by Howard Engel
I didn’t stay in the cop shop long. I just delivered my plastic-wrapped package addressed to Sykes and Boyd. My name appeared on the label, but I had to fill out a form that duplicated what already existed clearly printed. I got the feeling that all parcels were regarded as bombs until proved to be innocent bags of laundry or forgotten lunches.
Not too many blocks from there and a good night’s sleep later, I bought a couple of fat Danishes and two large coffees and walked down University Avenue, past the other TV network on the street, to NTC, with its big rooftop icon looking down on my progress. Near the front doors I saw George Brenner, the talented car jockey, sitting on the edge of a cement flower bed, sipping a coffee of his own. I parked my carcass on the same planter, hoping to find some useful conversation. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. As far as I could see, there wasn’t a pack of Camels or Lucky Strike tucked under either of his short sleeves. Nor was there an ad for British ale on his T-shirt. After a few thoughts about the continuing warm weather and some philosophical remarks about city living as opposed to life in the wild, we went on to more interesting things. “Vanessa Moss tells me that you’re a very clever computer animator.”
“I used to be. Worked for George Lucas for six years. That makes me an old man in this business. A year ago I left. Now I need a job here, but I can’t get back in.”
“In? In where?”
“Inside. Through the door behind you. Back under the two big eyes of the NTC owl. That ‘in.’”
“Why’s that?”
“You working for her now, right?”
“Started last Wednesday. She’s kept me hopping. I’ve got a lot to learn.”
“She said she could do me some good, but I don’t know …” He was sipping his coffee through a hole in the plastic cover.
“She told me a little more about you than about your computer skills.”
“Yeah? She digs my bod. I know that. Not many around here keep in shape. You understand? It turns to jelly if you don’t work it. One time I kept in shape surfing in San Diego. The waves burn off the fat. But I can’t afford that any more. I worked myself hard in the joint for eighteen months. When I got out, I ran into a brick wall. The people around here don’t want an ex-con getting back in. Oh, they let me handle cars, but they won’t cut me any slack about getting into the Art Department. She brought you in as her bodyguard, right?”
“Where’d you hear a thing like that?”
“Drop it. Everybody knows you’re a PI. Everybody except Security, that is. They don’t know it’s raining out until they have a meeting about it.”
“What were you in for?”
“It was drug related. The boys in blue can’t tell the difference between personal use and trafficking. You understand?” I nodded encouragement, and he went on. “Fellow upstairs in the Art Department says there’s nobody like me in computer animation except for a guy out in Vancouver, who’s already got as much work as he can handle. But this guy upstairs I was telling you about, he can’t get me past Security. And Security has an assbreaking hold on things. I can’t even use the john inside. Have to find my own crapper, except when I’ve parked a car down in the parking garage. Sub-sub-basement. They’ve a toilet down there that Security hasn’t heard of yet.”
“Have the cops hassled you about this murder thing?” I was glad I remembered “hassled.” Hassle was a good word from the sixties.
“They talked to me. Local cops. Yeah.”
“Has anyone else been asking you questions about Vanessa?” I thought my use of her first name would suggest that I was on his side. He took another sip of his coffee to think on.
“Ken Trebitsch, uh, you know, from News: he’s been asking about her. He knows about us getting it off together. You know how he knows about that?” He looked honestly puzzled, as though a toy had come apart in his hands and wouldn’t go back together.
“He lives on information, George. He can’t get enough of it. He’s an information junkie. It’s his armour against finding himself barred from the twentieth floor someday.”
“Can’t come soon enough for me.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, Security didn’t come bothering me until Trebitsch knew I had a record. Then it didn’t take long. There’s a news producer, Bernie Something, works for Trebitsch. He sat down here one day last week and asked me to tell him the story of my life. So I told him. Half of it was taken from Kerouac. But he’ll never know. I told him lots of shit including the time I was inside. Then that same night I caught him following me home in his Punchbuggy.”
“His what?”
“He drives one of those VW bugs. His is bright green. He should know better than to come after me in that Punchbuggy.”
