Director's Cut

by Alton Gansky

  “You’re so drunk you don’t know what’s possible and what’s not.” He backed up another step. “I was here last night, watching the play. At intermission I had to use the head. When I came out I saw your boy drop the script with the lady in the gift shop. I followed him.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “He couldn’t deliver the script himself. No guts, I guess. Hiding in the shadows. Sending someone else to deliver it.”

  “I’m going to kill you where you stand,” Buchanan spat.

  “Not yet, you’re not. You want to know the whole story. You live for story. That’s why you’re a director.” Franco gave a quick look at Jerry. He expected Jerry to do something. I saw Jerry give the subtlest of nods. “As far as I knew, Catherine didn’t need another script, so I was curious. I followed him outside and into the parking lot. There was a cabby there. He walked over and gave him something. Money, I guess. Maybe some kinda drug. What’d your boy prefer? Smack? Meth? Crack. I’ll bet it was crack. He struck me as a crackhead.”

  Franco kept ratcheting up the insults, antagonizing Buchanan. At first I thought Franco had lost his mind, but then I saw what he was doing—getting Buchanan to transfer his fury.

  “SHUT UP!” Buchanan waved the gun.

  Franco backed up until his back was next to the tormentor curtain.

  “Yup. I watched your boy give the cabby something. I realized later he was paying the man to sit and wait just in case Catherine came out. You know how Catherine is. Mercurial. Is that the word? Like mercury in a thermometer, up and down. Kinda endearing most of the time, but he knew those extra pages would send her over the edge. He gambled and he won. She came charging out looking for the quickest way home. It was a good thing he paid the cabby.”

  “He couldn’t know she would do that,” Buchanan said through clenched teeth.

  “Well, you’re right there, but so what? He would just try something else stupid, the next night, or the next.” He stopped at the curtain. The sound of patrons enjoying conversation, coffee, and dessert drifted backstage. “I watched as your boy went to his car. I decided to follow him. He went straight to Catherine’s house. It went downhill from there.”

  “What did you do? Answer me. What did you do?”

  “I parked on the street. He did the same but went further down. I bet his car is still there. After that, there isn’t much to tell.”

  Jerry reached back until his hand touched mine. I gave his arm a squeeze. He pulled away and motioned for me to go backstage.

  “No,” I whispered.

  He motioned more fervently. He slipped an inch closer. Franco couldn’t back up anymore without moving beyond the side curtain.

  “I watched him walk onto Catherine’s property. I followed and confronted him in the backyard. Do you know he killed Catherine’s chauffeur? You know Ed Lowe, don’t you? Ed caught him in the back. They argued. They fought down by the pool. Andy isn’t much of a fighter, so he gave up and promised to leave. Instead he pulled his gun and shot Ed Lowe in the head. Ed was unarmed. Just like me. But your boy shot him anyway, just like you want to shoot me.”

  Jerry moved before I could speak. But not before Buchanan could turn. He swung with his arm still extended. The gun struck Jerry in the right temple and went off with a deafening crack. Something swept past my ear. Catherine screamed. Jerry fell, his hand cupped to the side of his head. I saw blood trickle from his fingers. I ran to his side as Buchanan, surprised by the recoil and roar of his own gun, paused for a half second.

  Franco needed no more. He sprang forward, seized Buchanan by the back of the shirt and yanked hard. The thinner, lighter man lost his footing and tumbled into the side curtain. Franco charged like a bull, burying his head in Buchanan’s middle. The two men plunged past the curtain and onto the proscenium.

  Someone in the audience screamed. The gun went off. Several more people screamed.

  I pulled Jerry’s hand away. A straight crease in his scalp poured blood. A quarter inch more to the right and Jerry would be dead.

  “I’m okay,” Jerry said. “I’m okay. I’m okay.” He was trying to convince himself. And me.

  “Catherine, take Jerry and get out. Help her, Harold.” They approached.

  “Maddy, no,” Jerry said.

