by Parnell Hall
“It’s not like that,” he said irritably.
“Not like what?”
“Not like he told me what to say. He told me what he said, sure. But only generally. That someone was going around asking questions about the game.”
“For the purpose of giving Anson Carbinder an alibi?”
“Of course.”
“And can you give him one?”
Barry Brown scowled. He opened his mouth to say something. Stopped. “You know,” he said, “this is the whole aspect I resent. Can I give him an alibi? Sounds so sleazy. I can tell about him being at the game. Is that giving him an alibi? Does he need an alibi? I mean, does anybody seriously think this man killed his wife?”
“The police might.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Why?”
“Anson wouldn’t do that.”
I nodded. “Unfortunately, the police are not going to find that argument persuasive. Which is why he needs an alibi.”
“Jesus.
“Are you going to take exception to the word again, or could we perhaps discuss it?”
“I’ll discuss it. Just watch your tone.”
“I’m sorry.”
He stuck out his chin. “No, you’re not. You’ve been insolent from the moment you walked in. I want to help Anson, yes, but I’m not going to put up with this shit. So change your tune or take a hike.”
I wanted to in the worst way. But I had a job to do.
At two hundred bucks a day.
That was the thing hanging me up and pissing me off. Would I have walked out on this guy at ten bucks an hour?
I told myself, no, it’s a murder case, you’re doing it for your client, not because you’ve been bought. Perfectly easy to understand.
Intellectually.
“I apologize,” I said. “What can you tell me about the poker game?”
“Nothing that Sam didn’t.”
“Right. But when you go on the stand, they won’t let you answer that way. Speaking for yourself, what do you have to offer?”
“Not very much. We had a poker game. Anson was there.”
“From when to when?”
“Sometime after eight until two in the morning.”
“He was there the whole time?”
“That’s right.”
“Never went out?”
“Never went out.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Did you ever go out?”
“No.”
“You were there from eight till two?”
“That’s right.”
“How’d Anson do?”
“Huh?”
“In the game—how’d he do?”
“Oh. I’m not sure. I think he won.”
“He didn’t say?”
“What do you mean?”
“At the end of the game, when everyone cashes in—don’t you usually discuss who won and lost, how everybody did?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. But it’s not like it’s important. Now, I know how I did.”
“How did you do?”
“I was up sixty-six dollars.”
“Sixty-six?”
“That’s right.”
“You know that exactly?”
Sure.
“But you don’t know if Anson Carbinder won or lost?”
“No. Why should I?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. But when you’re in a game, you kind of get a general idea how the other people are doing.”
“That’s true.” He frowned. “Now, in Anson’s case, he was losing for a while. Then he won a few hands. Then there was one big hand when he took the whole pot. Now, whether that was enough to bring him all the way back, I really couldn’t say.”
“A big pot?”
“Yeah. It was a high/low pot, and he took the whole thing.”
“Were you in the hand?”
“Sure.”
“What did you have?”
“A straight. Queen high. Which was a kick in the teeth, because Anson had a full house.”
“And everyone went high?”
“Right.”
“Because Anson looked like he was going low?”
“Sure. He had ace, two, three, four showing.”
“And Anson took the whole thing?”
“Right.”
“How much was in the pot?”
“I don’t know. Over fifty bucks.”
“How many people in the hand?”
“You mean who stayed until the end?”
“Right.”
“Just about everybody. I was in. And Sam and Marv. And I think Phil and Timmy.”
I consulted my notebook. “That’s Phil Janson and Timmy Hendricks?”
“That’s right.”
“And would you remember what they had?”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’m not even sure they were in the hand.”
“But you’re sure Sam Kestin and Marvin Wainwright were?”
“Not for certain,” Barry Brown said irritably. “I’m sure Sam was, because he reminded me on the phone. I think Marv was, but I could be wrong. I know Anson was, because he won the pot. That’s the only thing I know for sure.”
“I see,” I said. “And how long have you known Anson?”
“I’ve known him for years.”
“And there’s no question in your mind that it was Anson Carbinder who was there that night?”
“None whatever.” Barry Brown raised one finger, pierced me with his gaze. “Now,” he said, “I’ve told you everything I know, and everything you need to know. And I happen to be a busy man. So, if you wouldn’t mind, please close the door on your way out.”
Under the circumstances, I didn’t ask B.B.-baby if he might have any commercial work I could audition for.
15
PHIL JANSON MADE OLLIE PRUETT LOOK LIKE SUPERMAN.
In case you’re having trouble keeping track of these names, Ollie Pruett was the Birdman of Central Park South, the fidgety little one who was so nervous he couldn’t even sit still.
Phil Janson put him to shame.
Phil Janson was an actor, who probably specialized in playing people like Ollie Pruett. Apparently no such part was readily available, since I found him at home.