“How often have you spotted him?”
“Few times. There’s another guy in a rusty red Volvo. Spells him off maybe. Can’t be sure he’s Trebitsch’s man or whether he’s legging for somebody else.”
“Why all the interest, you think?” George gathered his shoulders in a shrug while making a face with a downturned mouth. As a gesture, it was pretty broad, but it gave him time to choose what he was going to say next. He seemed to be talking to himself with the sound turned off.
“Yeah. That was another dumb thing. I get a little high shooting my mouth off. It makes up for parking the Mercedeses and BMWs I don’t own. Ms. Moss is the only decent person I’ve met on this job. Sure, she takes it out on me, but I don’t go yellin’ harassment in the workplace now, do I? She’s a treat most of the time. I don’t have any reason to hurt her. Besides, I think the cops checked me out and I came up clean. I told ’em I was at the movies that night, and they got me to tell them the story of the picture. I must have got it right.”
“You weren’t at the movies, then?”
“Shit, I don’t know where I was. Like the man says, I fell among evil companions that night. I don’t remember much about it.” I grinned and nibbled a corner of my Danish.
Thirty seconds of silence dragged by and I didn’t try to punctuate it. I kept listening.
“Most people buy Ms. Moss as the intended victim at the shootout at her place. I know for sure she’s scared shitless. She sees guns aimed at her, all kinds, pointed from right around the compass. She don’t entertain any doubts on that score. That’s where you come in, I figure.”
“Go on.” George was getting thoughtful, for George. The words came out more slowly and with long pauses in between the phrases.
“Well, the people around here want Moss out on her ass pretty damned quick. It’s only natural to figure somebody took steps to see her out of the way.”
“You mean with a shotgun?”
“Sure. It figures. But if she wasn’t the intended target, then you gotta ask new questions. If she’s mixed up in the murder, like it looks, then they wanna know about it fast.”
“Who wants to know, George?”
“If the gunman meets her, Trebitsch wants to know about it right away. He’s shooting for a bigger piece of prime, man. He wants it so bad you can read it in his sweat.”
“You ever fire a shotgun, George?”
“Now you’re askin’ their kind of questions.”
“Whose? The cops’?”
“Well, I don’t mean NTC Security. They’re too busy searching people for stolen pencil stubs.”
“You’ve got a good hate going on that bunch, haven’t you?”
“You get off on that shit? Hell, I smoked more Bible than Dunkery and his bunch, and he calls me ‘unsuitable’ while waving the Holy Writ in my face. See how you like it around here this time next week. It’s the same thing in the joint: Security’s a power trip. Little people get big on it. Security makes fascists. That’s all it’s good for.”
A small-sized Buick rolled up to the entranceway. Ken Trebitsch put on the emergency brake and got out. He was carrying a fat briefcase. He nodded at George but kept on going through the revolving doors and into the lobby, which I could just make out through the glass
doors. I thought of all these people dependent upon the whims of executives such as Thornhill and Trebitsch and Vanessa Moss. George put down his coffee. “I gotta go,” he said.
I gathered up my food parcel and Styrofoam cups and headed through the doors to the security desk. I set my burden down and dug out my plastic card. “This is no good without a picture, you know.”
“What?”
“If you’re going to be a regular or even a semi, you gotta get your ID and picture.”
“Where do I get that?”
“Speak to your supervisor.”
“She’s in Los Angeles, and the coffee’s getting cold.”
“Well, I’ll let you past this time, but you need that photo-ID.”
“I’ll remember that, and God bless you.”
“You got attitude, Mr. Cooperman. You want me to call my supervisor? There are four supervisors above him, so your coffee could be good and cold by the time this is straightened out. You hear me?” I bowed to acknowledge I’d been beaten. I’d been hoping to catch Ken Trebitsch in the elevator, but he was long gone now. Speed didn’t matter any more.
SEVENTEEN
Philip Rankin’s chubby hand waved at me as I passed his door with my coffee and Danish. “Dear boy, so good to see you!”
