Director's Cut

by Alton Gansky

  I took a bite. Green bell pepper, ham, provolone, tomato, oregano, and other treasures seduced my taste buds. The thought of calories percolated to the top of my mind but another bite drove the nagger away.

  “What made you choose Jimmy’s Mafia Pizzeria?” I asked.

  “It was on the way, and he also sent a campaign contribution of two hundred and fifty bucks.”

  “So it was a politically motivated decision?”

  Nat laughed and peeled back the sandwich wrapper with her one good hand. She bent forward, resting one end of the grinder on the table, and bit into the other end. Natalie Sanders once graced the airwaves of a major Los Angeles news station. She was the darling of the industry and was often called upon to fill in on national programs. No one doubted that one day she would be the Tom Brokaw of national news. That was before the news van she was riding in tumbled down an embankment. Months and hundreds of hours of therapy later, Nat returned to her life. But it wasn’t the life she left.

  Commercial news stations sell beauty more than information. Men and women who look like they’ve been peeled off some catalog anchor prime-time news shows. If they hadn’t earned degrees in journalism, most could have made a good living as underwear models.

  Insurance had set her up for the rest of her life, but she was not one to do nothing. Her mind operates like a fine Swiss watch and the thought of becoming addicted to soap operas and Court TV was repugnant, so she started her own business. Nat is a researcher. People, companies, local governments hired her to search for facts. With her computer skills and her connections in the news business, she became the most sought-after researcher on the West Coast. Working from her home, she scours the databases and the Internet looking for the one bit of information that can take a news story from the mundane to the spectacular or give a Fortune 500 company an edge on its competition.

  When I entered the race for congress, she was my first choice for campaign manager. Our friendship has grown every day since.

  I caught Nat watching Catherine. Floyd was watching too but with a different look in his eye. Catherine studied the messy grinder, then lifted it, taking care to touch it with just her fingertips. She took the tiniest bite and then returned the sandwich to the center of the wrapping paper she had so carefully spread before her. The bite she took wasn’t enough to fill her mouth, but she chewed it like she had chowed down half the contents.

  I felt like a pig and drew a napkin across my face to wipe away some errant olive oil.

  We chatted about my trip to Sacramento, about Catherine’s play, her new home, and a few other odds and ends. I also told her about Catherine’s offer to be a part of our last fund-raiser. Nat remained polite through all of it, but I could see that she was growing impatient. I told her everything about the body in the pool.

  I waited for Hurricane Nat to blow in. She narrowed her eyes, worked her jaw, pursed her lips, but said nothing.

  “Word’s going to get out,” I said. “Turner will be polite, but he’ll no more give up this story than a bulldog will surrender a bone.”

  “You actually jumped in the pool,” Nat said. It wasn’t a question; it was a well-chewed statement. “That may work for us.”

  “That’s what you said on the phone. How?” All eyes shifted to Nat.

  “Look, I know you weren’t thinking campaign issues when you took that leap into the bloody water. You were just being Maddy and doing what Maddy does, looking out for others. It was a heroic effort even if it was futile.”

  “Wait a minute, Nat,” I said. “I don’t want to make political mileage out of a murder. It doesn’t seem right.”

  “I’m not saying we weave it into speeches or put out a press release, just that we make sure the press knows about it.”

  “What good will that do?” Floyd wanted to know.

  “We’ve faced an uphill march in this campaign, Floyd,” Nat explained. “First, Maddy isn’t that well known outside of Santa Rita. The congressional district includes areas beyond our city limits, areas where the name Madison Glenn doesn’t mean anything.

  “Second,” she continued, “we’re up against an opponent who exudes confidence, strength, and courage. Garret Kinsley was an ambassador, and the public doesn’t view ambassadors as politicians. The title carries an untarnished dignity with it. He faced a woman opponent in the primaries, and he demolished her but he did it so smoothly that even she felt honored. Women love him; men want to be him.

  “The third problem has to do with the appearance of strength and personal resolve. We live in frightening times. People want a strong hand at the helm. A member of congress can only legislate. He or she can’t do much about bringing a sense of safety to the district, but voters don’t seem to care about that. Polls show most voters see Garret as better able to deal with such matters.”

  “That’s crazy,” Floyd said.

  “Sometimes, Floyd, unfounded assumption is more powerful than fact.”

  “I don’t understand,” Catherine said. “How does Maddy’s jumping in the pool help?”

  “It took courage to do that and a willingness to act. Most people wouldn’t think of doing what she did.”

  “I didn’t think about it,” I said. “I just reacted.”

  “All the better.” Nat paused, then added, “Talk to Doug Turner. In fact, talk to him first. Let him have a lead on this. We might need a favor later.” She looked at Floyd. “Can you retrieve Maddy’s office messages from here?”

  “Sure, the city uses the telephone company’s service. I can call from anywhere.”

  “Do it. If we’re lucky there will be calls from some of the local television stations.”

  Floyd left the table and walked to the cordless phone I had left on the kitchen counter.

  “Lucky?” I said, but I knew where she was going. “I’m not real comfortable with this.”

