Director's Cut

by Alton Gansky

  “You done good, kid,” West said. “You handled it perfectly. Let’s just hope they’re still there.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be?” I snapped.

  West gave me a disappointed look but didn’t answer. We walked into the small lobby that leads to the executive area of city hall. Fritzy was at her place. She pressed the button that opened the small wood gate in the pony wall that separated the public area from the office area where city council members, their staff, and support personnel work.

  “I see Floyd found you,” Fritzy said, as we passed through the gate. “While you’re here, Mayor, I have a question for you.”

  “Not now, Fritzy.” We pressed on and entered Floyd’s office. “Close the door, Floyd.” He did. I went to my own door, which was shut as it should be. I turned the doorknob and stepped in. West was so close I could feel his breath on my cheek.

  Sitting in front of my desk were Catherine and Franco. Franco wore the same clothing he wore on the night of the play. Catherine had changed. The clothing looked new. My guess was that she bought new threads.

  Catherine stood. So did Franco.

  “Hi, Maddy,” Catherine whispered.

  “Hi? HI? You run off without a word and all you have to say is, ‘Hi’?”

  “I know you’re angry—”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Do you know the worry you’ve put us through? You’re mother is beside herself.”

  “She knows?” Catherine’s eyes widened.

  “Of course she knows. I called her to see if you had made contact.”

  “Um, Mayor,” West said.

  “How could you just take off like that?”

  “I know, I shouldn’t have. I was just scared.”

  “So you thought you’d spread that fear around a little.” My anger surprised me.

  “Mayor, if I could—” West started.

  I stepped toward Catherine until we were eye-to-eye. My jaw was tight, my stomach felt full of magma, and my hands clenched into fists. I took a breath. Then another. Catherine said nothing, and I could no longer speak. A second later I took her in my arms and held her tight. I felt her arms rise and encircle me.

  The anger that boiled in me cooled and drained away. In its place rose the joy of knowing that Catherine was safe. “Thank you, God,” I whispered. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “If you two are done with whatever it is you’re doing,” West said, “I’d like to ask a question or two.”

  I pulled away but before stepping back I raised my hands and placed them on the sides of her head. I pulled her forward and kissed her on the forehead. Then I took a step back and moved to my place behind the desk. I felt as limp as a used washrag. Catherine sat, looking frail. Franco slipped back into his chair.

  “I’m sorry about the outburst,” I said. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

  “I had it coming,” Catherine said. “I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble.”

  West sat on the edge of my desk, normally something I would never allow, but there was no other place for him to sit. “Okay, who’s going to start?”

  “Me,” Catherine said. “It’s my fault. I was afraid and humiliated. I just wanted to get away. When I was at the police station I saw that you had let Franco go. He didn’t deserve to be arrested, you know.”

  “I had a point to make.” West looked at Franco but the publicist didn’t react. “Go on.”

  Catherine rubbed her thumbs together. “When you offered to take me to Maddy’s I said yes, even though I didn’t have a key.”

  “You said you did,” West said. “When you saw the house was dark, you told me you had a key.”

  “I know. It was a lie and I feel bad about it. But all I could think of was that someone killed Ed and someone killed Andy, and that line in the script came to mind.”

  “Which line?” West prompted.

  I knew. “‘The Body Count is now two. Ready for three?’”

  “I thought that I might be number three. Worse, I thought Maddy might be next. I couldn’t live with myself if . . . Anyway, after you dropped me off, I went around back to the deck and called Franco. He picked me up.”

  “You thought that was a good idea, Mr. Zambonelli?” West asked.

  “No, I thought it was a lousy idea,” Franco shot back.

  “He tried to talk me out of it, but I threatened to take a cab someplace.”

  “What was I to do?” Franco said. “She was leaving one way or the other, so I figured better with me than alone. Am I right or am I right? I took her to a place north of Santa Barbara. I got us a couple of rooms.” He turned to Catherine. “Everything I do, I do for you, baby. Everything.”

  “It took awhile, but this morning, Franco talked me into coming here.” Catherine rubbed her thumbs together harder. I was afraid I was going to see bone soon. “Do I have to go to jail?”

  She asked the last question with her head down. She couldn’t look at me or West. Seeing her so innocent, vulnerable, and frightened tore my heart in half.

  “After what you put us through, Ms. Anderson, I should lock you up—except I don’t have any real reason to do so. You broke no laws.”

  “What about Franco?” Catherine said.

  “You said you went of your own free will?” West asked.

  “Yes. Like I said. He was against the whole thing.”

  “Then I have no reason to hold him—yet.”

  Catherine looked at me. “I should call my mother. Then I should talk to Harold and Neena. Will you go with Franco and me?”

  “Of course.” I stood. “Catherine needs to make a call. Let’s give her some privacy. Go on, get out of my office.”

  The room emptied. I stepped to Catherine and reached for her hand. “I was out of line earlier. Forgive me?”

  “If you’ll forgive me,” she said. “Besides, I’m well aware of the family temper.”

