Blockbuster

by Richard H. Smith

  Kaywood got up and offered me his office chair.

  “And another thing,” I said. “We may need help in a couple of weeks when Jaws starts. Spare anybody?”

  “You can take several. You got lucky with Jaws. We wanted that one. Everybody did. Not that we had a chance. You’ve got the big theater. We’re slow and staying slow. Treading water.”

  While all theaters were slow during the summer, it was doldrums for the Riverview. They had the one screen, and showed second-run movies at that, or horror flicks—and sometimes soft porn, like the R-rated version of Linda Lovelace for President. Kaywood had tried hard to create a stir in the stagnant water that made up his clientele, but the numbers hardly budged.

  “Better head of chicken than tail of dragon,” I said.

  “I guess so. Another one of your mom’s favorite lines?”

  “You got it,” I said. I had told him about my mom being from Korea and had quoted her a few times in the past.

  “Well, it’s tough bananas for us. That’s one my mom used to say.”

  Kaywood left, and I set to making my call. Maybe I’d try Mrs. Roe too, though, on second thought, I decided to allow Detective Riggs time to contact her first. Wouldn’t want it to seem like I had asked her to give me an alibi. Small chance, but why take the risk? Again, I felt ashamed over my earlier, selfish thoughts.

  Dan Drucker answered after the first ring.

  “Nate, glad you called. Hoping you would. Saw it on TV. Couldn’t believe it. Horace, poor bastard.”

  “It was terrible,” I said. “Watched them take his body away. Spence Reeves found him in the side bushes while he was mowing this morning.”

  Drucker said, “This is one screwed up world, just screwed up. I’ve been trying to reach you. No answer at the theater.”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t answer the phone. I wasn’t even able to use it. I’m over at the Riverview.”

  “I called your home too. Talked with a lady.” Drucker tried imitating a British accent. “She’d heard about it too, by George. A detective called her.”

  I laughed for Drucker’s benefit, but I was thinking, that was quick. I felt a surge of anxiety I’d hoped I wouldn’t need to suffer again.

  “Nate, how about the deposit? The bank told me this morning they didn’t get it. Did the police find the bags?”

  “They’re gone, as far as they let me know.”

  “We’re insured, but it’s a pain to deal with. They have any idea who did it?”

  “Not yet. I told them all I could think to tell them. Robbery, I’m guessing. But I don’t know. If it was just robbery, why did whoever did it have to kill him? I mean in such a brutal way. His throat was cut.”

  “I bet Horace put up a fight.”

  “Yeah, but Mr. Drucker, you should have seen his throat. I think he was surprised from behind. It was ear-to-ear. I’m telling you.”

  “Poor son of a bitch. Hey, listen. I’ll drive over from Raleigh. We need to talk. Gonna call Sue Ellen first. Does she know?”

  “By now she does,” I said.

  “How about we meet at that Waffle House near the Yorktowne? Say, three o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Jeet yet?” asked Drucker as soon as we got our Waffle House menus. He seemed to have moved past Bullock’s murder with ease.

  “Missed lunch with all that’s happened,” I said.

  “Order anything you want, smothered and covered. On me.” Drucker scanned the options, his eyes barely visible past the puffy features of his face.

  “Topped and diced?”

  “You bet.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Drucker. Pancakes—hash browns too.”

  Drucker had played nose guard for North Carolina State in the early 1960s, but any muscle from those days was soft and saggy, his massive frame creating gravitational pull. He was the type of guy who had resented the Beatles and long hair when they burst onto the cultural scene. Maybe he viewed himself as a defender against the changes that had now overtaken the land. If he’d seen Easy Rider, he might have half-sided with the local men in the pickup who gunned down Wyatt and Billy, the hippie characters played by Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda. What was it the guy said before he shot Billy off his motorcycle? Why don’t you get a haircut?

  I’d met Drucker a few times. He’d liked me at first because of our increase in concession sales from the tastier popcorn, for which Bullock had given me credit. Another thing that impressed him was the framed articles I’d placed on the walls. They described the health benefits of popcorn, which were true as long as you passed on the shots of imitation butter and extra salt. The article he liked best described popcorn being a kind of toothbrush. Make sure there’s popcorn left after you finish those Whoppers. Your teeth will thank you.