  Against my screaming conscience I peeked around the tormentor curtain. Franco had Buchanan pinned to the stage, but Buchanan still had the gun in his hand. It was pointed into the audience. People were scattering, screaming, scrambling. Parents scooped up children. Couples ran together. All jammed at the exit.

  Franco was a frightened man trying to subdue a desperate, drunken man. The gun moved in the direction of a mass of bodies trying to flee the theater. Another inch or two and the barrel would point at the heart of the bundle of bodies. I sprinted forward and dropped to my knees, my hands grasping Buchanan’s gun hand and pushing it away from the crowd.

  It went off.

  I jumped and Buchanan’s hand came free. The gun came up and plowed into my nose. Tiny lights sparkled in my eyes and something warm dripped down my face. The gun hand was moving again. Franco reached for it at the same time I did. I felt Buchanan’s wrist in my hands and I leaned forward with all my weight. His arm moved down as I pressed myself to the stage.

  “Maddy!” A voice behind me. Jerry’s voice.

  I had to hold him. For just another minute or two, I had to hold him. Then the crowd would clear. Then the police would come. Then—

  There was a muffled pop.

  “MADDY!”

  Something hot stabbed my belly. A searing hot.

  Warm. Sticky.

  “Mad—”

  The theater darkened.

  Twilight.

  Pitch black.

  Chapter 34

  Pitch black.

  Twilight.

  The room lightened.

  “Maddy?”

  My eyes were gritty, my mouth dry, and my abdomen hurt like I had just finished a thousand sit-ups.

  Something was stuck up my nose. I reached for it.

  “Just leave that alone.”

  I blinked a few times. My vision was blurry, my mind disoriented. A vague shape hovered over me. My eyes cleared and I saw the face of an angel, an angel with a large bandage on the side of his head.

  “Jerry. Where . . . What . . .”

  “Shush. I’m a doctor. I can tell you that.” He leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. Wonderful. “You’re in ICU. It’s your third day.”

  “I don’t . . . remember.”

  “You’re not the first surgery patient to say that. Sometimes the medications erase the short-term memory.”

  Images began to swirl in my mind, all of them unpleasant. “Catherine?”

  “She’s fine. Still a little shook up, but she’s going to be all right. She’s staying with Nat right now, but has plans to move back into her home soon.”

  “Catherine and Nat living together? I’m doomed.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much how I see it,” Jerry said. “How are you feeling?” He touched my forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Five steps beyond lousy and don’t you medical types have thermometers to check for fever?”

  “I went to an old medical school. Besides, I just like touching you.”

  “ICU?” I said. “Kind of ironic—” My mind cleared a little more. “Doug. How’s Doug doing? Is he still in ICU?”

  Jerry shook his head.

  Oh no. A torrent of sadness cascaded on me.

  “We moved him to the second floor. He was complaining about being so close to you.”

  “You mean—”

  “Yup, he came out of the coma the night we admitted you. His doctor kept him a couple more days. He was transferred to a regular bed just before lunch.”

  “Thank God.”

  Jerry smiled. “I did. While I was at it, I thanked him for Byron Slater.”

  “You’ve moved the Slater boy to a regular bed?” That was great news.


  “No, he’s still here in ICU, but his fever has broken, the brain swelling is decreasing, and he’s conscious. Not happy, but conscious.”

  “My nose feels funny,” I said and tried to wiggle it. It hurt.

  “I don’t doubt it. It’s broken, and by the way, you have two wonderfully black eyes. I think you should get some more campaign pictures taken.”

  “Jerry Thomas, you had better be lying to me.”

  “I wish I were. You look like a long-haired raccoon.” He laughed, said, “Ow,” and touched his bandaged head. “Still a little sore.”

  I reached for his hand, brought it to my lips, and kissed his knuckle.

  “You may have saved a lot of lives, Maddy,” Jerry said softly. “Buchanan kept squeezing the trigger. He was bound to hit someone. You’re a hero.”

  “He did hit someone.” I winced as I tried to reposition myself. “As for being a hero, I’m giving it up. It hurts too much. Besides, Franco is the real hero.”

