“I know that, dammit,” Very told him.
“He was in his office, so that’s where I was,” he persisted stubbornly.
“I know. I’m not blaming you, okay? But I’m still gonna get toasted over this. The papers will smoke me! I’ll be directing traffic outside of the Holland Tunnel by the time this is over.”
I nodded sympathetically. Cops worry about critics just as much as writers do. And hate them even more. “You didn’t notice anyone heading in this direction?” I asked the plainclothesman.
“There was millions of people coming and going,” he answered gruffly. “No way I could keep track of all of ’em. Even if I was trying to. And I wasn’t.”
“Pretty cheeky, if you think about it.”
“What’s cheeky?” snapped Very, with mounting annoyance.
“Coming in here and murdering Fiona while a policeman’s parked right out there in the office. That takes guts.”
“Yeah, well, your average psycho killer is not, as a rule, short on guts, dude,” Very fumed disgustedly. “Just social fucking correctness.” He puffed out his cheeks with exasperation. He started to say something more, but he stopped himself. And we went to lunch.
“Why Fiona, dude?”
We ate around on Twenty-ninth Street at Vernon’s Jerk Paradise, a Jamaican barbecue place. We both had the jerked pork, and washed it down with glass after glass of Vernon’s own tropical fruit punch. Jerk is so highly spiced it makes your forehead bead up with sweat and your lips burn. But it’s well worth it. You’ll just have to take my word.
“She knew something, Lieutenant. Something she wanted to tell me.”
“And who knew that?”
“Leo did. She’s the one who passed me the message.”
“Uh-huh. Anyone else?”
“I have no idea.”
“What happens to the show without her?”
“Nothing good. At least not as far as Lyle is concerned. He’s already on thin ice with the network. He and Fiona were still a strong unit together, the core of the show, the franchise. Without her, he’s even more vulnerable. There’s no telling what the network will decide to do now. They could recast Deirdre. They could revamp the show. They could cancel it outright. It’s anybody’s guess.”
“Yo, what’s your guess?” he growled impatiently. Possibly, his incision was itching again.
I answered, “We’re talking about show business, Lieutenant. If you can imagine it happening, if it makes sound, rational sense and it’s good for all parties concerned, then that’s not what’s going to happen.” I sipped my fruit punch. “Only God knows what will happen.”
“Which God are we talking about here?” Very asked.
“The one who wears tasseled loafers.”
“I see,” he said glumly. “You got anything for me, dude? Anything at all?”
“A string of denials, mostly.” I told him what Annabelle, Bobby, and Tommy had asked me to tell him. “And you, Lieutenant? What have you got?”
“Some info on that cab tried to run you down last night—which may cut our man Lorenzo a little slack. Not that he’s off the hook, mind you. Cab was stolen, like I sorta figured.” He glanced through his notepad. “Got jacked from outside a twenty-four-hour bagel place on Houston Street and West Broadway. Cabbie haunt. Dude double-parked out front, ran in to pick up a coffee to go. Was in there thirty seconds, tops. Came back out, it was gone. Not that this means we’re looking for some prime-time jackboy. Bozo left the engine running, on account of he had the air-conditioning on. Counterman said a lot of ’em do that, because they’re in and out so fast, and because they’re fleet drivers and they don’t give a fuck what happens to the cab.”
“Did anyone see who took it?”
Very shook his head. “Not the cabbie, not the counterman, not nobody.”
“And what time did this happen?”
“A little before ten.”
Very and I had separated outside The Blue Mill around ten. Our killer must have tailed me to the restaurant from my apartment, then walked over to Houston Street and stolen the cab while we ate. Then he—or she—followed me home, angling for a good, clean shot. No witnesses. Possibly I’d have been murdered in my bed if I hadn’t come back out and headed over to the Carlyle to see Bobby Short. After which that good, clean shot did present itself. Almost.
“We know Katrina Tingle stayed home all evening,” Very revealed. “On account of we had a man parked outside Hudnut’s suite at the Essex House. She never went out. Hudnut neither—man took a hot bath and sacked out early. We also know that Marty Muck was home with his wife. So was Tommy Meyer.”
“Tommy was with Marty’s wife, too?”