  But during one of his visits I’d made the mistake of being too frank about my ambitions. Drucker had taken me aside and asked in a buddy-buddy way,

  “Nate, are you wanting a career in the movie theater business?”

  I had replied, hesitantly, “I like it. Sure. I really do. But I’m planning on college, then law school.” It was a goal half-formed in my mind, having only a vague notion of what being a lawyer entailed. What I meant, I suppose, was that I hoped to do something different from what I was doing. Theater work, good for the moment, had started me imagining alternative lives. It was not for me.

  That wasn’t the answer he’d wanted to hear. He preferred someone all in and for the long haul. The enthusiasm in his eyes faded, and he lost his cozy way of talking. He checked his watch, and the meeting ended. I never got another raise.

  He wanted me now, though. After we ordered, he said, “Nate, I need you to take over as manager.” He gave me a hopeful look. I sat there trying to hide my surprise.

  “Hear me out,” Drucker continued, bringing his face closer to mine. “From what I know, and, honestly, from what only a fool couldn’t see, you’ve been doing most of the managing, anyways. Horace—I ain’t going to lie to you — we should’ve fired him a long time ago. Almost did in Georgia before he came up here. But he was a vet, and we don’t like firing vets. And he’d been with us for twenty years.”

  “All news to me,” I said.

  “Point is—it’ll get ridiculous when that shark movie starts. It’ll be doggone Christmas in July, and I need you. And you’ll need an assistant too. Go for anyone you want. What yah say? Comes with a raise. Another hundred a week?”

  I tried to take it all in. Sounded good. My body started expanding at the thought. I felt ready for it. Manager, at nineteen. Would Carrie view me differently? Probably not. Still, I liked it. Although theater work was not for me, I had no crystal ball to predict the future either. I had once met an undertaker who had never figured it would be his career. But an uncle had given him the opportunity for a good-paying job at a funeral home. He took it, expecting a short-term gig. A wife, two kids, and a few raises later, he was stuck. Something like this might happen to me. No disrespect to undertakers—or to theater work. The undertaker told me it was an interesting career and an important job. He met all kinds of people, and he liked helping families through their grief. Even dealing with dead bodies was fine after a while. There are few things you couldn’t get used to.

  I said, “What about Jimmy Reynolds over at the Center? Got much more time at this than I have.”

  This was a no go, even if Kaywood liked him. The Center was a wreck. The lobby carpet had dark stains from want of regular steam cleaning, and its air was more foul than fresh. The drinking fountains ran warm and tasted like bathwater. The restrooms, well, they were health hazards too. And whenever I visited, Jimmy acted like running a theater as a toxic dump was normal. Yet I didn’t quite understand why Drucker would want me. There would have to be someone better out there.

  “Jimmy Reynolds. His cheese, it done fell off his cracker.”

  “Ah, you mean—”

  “Porch light’s on, but he ain’t home half t
he time.”

  “Appreciate the offer, Mr. Drucker, but like I told you before, I’ll be wanting to go back to school.”

  “Want that hash brown?” Drucker asked, already extending his arm toward the remaining one I’d been ignoring on my plate.

  “Has your name on it.”

  Drucker scooped it up and inserted it whole into his mouth. Down it went. When it was man against food, Drucker won every time.

  “Nate, let me be as straight as I know how to be. I gave up on you last year. I realize that. It was bidness. Know what I’m sayin’? Got to support guys wanting this line of work. Give you credit for being honest with me. But, listen. I need you. And tell you what. You’ll get a cut on the concession profits. I did this for Horace, and I can do it for you. Two percent. That’s something you’ll notice. Guaran-damn-tee you. Just wait till Jaws comes.”

  I looked real thoughtful. Wouldn’t he figure I knew about Bullock’s deal of five percent?

  “I wouldn’t want to be out of line, but Horace told me he got five percent.”

  Drucker’s face turned pink. He said, “Horace had those years working for us, two decades. Think he started out at five?”

  “Three?”