  “He is that, all right. The round that hit you was the last one fired. Franco was able to free a hand and punched Buchanan. I saw it. It’s a wonder it didn’t kill him.”

  I was getting sleepy again. I fought it off. “What happened to . . . Franco?”

  “I’m afraid he’s in jail. West was by to check on you earlier, and he filled me in. He said Franco admitted killing Andy. He confronted Andy and they fought. Andy pulled out his gun and they struggled for it. Franco was able to pull it from Andy’s hand but he fell backward. Do you remember any tools by the pool?”

  “Some. A shovel, a pickax, and a trowel. West mentioned them too. I assume they belong to one of the landscapers.”

  “Andy picked up the shovel and raised it over the fallen Franco. Franco shot to defend himself.”

  “He admitted to all of this?”

  “West said he kept it quiet because he was concerned what it would do to Catherine.”

  “‘Everything I do, I do for her,’” I said.

  “What?” Jerry looked confused.

  “Something Franco said to me while we waited for Catherine at the Curtain Call. He said that everything he does, he does for her.”

  “West said they also found Andy’s car down the street from Catherine’s house. They searched it and found a tape recorder with a cassette of your conversation with Catherine when you saw Lowe’s body. He had been using the recorder to dictate notes for himself. He was hiding in the house when you two were there. He wasn’t expecting you, just Catherine. We’ll never know what he planned that day, but your presence messed up his plan.”

  “The BODY COUNT script mentions one of those eavesdropping devices. I thought maybe he used one of those.”

  “Nothing that sophisticated. West said they found his fingerprints throughout the house, including Catherine’s bedroom. They also found his fingerprints inside the closet. Best guess for now is that he hid the recorder, then hid himself. When Catherine followed you out back, he retrieved the recorder and slipped out the front door.”

  “It frightens me to think he was so close. If it weren’t for Franco, Andy might still be playing games.”

  “The legal system will decide what happens to Franco now.”

  “Uh-huh . . .” My eyelids had turned to lead. “When do I get out of ICU?”

  “The bullet wound was clean. Lucky for you it wasn’t one of the funny bullets you were talking about.”

  “Glaser . . .”

  “Yeah, those. Buchanan used his own gun. Franco buried Andy’s gun in the flowerbed. Your bullet went in clean and came out clean. Of course, it messed up some of your innards. If you behave, then you should be in a regular room tomorrow. I’m thinking of asking admitting to put you in the same room as Doug. Just think, he can interview you hour after hour.”

  “Innards. I love medical talk.”

  Jerry kept talking but I ceased to hear him. I surrendered to sleep again.

  The next day they moved me to a room on the second floor. It was a private room with a television that needed color tuning. I was trying to lose myself in a CNN report when Tess and Floyd walked through the door. Floyd was carrying a box of chocolates, which I took to be a cruel joke, since I wouldn’t be allowed such things for a while. Tess carried flowers. At least I didn’t want to eat those.

  I was glad to see Floyd and surprised to see Tess.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be minding the shop while I’m out?” I asked her.

  She gave one of those rare and stunning smiles. “I have everything under complete control—your office is now where the janitor closet used to be. How are you feeling?”

  “Horrible. Nauseated, sore, and I’m tired of lying around in bed.”

  “Now that sounds like the Maddy Glenn I know.” She placed the flowers on the windowsill. “I thought you’d like to know that the police have arrested everyone involved in the sign stealing debacle.”

  “That’s good news,” I said. “Sit down, Tess.”

  She shook her head. “It seems that all I ever do is sit. I’ll let Floyd have the chair.” He took it. “Thanks to Floyd and his ability to think outside the box, the police were able to track down the hoods who were stealing the signs, barricades, and other things. It was a club. Initiation required the theft of city property. Someone stole a traffic sign and that became the rage. There were six high school students involved. All of them juniors.”

  “And they videotaped all of these?”

  “Oh no. I thought the same thing,” Tess said. “When Floyd showed me the video of the vehicle-pedestrian accident, I asked him about the other videos he found. He hadn’t found any others. That was the only one. At first, I thought, well, that just means that the other signs and the like were replaced before anything bad happened.”