Very sighed. “With his own, in the ’burbs. I think we maybe shamed the dude into going home. We’re still trying to nail down the whereabouts of the others when it happened.” He drained his fruit punch, pushed his plate away, and took out a fresh stick of gum. “Yo, dig on this, dude.” He chomped thoughtfully. “Somebody tries to kill you—to shut you up, most likely. Fails, goes after Fiona Shrike. And succeeds. Could be the two of you struck the same nerve, and that’s why she got it and you almost did.”
“What’s your point, Lieutenant?”
“Maybe you already know what she knew. Could be you have the key to this whole fucking thing, and you just don’t realize it.”
I tugged at my ear. “That may be true, Lieutenant. But I have no idea what it is.”
“Our perp don’t know that,” Very pointed out.
“Meaning I’m still in danger?”
He nodded. “Afraid so, dude. I’m putting somebody on you tonight.”
“That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, it is. I don’t want to lose you.”
“Why, Lieutenant. I’m touched.”
“Don’t be. My interest in you is strictly professional. You’re my best hope for a break—which I sure as hell could use right about now.” He knuckled his eyes wearily. “I’m a hurting puppy here. Got bits and pieces all over the place. Got a list of suspects as long as my arm. Bottom line—I got bubkes. I need a break, dude. A pry bar to wedge this sucker open. I need somebody, something, anything.” He shook his head. “No way I been able to keep up my end of our bargain, which I apologize for. I was hoping to sweat Merilee’s doorman a little, but I haven’t had the time.”
“I understand. It’s quite all right.”
He leaned forward over the table, wincing slightly. “So how did it work out last night?” he asked, lowering his voice. “You and Marjorie Daw. She help you forget?”
“I’m afraid all she did was help me remember.”
His brow creased with concern. “Geez, dude. You got it bad.”
“Lieutenant, I’ve got it terminal.”
I didn’t go straight back to the laugh factory. I strolled uptown on Eighth Avenue to Forty-second Street instead. Took the walk that Lyle took that fateful afternoon last spring when he felt trapped. When it all came crashing down around him. I strolled. It wasn’t far. Nothing in Manhattan is. It was hot and sticky out. The humidity was back, the air thick and gray, the street tar soft under my feet. Rain was in the forecast. A tropical depression, Marjorie would no doubt call it. I wondered if I would always think of Marjorie when it got hot and sticky. Or it rained. Or got cold. Or would she merely recede into the back of my mind like they all did, compared to Merilee. I strolled. At Thirty-first I hit the vast backside of Penn Station, one of the two great buttholes of modern American architecture. The other, the Port Authority Bus Terminal, was on my left up at Fortieth Street. In between there were pawnshops and discount stores selling boom boxes and beepers and sneakers and more sneakers. Guys were unloading trucks everywhere. Sidewalk peddlers were selling stolen jewelry, toasters, toys, bootlegged videotapes. Music was playing. Calypso music, Indian music, rap music. Vendors sold greasy meat pies. Incense was burning. Men sat on folding chairs smoking cigarettes and sucking from tall cans of Bud with straws, killin
g the summer afternoon. At Forty-second Street I made a right, heading east.
In many ways, Forty-second Street is not what it once was. There is much less of it than there used to be, thanks to a vast, stalled urban redevelopment project that has left a lot of the porn theaters and hooker hotels boarded up. The hot-sheets trade has moved to places like Queens Boulevard and Jersey City, where rents are cheaper. A lot of the movie houses have simply succumbed, casualties of the home video revolution. Frankly, the whole place has about as much life now as downtown Hartford on a Saturday night. Yet in many ways, Forty-second Street hasn’t changed one bit. It’s still the best place in the city to buy an out-of-town newspaper, a hash pipe, a Spiro Agnew Halloween mask, a specimen of plastic vomit, or a deck of playing cards featuring photographs of men and women having sex with a variety of farm animals. And there are still some peep shows and topless bars and X-rated movies to be found there. The Deuce, for instance, was showing When Harry Ate Sally. Glamorous, full-color marquee photos were plastered everywhere. Plenty of seating room. Step right up, gentlemen … Okay, so, it’s not Sutton Place. It’s dirty. But no dirtier than many neighborhoods, and cleaner than some. Mostly, it just seemed kind of tired and harmless to me as I walked along. Of course, it was two in the afternoon, and I wasn’t looking to buy anything or anyone. I didn’t even know what I was doing there. I didn’t see anything, or anyone I knew—other than that same old bag lady who sits on the sidewalk out in front of Herman’s, feverishly scribbling incoherent gibberish on a long yellow legal pad with a pen. She has long silver hair, very dirty, and she’s been writing away for as many years as I can remember. As I stood there looking at her the same thing occurred to me that always occurred to me: I was no different than she was. Just blessed with a bit more clarity. On a sporadic basis. I bent over and gave her ten dollars. Then I went back to the studio.
