and to the point. It told of a carefully planned stock swindle that backfired and was to be Lucian’s ruination. He eliminated Taylor and the other three in the hope of rescuing himself. He couldn’t resist writing their obituaries.
Pharaoh laughed. ‘You got to hand it to Lucian. He was one of the wickedest bastards on earth. But mind you, he set a good table.’
‘Why that weird look on your face, Pharaoh?’ asked Mclntyre.
‘I was thinking, what a lousy shame no Almanac tomorrow. It could have been Lucian’s greatest scoop.’ He waved the letter at them. ‘His own obituary. The son of a bitch, I loved him so, I have to forgive him. Anyone for a pizza?’