  “But that left Mr. Turner’s accident,” Floyd said. “That would be the kind of thing these guys would post.”

  “Turns out,” Tess said, “only one video was made and posted by a student working alone. He’s the president of the computer club at the school. He confessed to making several others but hadn’t posted them yet.”

  “How did they find him?” I asked.

  “Floyd did his research, remember. He assumed that the spy camera had a limited range and sure enough, the kid lived within a thousand feet of the camera. Not only that, he bought the device locally, and the police have that bill of sale. I was there when Detective Scott interrogated the student. First Scott showed him the seized camera system, next he showed him the video, then he showed him when and from where it was uploaded. It was enough. The kid started talking, told Detective Scott all about it, and gave names of everyone involved. Detective Scott can be intimidating.”

  “Floyd, you’re a hero,” I said. He blushed, a true old-fashioned face reddening. Then to Tess I added, “You too, Tess. I thank God I asked you to be involved in this. You were the best person for the job.”

  I got another smile.

  Epilogue

  We had decided to go ahead with the fund-raiser at the Spaghetti Warehouse. Invitations had been sent weeks before, a special announcement had gone out about our special guest, Catherine Anderson, and I couldn’t see wasting the effort.

  Jerry wheeled me into the restaurant and to the back area where our fund-raiser was to be held. The smell of Italian sauces, garlic, cheese, and bread made my stomach hurt, this time in a good way. Still, I’d have to eat light and little. Pity.

  As Jerry pushed me into the expansive room, the gathered crowd rose and applauded. They must have stirred up some dust because my eyes began to water. I waved like a queen on a flowered float as Jerry propelled me to the head table. He stopped the wheelchair by my seat. I rose and took my place in a more standard chair. Next to me was Nat, looking lovelier than I had ever seen her. At the end of the table, near a podium, sat Catherine. She seemed a half decade older but she smiled, waved, and carried on a conversation with one of my campaign staff.

  Nat leaned my direction. “You want to race after di
nner? My wheelchair against yours. Remember, mine’s battery-powered.”

  “You need to remember that mine is powered by an M.D.”

  Jerry parked the wheelchair and took a place next to me.

  Dinner proceeded like clockwork and noisy conversation filled the room. Spread out among the tables were businessmen, housewives, teachers, grocery clerks, and more. Each had paid four times the amount for their meals than they normally would. The extra was to go to my campaign fund. Also there were my friends and colleagues from city hall. All except Jon Adler. Even Tess had bought a ticket.

  We had lively music and every once in a while someone rose to give a toast.

  After we had eaten, after dessert had been served, I stood—very slowly—to my feet. The room went quiet.

  “I want to thank you for coming tonight and for your great generosity and support—mostly your generosity.” That garnered polite laughter. “The doctors say that I can’t exert myself yet and even sent Dr. Jerry Thomas along to supervise. Although my wound was to my abdomen, my mouth still works pretty good.” More laughter, which grew louder when someone in the audience shouted, “Amen!”

  “I’m not going to give a speech this evening. You know where I stand and what I hope to achieve. I do, however, have an announcement to make—a surprising announcement.” I looked at Nat, and she returned a worried expression.

  I continued. “When someone like me runs for office, we make a lot of promises. We talk a great deal about what we’re going to do once elected. Tonight, I wish to do more than talk. Recently Santa Rita suffered from a type of vandalism that led to a child being hit by a car. His name is Byron Slater. He’s doing better now, but has a very long road ahead of him, including a year or so of therapy.”

  I paused and looked around. “I’m not going to sing you a sad song. There’s a law on the books that prohibits me from singing in public.” I took a breath and wished I had spoken to Nat about this first, but I was afraid I would change my mind. “Since choosing to run for congress I have given speeches about our growing health care crisis. Little Byron Slater’s family is a victim of the crisis. They have no insurance. Dr. Thomas and I have worked with the hospital and social groups to help them as much as possible, but when the final tally is made they will still be far short of the goal. In a nutshell, this accident will break them financially.