  “Call your mom. Take as much time as you need.” I left my office and closed the door behind me, but not before I saw her take her cell phone in hand.

  Floyd was at his desk looking as if he had just witnessed open heart surgery. I felt a little drained myself. I just hoped I wasn’t showing it as much as he. I glanced around, wondering why only Floyd and I were still around.

  Floyd saw my confusion. “Detective West said he was going back to work. Mr. Zambonelli asked where the bathrooms were. I told him.”

  “What a day,” I said and pinched the bridge of my nose.

  “I found this for you,” Floyd said. He pushed a stack of paper my way.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the BODY COUNT script you asked for. Andy Buchanan had his own Web page; one of those sites where a person posts their résumé, work history, and interests. It looked like he was trying to get someone interested in the screenplay. He uploaded the whole thing as well as his contact information. I downloaded it as a Zip file, extracted it, and printed it for you.”

  “You’re the best, Floyd.” I picked up the stack of paper and thumbed through it. I was not an expert but it looked like a complete script. My mind was humming. I felt like I was holding something important but didn’t yet know why. “Floyd, I want you to print another one of these and deliver it to Detective West. I want you to deliver it personally. Tell him that I asked you to do some research and that I thought you found something important. Make sure he sees Andy Buchanan’s name.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to drive Catherine to the theater and wait for her. I think she wants to mend a few fences.” I held up the screenplay. “I’m also going to do a little reading.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “There is. I have another research project for you. I’m certain that the police are already doing this, but I think your youth might give you an edge on them.”

  “More Internet searching?”

  “Exactly. You know the problem with the missing signs and guardrails. The police are kee
ping this part secret so you are to keep this to yourself. Understood?”

  “Got it.”

  “The police have found a simple video camera and transmitter at one of the scenes. I want to know how someone would do that and if they are selling the footage on the Internet.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was.”

  I heard my office door open. “I’m ready now.”

  Catherine oozed out of the office. Her eyes were red and puffy and her nose pink. It must have been a difficult phone call to make.

  Chapter 30

  After waiting for Franco, the three of us hopped in my car and I plowed onto the freeway. The conversation was minimal, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I was certain Catherine needed time to recover from her telephone conversation with her mother and plan what she was to say to Harold and Neena.

  It was just before two thirty and traffic was lighter than I expected. Thirty minutes from now it would be a different matter. I didn’t push the speed. We had no appointment time. We would get there when we got there.

  “I just had a thought,” I said. “Do you know if Neena and Harold will be there?”

  “No,” Catherine said, “but I’m sure they will be. Neena works from about one until the theater closes in the evening. Harold showed up at two yesterday to check things over. He will be there.”

  We fell back into silence.

  Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the lot of the Curtain Call dinner theater and parked close to the front door. A half-dozen other cars were there. Early employees, I assumed.

  Once out of the car, Catherine and Franco started toward the door. I left the script in the car and followed. We stepped into the empty lobby.

  “I would like to talk to them alone,” Catherine said.

  “I understand.” I started to say something else when a young man in a clean white smock walked by. I assumed he worked in the kitchen, arriving early to set up for the evening’s meal. He saw us and stopped.

  “May I help you?” He looked at me, then at Catherine. “Oh.” I waited for more but nothing came.

  “We’re here to see Ms. Lasko and Mr. Young,” I said.

  “Um, sure. Have a seat in the theater, and I’ll let them know you’re here.”

  Catherine was slow to move so I took the lead, walking through the lobby and past the curtained doors. Inside, the lights burned brightly as a worker covered the tables with white cloths and another set out silverware and glasses. The theater was gearing up for another evening of great art. We stood by the first row of booths and waited. It didn’t take long for Neena to appear.

  “Catherine, dear.” Neena moved straight to Catherine and gave her a hug. “Are you all right? We’ve been so worried.”

  “Catherine!” The voice was familiar. Harold Young bounded down the stage and jogged to us, taking Catherine in his arms.

  At least they’re not throwing things at her.

  “I, um, I thought we should talk.” She reminded me of a child waiting for a scolding. It was heartrending.

  Harold said, “You know, you left us in a bind.”

  “I know. That’s what I want to talk about.”

  It was time to make an exit. “We’ll wait over there.” I motioned toward the tables nearest the stage. “Come on, Franco, you can regale me with stories of New Jersey.”

  We retreated. Before I sat down I looked back at the trio. They had settled into the booth and Catherine was talking. I took a seat; Franco sat across the table.

  Franco eyed me. “You don’t like me much, do you?” Straight to the point.

  “I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion.”

  He smirked. “Don’t give me none of that political smooth talk. I make my living by sizing up people and making other people look good. I know a snow job when I see one.”

  “Okay, Franco, I’ll admit you’ve irritated me on several occasions.”

  “I’ve been nuthin’ but a gentleman,” he said.

  This time I smirked. “Within five minutes of arriving at my house, you insulted my city and our police force and forced yourself into this situation. Of course, what really sticks in my craw is that you let me, the police, and everyone who cares about Catherine worry all night and most of the day.”