  “Of course you’re not. I’d think less of you if you were.” Nat gave me one of her straight-in-the-eye looks. “I’m not asking you to ham it up. Just tell the truth. You were visiting a family member, discovered the body, and tried to help. You were too late. Oh, and you have every confidence in the work and skill of the Santa Rita police. Got it?”

  I said I did.

  Floyd returned and he looked stunned. “There is another call from Mr. Turner, two calls from television stations, and one from a radio station.”

  “News or music station?”

  “It’s the local easy listening station,” Floyd said.

  Nat shook her head. “Forget them. Radio news fades faster than a flower in an oven.” She fell silent again for a moment. “Maddy, how do you feel about Doug coming to your home?”

  “I try to keep where I live secret.”

  “Doug is trustworthy on this. I can threaten to run him over if he releases your address.”

  It was my turn to think. Doug Turner had always been professional. In some ways, I owed my campaign to him. After I had been particularly testy with him while trying to conceal my plans for higher office, he said, “Why is it that every time a politician is thinking of running for higher office, they deny it when asked? It’s like they’re ashamed of wanting to do more for the community.” Those words burrowed into my thinking like a worm in an apple. When the time came to commit to the campaign, his words echoed in my brain.

  “Okay,” I agreed. “He’s the only media man I trust that much.”

  “Good, it will go a long way with him,” Nat said. “Why don’t you call him? I’ll call the television stations back. They’re going to want some tape so we need to set up a place to meet. It’s too late for the early evening news, but the eleven o’clock people will eat it up.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Floyd said.

  “To do nothing is to invite disaster,” Nat replied. “Our best defense is a quick offense. If we’re careful, this will run a day or two, then drop from the news.”

  Running for office is like being on a bus. Some days you get to drive; other d
ays you sit on the backseat. Knowing when to do what is the trick. I trusted Nat and told her so.

  “One last thing.” Nat made eye contact with Catherine. “You have some decisions to make.”

  “I do?” Catherine had been picking at her sandwich, pinching off small bites and placing them in her mouth. She covered her mouth as she spoke as if she had a wad of food ready to fall out. I doubted she had eaten enough to dirty her teeth.

  “I assume you have a publicist,” Nat said.

  “Yes. Franco Zambonelli. I called him right after I called the police. He said he was coming up to see me.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Nat offered. “I think we should hide you away while Doug Turner is here. You’re news and he’ll want to talk to you about your chauffeur and his murder at your new home. There’s good journalistic mileage in that. I don’t think your publicist would like us meddling in his work.”

  “You may be right,” Catherine said.

  “I’m pretty sure I am. Can you reach him?”

  “I can call his cell phone.”

  “It sounds like we all have calls to make,” Nat said, and pulled her cell phone from the cloth caddy. Catherine reached for her cell phone, and I took the cordless from Floyd.

  Poor Floyd looked lost.

  Chapter 7

  Nat had been right about the television stations. She had also been wrong. None wanted “tape” so we didn’t need to set up a place for a press conference. I was relieved. The early evening news was already over by the time I called. That left only the ten and eleven o’clock broadcasts. Only one station was local; the others operated out of LA. Murder stories are so common in the greater Los Angeles area they barely make the news, unless they are unusually gruesome. All three stations were content with a phone interview. We emailed a publicity photo to each station, which they appreciated. Television thrives on visuals.

  Each interview was a clone of the previous. The reporter thanked me, asked a few general questions, pretended to be moved by the horror of swimming with a corpse, and then thanked me again. I referred them to the police for any specifics. They seemed satisfied—for now.

  Doug Turner was a bit of a mystery. He was noble and professional and I could trust him—even if he was a reporter. But I couldn’t find him. I called his office and left a message with his editor who promised to page him. There was nothing to do but wait for his call.

  The breeze had picked up again, so we moved from the rear deck into the living room. I built a fire in the fireplace and we gathered around. Catherine entertained us with tales of her New York experiences, made us laugh as she recounted a few gaffes she had made from the stage, and told how different making movies was than straight theater. She even told us about the early product commercials she made. We listened, asked questions, and laughed at the appropriate times.

  Floyd sat enraptured by each tale. I started to ask him how Celeste was doing but bit my tongue. Celeste and Floyd were evolving into an item. While some people fell in and out of love as quickly as the weather changed, Floyd and Celeste moved forward at glacial speeds. To ask about Celeste now would embarrass the young man. I let it go.

  Anyone looking at the scene might have mistaken the gathering in my living room as a small party, but we knew better. We were avoiding the horror of the day. Catherine told her humorous stories because entertaining was her coping mechanism. Her eyes, however, no longer flickered as they did when I picked her up at the theater, and her shoulders were slightly rounder than before. She was being brave, but as every person who has been forced to be courageous knows, bravery isn’t the absence of fear. Anxiety, shock, confusion, and uncertainty not only remain, they’re fanned to searing flames. The courageous are merely people who keep doing what needs to be done despite what they feel. Catherine had just joined those ranks.

  The soft melody of tinny music filled the room—a Mozart aria. Catherine’s cell phone was sounding. We fell silent as she exchanged a few words. She looked at me. “It’s Franco. He needs directions.”

  “Do you want me to give them?”