  “Deal.” Drucker extended a hand. I shook it.

  “Deal.”

  “Unless you’re the one who put that hit on Horace,” Drucker said, in a serious tone. “Gotcha,” he added as he slapped me on the shoulder and gave out a belly laugh. He had moved on from Horace Bullock. I suspected he saw Bullock’s passing as good for business. And he was probably right.

  “Just don’t tell no one, promise?” I said, laying on a hick accent and returning a laugh. So far, though, this was no joke. Until Riggs had cleared me a hundred percent, I wouldn’t find much humor in it.

  “Listen, gotta run,” Drucker said, jumping up as if he didn’t want to give me a chance to change my mind. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow. If I don’t get through, how about calling me?”

  “Will do. And I’m going to visit Kenny Riley over at the Riverview about the assistant job.”

  “Go for who you want.”

  Drucker tossed two dollars on the table for a tip and paid the bill. We headed out to our cars. My front seat was blistering hot, and I rolled down the side window to release the heat. I was about to turn the ignition key when I saw Drucker’s two paws holding on to the base of the window. His face peered down at me, his jowls drooping.

  “Nate, you know about our spotters, right?”

  “Sure, they check that we’re doing things right,” I said, remembering how we had been slapped on the wrists for not saying the right phone greeting during Christmas. What was it this time? Had they caught Carrie reading?

  “We had one stop by the Yorktowne last night. We’ve had complaints coming out of ears about Horace. The spotter saw the whole thing with that Navy guy. Real impressed with how you handled it. Horace really got into it. Could have been a lot worse. He saw you give the money back and those passes.”

  He slapped the top of the roof and headed off to his car.

  I was spooked to realize how much I had been watched. But why argue with an unexpected pat on the back? I’d take it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I headed back to the Riverview to talk with Kenny Riley about the assistant manager position. I first stopped at a bakery to pick up a few pastries Kaywood and Kenny liked. Two Long Johns with the custard cream filling, not the white, for Kaywood in one bag. For Kenny, a cream horn with the white filling not the custard, alongside a glazed doughnut in the other bag. Plenty of napkins for the powdered sugar on the cream horn. A Long John for me, custard filling, planned for later since I was full. But I polished it off in three bites.

  I saw Kaywood first. He spotted the bakery bags.

  “Back again? What yah bring me?”

  “Long Johns,” I said, tossing him the bag.

  I filled him in on my landing the manager’s position and my interest in hiring Kenny. The prospect of my taking Kenny off his hands excited him.

  “He’s yours. He’s up in the projection booth. How many did I eat? Anything else for me?”

  “For Kenny,” I said.

  “Get on up there before you start thinking straight and change your mind.”

  Excellent. Kaywood was right about Kenny getting distracted by the movies. But Kenny had skills and a knack for fixing equipment. He was at least thirty-five and had been working in theaters for over ten years. He’d helped us out two months back when Bullock was down with the flu. The Riverview used platters, and so Kenny knew the machine much better than I did. Plus, we got along well. I knew he’d like it better at the Yorktowne, a lot better. It was kind of perfect. Most of what Kaywood didn’t appreciate about Kenny were things I liked.

  Maybe because I was a slow reader, I loved movies, but Kenny, he was a movie fanatic. Ask him anything about the history of movies and chances were that he knew the answer. Whenever we met, I learned something.

  Kenny’s favorite director was Ingmar Bergman, and Kenny’s frequent praise of Bergman had me curious about the director too. When our public TV station scheduled one of Bergman’s movies called Wild Strawberries, Kenny had urged me to watch it. And I did, on Mrs. Roe’s kitchen TV. Filmed in a dreamy black and white, I could barely read the subtitles on the small screen. A simple story about an old man reconnecting with his daughter, but I enjoyed it so much that it got under my skin, stuck to my ribs. Kenny was all right with me.

  Kenny was in the projection booth splicing leader onto a reel of film.

  “Just a second, almost done. There. Hi, Nate. Kaywood told me about Horace. Horn in there for me?”

  “Doughnut too,” I said. He seemed unmoved by the news.

  “Hand em over, amigo. Gracias.”