Fiona’s dressing room was sealed now. Her body had been taken away. A fresh plainclothesman was parked outside of The Boys’ office. Inside, Lyle was huddled with Muck and Meyer, The Kids, and Katrina. They were quite up, a party atmosphere. There was laughter all around. Pizza, too, although Lyle wasn’t having any under Katrina’s watchful eye.
“Hey, there ya are, Hoagster!” Lyle called to me brightly, all twinkling blue eyes and jack-o’-lantern grin. Yet another complete mood swing. I was used to them now. They were the norm. “We’re putting together a tribute show for Fiona.”
“Nice idea.”
“Thanks, I thought of it myself,” he boasted.
Marty coughed. Tommy let out a short, rude laugh. Lyle frowned at them, astonished and hurt. Clearly, he had convinced himself that the tribute was his own idea, not Marty’s. This was also the norm.
“Gang’s all with me on it,” he went on, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “We’re putting together a list of her funniest bits. The hardest part’s narrowing it down.”
Marty read from his list. “So far we’ve got the flu show, the sleepwalking show, the mouse-in-the-house show, the big-toe-stuck-in-the-bathtub-faucet show …”
“I’m gonna introduce each clip personally,” Lyle asserted. “Just me talking directly to the camera, reminiscing about Fiona and how much she meant to me. To all of us. We’re gonna tape it this afternoon. No audience. Just our people.”
“I’m, like, wouldn’t it be sweet if The Munchkins introduced one of the bits?” suggested Annabelle.
“Nice touch,” Lyle admitted grudgingly.
“How about the show w-when Rusty ate the cordless phone and it k-kept beeping?” sputtered Bobby.
“Perfect!” exclaimed Lyle. “Only let’s not invite Rusty. I hate that flea-infested mutt.”
“Gee, he says such nice things about you, Lyle,” cracked Tommy.
“Where are The Munchkins at this very minute?” asked Lyle.
“On their way home to Long Island,” Annabelle replied. “But Amber has a phone in the Range Rover.”
“Have Leo call ’em and drag ’em straight back here,” Lyle ordered Katrina.
“Yes, Lyle,” she said obediently.
“And get the crew in. I wanna start filming my intros right away. While my emotions are still raw.” Lyle turned back to me. “Wanna sit in on this?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got some work to do on the book. Have you spoken to God yet about Fiona’s death?”
“His plane’s still in the air. Guarantee ya he’ll come right back on the very next flight. He loved Fiona.”
“Gee, you’d think God could just order them to turn the plane right around in midair,” observed Tommy drily.
“It’s a commercial flight,” said Katrina, curling her lip at him.
Tommy: “You’d think God would have his own plane.”
Marty: “You’d think God wouldn’t need a plane.”
“Better.” Tommy nodded.
“Would you two guys shut up?” Katrina cried.
“Y’know what?” said Lyle. “I don’t care if the fucking network even uses this tribute. I need to do it. And if they don’t wanna pay for it, that’s cool, too. We’ll throw ourselves a giant party and we’ll play it for everybody,” he declared, with mounting defiance. “We’re doing it for ourselves anyway. It’s for us, not for the public, not for God. Fuck God! Ya hear me? Fuck God!”
He wasn’t struck by lightning at that exact moment, but there was a huge clap of thunder outside the studio. Shook the whole building. Just a coincidence, I’m sure.