  “I told you it wasn’t my idea, it was hers. Everything I do, I do for her. I did talk her into coming to talk to you. You heard her say that herself.”

  I had heard that.

  “Look, Mayor. I know I can rub people the wrong way. Maybe it’s the East Coast accent; maybe it’s because I can be a little blunt; maybe I don’t think before I speak, but you gotta believe I ain’t got nuthin’ but the best in mind for Catherine. She’s my best client. Whatever happens to her happens to me.”

  “Franco, I don’t know what to think of you. You’re a stranger to me, one Catherine seems to trust, but after two murders at her home, I’m not inclined to trust anyone but my closest friends.”

  “Then why did you let me come along?”

  “Because Catherine sees something in you. It is obvious that you’ve won her trust.”

  “But I haven’t won yours?”

  “No. You haven’t. Have I won your trust?”

  He laughed. “You’re the mayor. You’re Catherine’s cousin. She thinks you hung the moon. Yeah, I trust you.”

  I hadn’t expected that. “Let me ask you something. Why would Andy Buchanan be at Catherine’s home?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know, Mayor. I really don’t. I’ve been asking that myself. I even asked Catherine while driving to the hotel. She said he had a crush on her at college—you know, when they was in New York. But she said that was over several years ago.”

  “Do you read her scripts?” I asked.

  “Nah. I’m sure her agent does, but I learn what I need from her. After the movie is shot and they’re ready to start to promote it, I get a DVD copy to review. The whole crew does too. That way I know what the movie is all about.”

  “So you don’t know who would be doing this to Catherine?”

  “Mayor, if I knew for sure, it wouldn’t be a problem no more. You know what I mean?”

  I was pretty sure I did.

  “How did you get to be a publicist?” I asked. “If I’m not prying.”

  “Hustle, Mayor. Pure and simple, hustle. I grew up on the edge of the projects. It was a rough neighborhood. Future didn’t look good for me. I was pretty good in school but good grades was just an invitation to get beat up. I watched my friends die from drug overdoses, get locked up for selling things they shouldn’t, or get shot while standing on the street corner. I knew that wasn’t for me. I used to spend as much time out of the area as I could. Usually, I sat in movie houses taking in the latest flicks. I fell in love with the business. In school, they took some of us up to Broadway to catch a play. It was an old play. A revival of 42nd Street. Not much to the story line but seeing all those actors, hearing the music—it got in me.”

  “So you wanted to be an actor?”

  “No, no way. I’m no actor. I know that. I can’t write worth a dime, either. I don’t have what it takes to be a director of a play or a movie, but I do know how to hustle. I can sell anything to anyone, or anyone to any group. Yes sir, that I can do. During my last year of school, I talked my way into working for a local publicist. I worked for free and learned a few things. After school, I did the same thing in New York. A few years later I started my own firm.”

  “How did you meet Catherine?”

  “I was representing one of the actors in her Broadway play. He made a recommendation, and she hired me on. When she came to Hollywood, I thought it would be a good time to open another office.”

  Catherine approached. “Thank you for bringing me,” she said.

  “Did you say what needed to be said? Are they okay with everything?” I asked.

  “Yes. They were very disappointed in me, but they said they understood. They want me to perform again.”
/>   “That’s great, baby,” Franco said. “But maybe you should take this whole play thing off. You need some rest.”

  “They want me to act tonight.”

  “Tonight?” That surprised me. “What did you tell them?”

  “I owe them. I told them yes.”

  I offered to drive Catherine to my home so she could rest before the play, but she declined. She wanted to help Harold any way she could, refresh her lines, and “get in character,” something she felt she could do better by being in the theater. She also admitted she wanted to talk to the other actors. “They deserve some explanation,” she said. I admired her humility.

  That left Franco. He made a couple of attempts to talk his client out of doing the play, but Catherine carried many of the same genes for stubbornness I do. Franco was wasting his breath. He offered to stay with her but she said no. She needed things to be as close to normal as possible, and she insisted that he leave. He looked crestfallen. I was expecting a protruding lower lip, but Catherine made everything right with a little, platonic kiss on the cheek. He melted.

  The polite thing to do was offer to drive Franco back to his car in the parking lot of city hall, but he declined. I had the feeling he’d had all of me that he wanted. He said he’d call a cab to take him to his car but promised to be back for the play. Catherine said she’d like that.

  Franco’s fierce independence freed me to escape the office. I placed a call to Nat and asked if she was up for company. She was and I was on my way.

  Part of my reason for visiting with Nat was more than to spare me a drive back to the office. I also wanted to spend some time with my friend and campaign manager. I had only been back from Sacramento for a few days—very long days—days of great distraction as far as the campaign was concerned. If there had been any luck in this horrible week it was that Nat and I planned a light schedule, knowing my desk would be full of work when I returned. Next week I was back to having two jobs: mayor and congressional candidate.

  I said a few good-byes, made Catherine promise not to run off again, and drove to Nat’s Santa Barbara home. I parked out front and walked up the concrete path to her porch. I waved at the small camera I knew was tucked away in a soffit above the door.