  She handed me the phone. The voice on the other end was nasal and tinted with a New Jersey accent. With a name like Franco, I was expecting Italian. I asked where he was and then gave him step-by-step directions to the house. I handed the phone back to Catherine and she made her good-byes.

  “He said he’d be here soon.” Catherine looked at me. “I know about the need to keep our lives private. I appreciate your opening your home to me and letting Franco come by.”

  “That’s what family is for,” I said. “Franco sounds like an East Coaster.”

  “He grew up in New Jersey, then moved to New York. Later he moved his publicity firm to LA to work with the film people. There’s more business in movies than in theater.”

  “How long has he been your publicist?” I asked.

  “Almost a year now. He did the publicity for the production house, and then I hired him a few months later. He’s one of the best.”

  “Did he get you the part in the next movie?” Floyd wondered.

  Catherine gave him a smile, and I was pretty sure Floyd was going to melt into my sofa. “Publicists don’t represent actors to producers and directors, agents do. Franco represents me to the media. In a sense, by getting my name well known, he’s responsible for the continued interest in my work, but deals are made by agents.”

  “So you have an agent?” Nat said.

  “Two. I have one agent in Hollywood. She deals with the film industry. I also have an agent in New York who represents me to the Broadway and off-Broadway producers. I also have a business manager.”

  “Wow, Catherine,” I said. “It sounds like you’re a small business.”

  “As an actor, I am, but there’s nothing small about the movie business. Millions of dollars flow like water. Every day deals are made and broken by the dozen. It’s important to have people you trust around you.”

  “And you trust all these people?” I wondered.

  “Mostly, but never completely.” She pursed her lips, and her eyes shifted to the fire.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “The first thing you learn in the business is that the waters are filled with sharks. When you’re an actor, people act like you’re the most important thing in their lives, but what they really want is access to your money or influence. There have been many actors who have had their bank accounts emptied by people they trust.”

  Sadness oozed through me. There was something heartbreaking in seeing innocent youth tarnished with the realities of life. Sitting on my sofa was an overnight success, a sudden millionaire, a beauty who could be recognized on any street in America, and she was only twenty-five. At an age when most are trying to form a career, she had already achieved wild success. Her face and manner radiated her youth, but her eyes were revealing hard-earned wisdom of someone twice her age. I was proud of her.

  “It sounds like you’ve taken precautions,” Nat said.

  Catherine turned her gaze to Nat. “I have to. My business manager handles all my bills, but he doesn’t have access to my bank accounts. He submits a detailed list of bills to pay, and I transfer money. He advises me on investments but knows I’ll always get a second opinion.”

  Nat raised her well-arched eyebrows. “You got him to agree to that?”

  “He had no choice. It was the price of doing business with me.”

  Nat laughed. “Maddy, I think you should drop out of the race and let Catherine run. Congress needs people with common sense.”

  “Watch it,” I said. “Are you saying I have no common sense?”

  “I would never say that.” She winked.

  Floyd leaned forward, eyes wide. “How does someone become an agent? I mean, can anyone become an agent? Do you have to go to school?”

  Dear, dear Floyd. Floyd is a professional wannabe. He doesn’t know what he wants to be, so he wants to be everything. Since he’s come to work for me, he’s expressed interest
in becoming a businessman, politician, and even a police officer. He is like a moth who can’t decide which source of light to circle. His father is Lenny Grecian—Reverend Lenny Grecian—my pastor. Pastor Lenny spent his youth surfing, then driving a truck. Someplace along the line he discovered faith, or faith discovered him. Some of Pastor Lenny’s initial lack of focus must have been genetically transferred to Floyd.

  “It’s a hard business, Floyd,” Catherine said. “More fail at it than succeed.”

  The doorbell rang. I rose, approached the door, and put my eye to the business end of the security peephole. Bathed in the yellow light of the front porch stood a man with a head as hairless as an egg; dark, thick eyebrows nestled on a round face.

  “Who is it?” I was being overcautious but past events have made me leery about opening the door to nighttime visitors.

  “Franco Zambonelli.” The door muffled his words.

  I unlatched the locks and opened the door. “I’m Maddy Glenn. Please come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  He was shorter than me by three inches and was round above the belt. He wore a beige sport coat over a white dress shirt, no tie, black slacks, and New Balance running shoes. I was pretty sure he had never run in them.

  I closed the door and led Mr. Zambonelli to the others. Catherine stood and smiled. “Hi, Franco.” Her words were soft.

  “Hi, nuthin’,” he said. He stepped forward and gave her a brief hug. His accent was thick. “You okay, kid?”

  “I’m fine.” She motioned to me. “This is my cousin, Mayor Madison Glenn—”

  “Just Maddy,” I said.

  Catherine introduced the others. Franco did a double take when Catherine introduced Nat. It was a common reaction. I had done the same thing when I first met her. Beauty in a wheelchair was jarring. It shouldn’t be, but it was.

  Franco then looked at me. “Mayor? Really. You’re mayor of this little berg?”

  Little berg? “Yes, Mr. Zambonelli, I’m the mayor of Santa Rita.” I bit my tongue and tried to change the subject. “May I offer you a drink?”