  He eyed me through his thick, Coke-bottle glasses. Each lens resembled aged plexiglass and needed a good cleaning. Man, he was as goofy looking a human being as I’d ever seen. Nothing he wore could handle the strange, impossible contours of his flesh, which hung loose and collected in ways that fought against how clothing is made. One shirttail usually flapped around his backside. His teeth, well, they were so jumbled and bucked, you had to doubt the cosmic wisdom of how humans evolve. They were hard to look at without staring.

  But Kenny was comfortable with himself. If, say, he caught someone staring at his teeth, he’d come out with something like, “I know, but my grandma says they’re handy when you need to eat corn through a picket fence.” Yeah, I liked Kenny Riley. Respected him.

  Kenny moved to an old couch set away from the splicing table. As messy as he was, he was careful enough around film. He knew better than to have sugar powder settling on the print.

  As I gave him more details about Bullock’s murder, he showed little reaction.

  “Robbery. Expected it might happen to one of us someday,” he said as he wedged the last section of cream horn in his mouth. Powder had dusted across the front of his shirt where his belly announced itself and where a single dollop of white filling rested from an earlier bite. He added,

  “Heck, we didn’t go into this business ’cause it was dangerous.”

  He took a finger and made a deft sweep to collect the cream from his shirt and sucked it down.

  “It’s sad,” I said. Kenny gave me side glance, as if to say, you’re lying, right?

  “No, Kenny. Wouldn’t wish what happened on anyone.”

  “I have a sneaky suspicion he reaped what he sowed. Sorry, I ain’t shedding any tears over Horace Bullock. He was an ignorant SOB in my book. And I didn’t like how he looked at me.”

  I said, “Keep talking that way, and you’ll need an alibi. Hey, I understand. Anyhow, guess what, you’re looking at the new manager of the Yorktowne.”

  “No way.”

  “Way. Any interest in being my assistant?”

  “Nate, are you kidding me?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You bet I would. Hot damn. Ah, how about Kaywood?�
�

  “He’s cool.”

  “Figure he would be. Don’t matter. I’m in. Dang.”

  He shifted right away to ideas about what we might do as a team. Could we convince management to have midnight shows on Fridays and Saturdays?

  “I know a ton of killer low-budget films, good for just one showing. Heard of Pink Flamingos? Main character is a drag queen.” I’d never seen him so juiced up.

  “Ah, I dunno,” I said.

  “Some are so bad they’re good. The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. I’ve been wanting to see that.”

  “I like the general idea, Kenny. How about something more tame?”

  “But that’s the point. Why go with vanilla? You get a different crowd.”

  “Can you think of a movie less, ah, weird?”

  “I’m talking about films that are group experiences. Happenings. There’s another one coming out soon, The Rocky Horror Picture Show. The lead’s a transvestite.”

  “Drag queen, transvestite?”

  “They’re just fun. Hoots. The Rocky Horror one is a takeoff on science fiction and horror movies. It’s a musical.”

  “We’ll have to think about it.”

  I would have to throw a rope around him, bridle him. But I appreciated him being a little wild. It would be fun. Didn’t want him domesticated.

  Kenny countered with, “How about Night of the Living Dead?”

  “Let’s run all this by Drucker. Anyway, we need to talk about other stuff. Jaws, for one thing.”

  “Jaws? I’ve been hearing about it since last year. Read the book too.”

  Kenny shifted a stack of newspapers, magazines, and food wrappers to the side to reveal a paperback version of the Benchley novel. It was a recent edition as the cover was the same as the movie poster.

  “Here. Take it.”

  Kenny tossed it to me. Its cover felt sticky.

  “Ah, Thanks.”

  “Nate, this will be movie history. It’s already movie history. Did you see Duel?”

  “No, can’t say I have.”

  “That was Spielberg’s first movie. It’s a thriller set in the Southwest. A crazy driver with an eight-wheeler truck terrorizes a random motorist. That’s all it is, but it’s great, a gut puncher. This guy knows what he’s doing. I owe you. I’m telling you, Nate. I feel like a possum with a tray of honey buns. And, by the way, can I get one of those Jaws posters?”