“Why do I suspect that you mean the opposite?”
“Oh, you are learning our ways. Excellent progress in such a short time. How was your weekend in the untamed northland?” I must have looked surprised. “Yes, dear boy, the little northern brooks have been babbling.”
“And so early!”
“Early’s not a dirty word in network television. Has your boss come home to roost?”
“I thought you’d know that already. She’s still in L.A.”
“She’s going to miss all the fun. Pity! Trolleys of boxes headed for Central Records. That’s what we have instead of a morgue. They’ll have her stash of secret ashtrays packed and ready to go by noon.”
“If you’re wrong, are you going to help put her things back where they belong?”
“Mr. Cooperman, I try to make all allowances for your unfamiliarity with our ways. And for your innocence in general of the great wicked metropolis. I was a new boy myself once. But you aren’t paying attention. Why, at this very moment the CEO is closeted with the people most concerned with the future of your employer. Your fates are entwined, I expect. You should follow what’s going on out of self-interest at the very least.”
“Then why are you here and not with Thornhill and the others? Ken Trebitsch just arrived a couple of minutes ago. He hasn’t been closeted with anyone all morning. Maybe he knows that the meeting isn’t as important as you seem to think it is. He has a private informationgathering service, you know.”
“Oh, you know about that?”
“And a bit besides.”
“Ken once operated under a sign that read ‘When I hear the word culture, I reach for my gun.’ I think he’s a retarded National Socialist, a strayed member of the Third Reich. His favourite composer is Wagner. He marches briskly to the tune of the ‘Horst Wessel Lied.’ They moved him to News because he frightened the writers and idea people. News people are made of sterner stuff. You’ve met some of Ken’s associates, I take it? The young men with long hair and a regulation three-day beard? I often wonder how they keep the three-day look. Have you?”
“That green car’s easy to spot. I hope they are better producers than they are thugs.”
“You exaggerate. They’re not thugs, just some of his yes-men, his disciples.”
“Does he have a dozen? That’s the usual number.”
“Mr. Cooperman, it’s instructive to watch a man’s paranoia work its way through an organization like this. Have you observed that Ken never goes anywhere by himself? He attends meetings with a phalanx of supporters. I think he likes the sound of all those leather heels sounding on the terrazzo in unison. I wonder if he sleeps with the light on. What do you think?” Rankin shot me a look with an arched eyebrow. I pretended to catch it. He thought a moment and then went on. “I shouldn’t be too hard on the poor boy. We are still all in shock after Renata’s death. Dreadful! Dreadful! Look how her boyfriend’s taking it. He knocked on my door the other night, wanted to talk.”
“Barry Bosco?”
“Very good. You are keeping your eyes open. Yes, Barry Bosco. He’s taken a rather personal interest in the murder of his inamorata. I don’t think his legal firm will be happy about this if it continues beyond the end of this month. He’s a clever lawyer and all, but no Greenspan or John J. Malone. You might do worse than trying to have a word with him yourself.”
“I’ll remember the suggestion.” The smile Rankin gave me was dismissive. His eyes returned to other things. Just to bug him, I said, “I read a paperback biography about Dermot Keogh over the weekend.”
“Enterprising. What did you think?”
“It was a fast job, not very good. Looked like it was a collection of write-ups and reviews from the papers.”
“That’s exactly what it was, Mr. Cooperman.”
“I’d give another thought about writing your own book on him.”
“Mind your business, Mr. Cooperman.”
Sally came out of the office to meet me when she smelled the aging victuals I was carrying.
“Your senses are in terrific tune. Good morning. I’m afraid that the Danish has become cold and soggy and the coffee cold with a cardboard aftertaste.”
“I’m well acquainted with both. Which are mine?”
“I was waylaid by Philip Rankin down the hall.”
“Yes, he poked his wobbly chin in here too. I don’t know what he’s so worried about. Music can’t win a bigger piece of Entertainment than it already has. Maybe it’s just habit.”
“Any further word from our chief?”