Phil Janson lived in the West Village in a studio apartment the size of a broom closet, a second-floor walkup over a boutique on Eighth Street that probably went for a thousand a month. It occurred to me, Janson most likely had lived there for years and paid closer to five hundred. It also occurred to me, the only reason I had that thought was because he was an actor, and actors on the whole are not notoriously wealthy.
But I hadn’t come to discuss the rent. I’d come to discuss the poker game. And with Janson so nervous, it wasn’t going to be easy.
“I don’t want to testify,” he said.
Phil Janson was a little man with red hair and glasses. I know that sounds like Woody Allen, but he didn’t look like Woody Allen. Actually, he looked more like Harrison Ford. I know that makes no sense. I guess you had to be there. Anyway, whatever he looked like, the guy was nervous, upset, and not at all happy.
“Okay, take it easy,” I said. “No one’s asking you to testify to anything yet. Right now, I just want to know what happened.”
“Sure. So you can tell the lawyer and he’ll make me testify. I tell you, I don’t want to do it.”
“There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, no? Some smart lawyer trips you up, the next thing you know you’re in contempt of court and you’re in jail.”
“I assure you that won’t happen.”
“Oh, you assure me? What, are you a lawyer?”
“No. I told you. I’m a detective.”
“Right. Working for Anson’s lawyer. Who wants me to testify.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
“I told you what’s so bad about that. Look, why does he need me at all? There’s other people in the
game. Why don’t you talk to them?”
“I have talked to them.”
“So?”
“And now I’m talking to you.”
“Aren’t they enough?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Jesus. “Okay,” I said. “Say the case goes to trial. And Anson has to prove his alibi.”
Phil Janson shook his head. “Alibi. Jesus.”
“Yeah, well, say that happens. The attorney will start calling the people in the game.”
“Then he doesn’t need me.”
“Yes, he does.”
“Why?”
“Because he’ll ask who was playing in the game, and they’ll name you.”
“Why me?”
“I don’t mean you specifically. I mean everybody. And then the attorney will call all these people. Well, if he leaves you out, the prosecutor will wonder why.”
“So what?”
I took a breath. Was the guy really that dumb? Or was he just that nervous? “The thing is, if Anson Carbinder’s attorney doesn’t call you, the prosecutor will. To see why you weren’t called. Well, Richard Rosenberg wouldn’t let that happen.”
“Who?”
“Anson Carbinder’s attorney. Richard Rosenberg. There’s no way he lets that happen. Not calling you builds up your importance. There’s no way he doesn’t put you on the stand.”
“Suppose I don’t go?”
“Then he serves you with a subpoena.”
“Shit.”
“Well, if he didn’t, the prosecutor would. So there’s no ducking it. One way or another, you’re going on the stand.”
“What if I didn’t talk?”
“Then you’d be in contempt of court. Unless, of course, an answer would tend to incriminate you. Then you could refuse to answer on those grounds.”
“Incriminate me?”
“In the crime.”
“What crime?”
“The murder. If you killed her, you wouldn’t have to say a thing.”
Janson blinked. “That’s not funny.”
“No, it isn’t. But it happens to be the case. That’s the only way you’re going to get out of this.”
Phil Janson rubbed his head. “Jesus Christ.”
“So there’s no reason not to talk to me. Talking to me obligates you to nothing. And it’s a good rehearsal for what’s to come.”
Janson exhaled. “Oh, boy.”
“Hey, come on,” I said. “You’re an actor, right?”
“Yeah. So?”
“So think of it as a dramatic exercise. “
“Yeah, right,” Janson said. He rubbed his hand over his face. “Okay, okay. What do you need to know?”
“You were at a poker game?”
“Yes, I was.”
“This was three nights ago. The night Mrs. Carbinder was killed.”
“Jesus.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just using it to pinpoint the date. But the fact is, you were at the game?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Where was this game?”
Phil Janson began tugging at his earlobe. I couldn’t tell if it was a nervous habit or if there was something wrong with his ear. “Let me see, where was it?” he said. “Oh, at Sammy’s. Sam Kestin.”
“You were at the poker game at Sam Kestin’s?”
“That’s right.”
“Who else was there?”
“Well, Anson Carbinder, of course.”
“Of course. Who else?”
“Well, Sam Kestin... Ollie Pruett... Ricky Pomerantz.”
“Who?”
“Oh! Oh!” Janson said. He looked as if he were about to tug his earlobe right off. “No, no. I’m wrong. Ricky was at the last game, not that one.” He looked at me, pleadingly. “See? See? That’s why I don’t want to go on the stand. I’m not good at details. I get confused. I’ll say the wrong thing and screw everything up.”
“No big deal. Anyone can make a mistake.”
“Yeah, but like you said. The prosecutor will jump on it and crucify me.”
“That won’t happen.”
“But if I make a mistake...”