I went to my office and took off my jacket and shut the door. Just me and the lobsters. I sat at my desk, chin on my fists, my mind working overtime. Wondering, wondering. Did I have the key. What was the key? What did I know that had almost cost me my life, and had certainly cost Fiona Shrike hers? I sat there, turning all of it over … the Deuce Theater, the bombing, the chili, Chad, Fiona … It had to be there. That nugget of information that would somehow make all of it clear. It had to be there. But where was it? I didn’t know. I couldn’t find it. I just couldn’t find it. A pry bar. That’s what Very said he needed. A pry bar to wedge this thing open. But what kind of pry bar? And who to use it on? I sat there, wondering, wondering.
Until, bleary eyed, I got up and went to the john. Not Lyle’s, mind you. I used the men’s room outside the main office on the second-floor landing. It was disgusting in there. Wadded paper towels and cigarette butts scattered about, sinks filthy, rancid puddles on the floor before the urinals. And it smelled nothing like lavender, trust me. I splashed some cold water on my face and dried it with my linen handkerchief. There were no clean paper towels left. I ran a comb through what was left of my hair. None of this woke me up. Or stopped me from wondering.
I paused to look out the landing windows a moment before I went back inside the office. It had turned dark and nasty out. Lightning crackled. Thunder rumbled. Rain began to spatter lightly against the sooty windows, smearing the grimy glass so that I could barely make out the trash cans and duct-work down below in the air shaft. Then the lightning lit up the sky directly overhead, and this time I saw something. Something that explained a lot. Everything, in fact. Because suddenly it was terribly clear to me. All of it. So clear I couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to me before. But it was also sealed tight. No cracks. I needed a crack. As I stood there, watching the spatters of wet on the glass turn to sheets of warm, dirty rain, I realized that I had that crack. It was there. Had been all along. What I had to do now was drive a wedge into it—pry it open, nice and easy.
Only I was going to have to work fast.
When the tap on my door came, I took a deep breath and said, “Come in,” and she did.
She was rushed. “What is it you wanted, Hoagy?” she asked, clutching a clipboard.
“Getting busy out on the floor?”
“Real busy. Crew’s all here. Sound, lighting. We’re going to start rolling in a few minutes. What’s so important?”
“Close the door, Katrina.”
She did. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail
now, and her glasses nestled on top of her head. “Okay, but Lyle’s going to freak if I’m gone for long.”
“This won’t take long.” I stood up and took her clipboard from her and put it on the desk. I took her hot hands in mine. “I wasn’t being totally straight with you before, Katrina.”
“About what, Hoagy?” Anxiousness crept into her cotton candy voice.
“About Lyle and Naomi. I told you I didn’t want to get involved because it’s not part of my job description. And that’s not the real reason.”
She edged closer to me, squeezing my hands tightly. “What is?”
“I can’t stand how he hurts you.”
“What do you care if he hurts me?” she whispered, moistening her lips with her tongue.
“I care,” I replied, “because I care about you. A lot. There it is—I’ve said it. It’s out in the open, okay?”
She let out a squeal and jumped right into my arms, practically knocking me over. She was a big, healthy girl. “Okay!” she cried, squeezing me tightly, her zoomers squashed up against my chest. “Oh, God, Hoagy, I like you so much,” she said rapidly and breathlessly. “Ever since that first day at the beach. I knew it right away. I felt it.” Her mouth was on mine now, hers a blast furnace. “You felt it, too, didn’t you?”
“I felt it, too.”
“You’re out there, just like me.”
“I’m out there, all right.”
She thrust her hips against mine, her pelvis grinding away. “Oh, God. You’re so sensitive. Not like him. He’s so self-centered and cruel. He hit me. He hurt me. You, you’re a real feelings specialist.”
“I am a feelings specialist. I don’t know how real I am.” This was me trying to rein her in. But it was no use. She was faster than a speeding bullet. More powerful than a locomotive …
She took my hands and guided them up under her bustier to her corn-fed assets. “Oh, yesss …” Her nipples did not honk when I squeezed them. But they did perk right up. And she did start to moan. Rather loudly, I might add. “Yesss …” Her eyes were shut, her head heavy on her neck. “We can have something special, Hoagy. I can make you feel so goood.”
The Man Who Cancelled Himself Page 36