“She’s in La Jolla, meeting with Winkler from Warners.”
“I thought that Warners was in L.A.?”
“Right now, if you ask me, Warners is wherever Winkler is. He has a house on Camino de la Costa. Doesn’t that sound delicious?”
“You’ve tried out his pool?”
“No such luck. I remember typing the address on an envelope. But I can imagine the Pacific across the street whispering to them as they contemplate those three outstanding series that he has yet to deliver for our fall line-up.”
“Has Ted Thornhill been in touch with her?”
“Not yet. He’s still at the message-leaving stage.”
“So the department is still in one piece. The moving vans haven’t arrived.”
“As of this moment, but the day is young. Here, let me get you a napkin before you get cherry jam on your other cheek as well.” Sally jumped up and with a few wellchoreographed motions delivered a few paper napkins to my sticky fingers.
We munched in silence for a few minutes, during which time I gave her the once-over: her seams were straight, her eyes unlined, her makeup minimal. She’d had a good night, and Gordon was leaving her alone. Good. I hadn’t even thought of my black eye this morning. It must be doing well too.
“Sally, do you happen to know what Barry Bosco’s specialty is at Raymond Devlin’s office?”
“Mostly putting deals together, I think. He put together the Reliance Cable deal with Northeastern. He was in charge of the legal side of Global’s acquisition of anchorman Garth Walsh’s contract from CBS. Remember that? He was Mr. Devlin’s right hand in putting the Dermot Keogh Hall project together. He had to keep an eye on his boss, who is the executor of Keogh’s estate.”
“Ah, yes, as one of the senior executives in the big boardroom keeps saying, ‘Justice must not only be done but be seen to be done.’”
“Oh, him. He never saw any justice around here. And he was one of the founders. Anyway, these days it only must seem to be done.”
“Sally, is there any way of getting a peek at Dermot Keogh’s will? The Keogh Concert Hall is being set up under the will, isn’t it? Is there a copy around?”
“Sure. It’s attached to the file. I’ll put it on your desk. We only had to have the pertinent sections, but I think they sent the whole thing from—Oh, that reminds me, I have to send the matted copies of the contracts over to Devlin’s office by courier. Raymond Devlin likes his trophies framed.” Sally stretched to find a piece of pink paper on which she scribbled a note to herself.
“I can take care of that. I was on my way in that direction anyway,” I fibbed. “And I’ve been looking for an excuse to butt my nose in there.”
“Wear your sunglasses. All that chrome and glass is too much for the normal unprepared human eye.”
“I’ll remember. Barry Bosco is still handling the Dermot Keogh Hall stuff, right?” Sally nodded, and I said, “See you later.” I collected the wrapped bundle of matted contracts and put them under my arm. Downstairs, the security people were of two minds about whether I should be allowed to leave the premises with a parcel. While they were arguing, one of them remembered that it was time for an eleven-o’clock coffee break. I slipped out before they did.
* * *
The offices of Devlin and Devlin occupied a full floor and were situated in a tower that cast a long shadow over Bay Street. The green copper roof of the Old City Hall could be seen from the reception area, which also showed painted portraits of Mr. Charles Devlin and Mr. Raymond Devlin. The senior partner was pictured in vigorous middle age, wearing his gown and tabs. A notice on the wall beside the portrait told me additionally that he had been referred indefinitely to some higher court beyond the jurisdiction of the Supreme Court of Canada. Raymond Devlin, lucky stiff, was left with the whole shebang, aided and abetted by two dozen juniors who had not yet got their names insinuated into the partnership’s legal and official style and form. When I’d attracted the interest of the receptionist, I asked to see Mr. Bosco. I gave my name when asked and said that I was from Vanessa Moss’s office at NTC. When this information was repeated into the phone, I was requested to take a seat. I was on my way to do this when I caught my still-blackish eye in the chrome-and-glass space divider that shielded the entrance into the sancta that lay beyond. With very little movement on my part, I could change my reflection into a funhouse distortion of myself. I was occupied in this way when I was summoned into the inner chambers.