“Hey,” I said, holding up my hand. “That’s why you’re talking to me now. Getting it straight in your own head. So when the time comes, you won’t make that mistake.”
“Yeah. Whatever,” Janson said.
“Anyway, I’m not going to cross-examine you. If you make a slip of the tongue, you just correct it and go on from there. Now, you mentioned this one guy who wasn’t there who was at the previous game. No problem. Try again. So far, I got you, Anson Carbinder, Sam Kestin, and Ollie Pruett who were at the poker game. Now, who else was there?”
Janson exhaled again. “Marv.”
“That would be Marvin Wainwright?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay. Who else?”
“Ah... Tim Hendricks.”
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s see. That makes six. Who’s the seventh?”
Janson thought a moment. “Christ, I don’t know,” he said. “See, I’m terrible at this.”
“Then let me help you out,” I said. “Just think back to the game, think of whose faces you saw around the table.”
“Huh?”
“Who was sitting there? Who’s to your left, who’s to your right? Who’s sitting across from you?”
After a moment Janson said, “Barry Brown.”
“Oh?”
“That’s who was across from me. Barry Brown.”
“So that’s the seventh player? Barry Brown?”
“Right.”
“You call him Barry?”
“That’s right.”
“You ever call him B.B.?”
Janson frowned. “B.B.?”
“Never mind,” I said. “Those are the players in the game. That’s who. Let’s do when. How long was the game?”
“In hours?”
“I don’t mean how many hours. I mean from when to when.”
“Oh.”
“When did the game start?”
“I don’t know. Around eight-thirty.”
“When did you get there?”
“I don’t know. Around eight-fifteen.”
“When you got there, who was already there?”
“Oh. I don’t know. Sam, of course.”
“Who else?”
“I think Marv.”
“What about Anson Carbinder?”
“He was there.”
“When you got there?”
“I think so.”
“You’re not sure?”
Janson had been tugging at his earlobe again. Now he let it go and threw up his hands. “See? See?” he said. “See what I told you? It doesn’t matter what I remember and what I don’t. A simple thing like that, I don’t remember and they tear me apart.”
“Not at all,” I said. “There’s no reason why you should remember. If you say you got there around eight-fifteen, there were a few people there when you got there but you’re not sure who, but everyone was arriving about then and by eight-thirty they were all there, who’s to argue with you?”
“Are you telling me what to say?”
“Of course not. I’m just pointing out that the phrase, I’m not sure, is perfectly acceptable and will cover practically any lapse of memory. If you just say you’re not sure, who’s to argue with you?”
“Well, I’m not sure.”
“Fine.”
“No, it’s not fine. I tell you I’m not sure, but you keep asking me questions.”
“Which you can answer the same way,” I said patiently. “Anything you’re sure, you say. Anything you’re not sure, you say you don’t remember.”
Janson stuck out his chin. “Fine. Then I don’t remember.”
“But you can’t say that across the board.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not true. It’s a lie. It’s perjury. It’s what you go to jail for. If you sit on the stan
d, stubbornly maintaining that you don’t remember anything, the judge will see what you’re doing and he’ll order you to answer. And when you don’t, you’ll be in contempt of court. At which point he will throw you in jail until you do answer.”
“Hey, come on,” Janson said. He put up his hands as if warding off a blow.
“But that’s silly,” I said, “because it doesn’t have to happen. All you have to do is tell what you know. If you forget some specific detail, you say you don’t remember. But generally you do. You’ve already told me most of what you need to. It’s the small details, like who came before who, that don’t really matter. See what I mean?”
Janson looked at the floor. “I suppose so,” he muttered.
“Fine,” I said. “So, let’s deal with some of the things you do know. The game started around eight-thirty. When did it end?”
“Two o’clock.”
“That’s when the game broke up?”
“Yes.”
“And everyone went home?”
“Sure.”
“And did Anson Carbinder stay till the end?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s two in the morning.”
“Right.”
“So Anson Carbinder was there from eight-thirty that night until two in the morning? Is that right?”
“Yeah. That’s right.”
“Did he ever leave?”
“Huh?”
“During the course of the evening—from the time he got there until the time he got home—did Anson Carbinder ever leave the poker game for any amount of time? Like to go out for a smoke, to go to the store, or what have you.”
“Anson doesn’t smoke.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Did he leave the poker game for any reason?”
“No.”
“See,” I said. “You’re doing fine. Now, was there anything about the game, any hand in particular, that you remember Anson being there?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t remember.”
“How about a big high/low hand where Anson took the whole pot?”
“Oh, that.”
“See, you do remember.”
“Not really.”
“Yes, really. You said, Oh, that. Tell me about the hand.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You remember it was a high/low hand and he took it all. Right?”
“Right.”
“How did it happen?”
“I don’t really remember.”
“You must remember what you had.”
