The Apostrophe Thief

by Barbara Paul

  “It hurts the collectors themselves,” he said in the overly precise manner that he affected whenever involved in a disagreement. “It feeds a sick illusion that they’re a part of That Great Big World Out There and not just lookers-on. Besides, celebrity-worship has reached epidemic proportions in this country, and ‘epidemic’ is the right word because it’s an illness … or more properly a symptom of one. The illness is empty lives.”

  “You’re being too harsh. The people I met today love what they’re doing … they’re excited by it. You can’t dismiss that kind of commitment out of hand.”

  Holland leaned back in his chair and gave her his sardonic smile. “You had fun today, didn’t you?”

  Startled, Marian stopped to think. “Well, yes, I guess I did.”

  “You like being back in harness. You enjoy the hunt. What happened to that high-minded cop who was going to resign in a blaze of hellfire and damnation?”

  “She’s still going to resign, but I’ve pretty much given up on the hellfire and damnation part.” Marian paused for a sip of tea. “I plan to spend another day or two trying to track down the scripts and other things missing from the Broadhurst—I wouldn’t even be doing that if it weren’t for Kelly. But then I’m gone. I’ll write a letter detailing Captain DiFalco’s shoddy police work the best I can. If they want to do something about it, fine. If they don’t, too bad. But after this week, it’s no longer my problem.”

  “In that case, perhaps you’d like to go office-hunting with me.”

  She laughed. “Perhaps. But one thing at a time.”

  He leaned toward her. “The time is now. Forget these doodads stolen from the Broadhurst and walk away, or you’ll spend the rest of your life taking orders from incompetents and fools. And you’ll go on watching men who are less able and less intelligent than you being promoted over you. The NYPD doesn’t want you in a lieutenant’s office—not someone who had the effrontery to get herself born a woman. But with me, there’ll be no limits. None.”

  That struck home. Getting passed over had not been an easy pill to swallow; despite her high score on the rarely given lieutenants exam, Marian had watched the only opening go to a man with an equivalent score but fewer years served on the force. It was an inequity that rankled all the more because she was powerless to do anything about it; she didn’t need reminding. “Don’t pressure me, Holland. I’ve got a job to finish up, and then I’ll decide. It’s only a matter of days. Ease off.”

  Holland nodded, willing to wait … for the time being. They exchanged a long look, and then they both smiled—easily, naturally. The wall of formality separating them had disappeared; nothing like a good friendly squabble for breaking down barriers.

  The moment was spoiled by a ringing telephone. Marian sighed and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

  “The hunk! The hunk!”

  “What?”

  “I got him! I got the hunk! He—”

  “Augie?”

  “Yeah, it’s Augie. This guy showed up at the Zingones’ place asking if they wanted to buy Kelly Ingram’s hairbrush.” His Bronx-accented words were coming fast. “The Zingones told him no, but they could put him on to somebody who would. Matthew called me and put the hunk on the phone and the two of us arranged to meet.… I figured he could tell us where Ernie Nordstrom lives. I said I represented someone who was interested in anything belonging to Kelly Ingram. Was that all right?”

  “That was downright brilliant. Where’s the meeting place?”

  “A bar called Huey’s, in half an hour. Remember the Alpha House, where we had lunch? Huey’s is right across the street, down a few doors. But you’ll have to hurry. Uh, Marian, there’s no way to be sure it really is Kelly Ingram’s hairbrush—unless it has a monogram?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Right. So how’d he know it was hers unless he took it? That wasn’t in the papers, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t. You’d make a good detective, Augie. What’s this guy’s name?”

  “He wouldn’t say. Look, can you hurry? I don’t know if I’ll be able to stall him. He sounded jumpy on the phone.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Marian hung up and ran for her raincoat and handbag. “Are you finished eating?”

  “We’re going somewhere, I take it?” Holland asked casually.

  She grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the apartment. “We’re going to Huey’s to meet the hunk. Come on!”

  “Aha. A nice play title, that—Meeting Hunks at Huey’s.”

  “Come on.”

  They snagged a cab that was just letting out a passenger, and Marian told the driver to take them to Seventh Avenue and Tenth Street. “I hope this guy doesn’t get spooked and leave,” she said to Holland. “Augie said he sounded jumpy.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “Not yet.”

  “And all you want from Nameless Hunk is an address, correct? Ernie Nordstrom’s address?”

  “Right.”

  “So who am I?”

  “Mm. You’re my husband.”

  “No rings.”

  “All right, POSSLQ, then. Significant Other.”

  Holland nodded, and then said to the obviously interested cab driver, “How does that sound to you?”

  The driver nodded his head. “Jake with me.”

  When they got out on Tenth Street, Marian told Holland it might help if he acted as if he found her interest in collecting a bit foolish. “If we all seem too eager, he might suspect something. So toss in a discouraging word now and then.”

  “That shouldn’t prove too difficult,” Holland said dryly.

  Huey’s turned out to be a bar that Marian couldn’t get a quick fix on—not working class, not artsy, not singles or gay, not yuppie. The lights were dimmed about as low as they could go without being off altogether, either to create a mood of secrecy or to hide dirt, Marian didn’t know which. But no music was blaring, no big-screen TV dominated the room; they could talk there.

  When her eyes had adjusted, Marian could see Augie Silver waving frantically from a booth. Across from him was sitting an extraordinarily good-looking man in his mid-twenties, a bodybuilder who wore the sleeves of his tee rolled up to show off his biceps. Whoever he was, he’d made working-out a religion.

  “Marian!” Augie said in relief as they approached the booth. “I want you to meet … um, ah, huh.”

  Marian established eye contact with the stranger as well as she could in the dim light. Then she took hold of Holland’s hand with both of her own in a way so intimate that the other two couldn’t help but notice. “This is Holland.”

  The two in the booth nodded, accepting him. Marian slid in next to the hunk while Holland sat next to Augie. “What do we call you?” Marian asked the young man next to her.

  He favored her with a practiced smile. “Anything you like.”

  “Well, that’s agreeable of you. We’ll call you Rocky.” As she’d hoped, that pleased him. “Rocky, I hear you have something I might be interested in.”

  “I dunno. What are you interested in?”

  “Anything of Kelly Ingram’s.”

  “Then I might have something. But wouldn’t you like a drink first?” Again the practiced smile, which did not extend to his eyes. Playing it cautious, delaying.

  Two empty Bud Light bottles stood on the table. “Beer,” Marian said.

  “I’ll get it.” Holland stood up. “Augie? Rocky?”

  They both said yes and Holland headed for the bar. Marian had to struggle to keep from laughing. The rendezvous in the dark mysterious bar, the man with no name, the high-stakes bargaining yet to come. And for what? A hairbrush. She decided to try a little flattery. “So, Rocky—what line are you in?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because I feel I’ve seen you before. You’re a model, aren’t you?”

  This time the smile reached his eyes. “I’m an actor.”

  “Ha!” Marian said so loudly that
Augie jumped. “I knew I’d seen you! You’ve got a face people don’t forget. What have you done?”

  He shifted his weight so he was facing her. “Remember the Vitalo Sunscreen commercial, the two couples on a sailboat? It ran on CBS all summer.”

  She didn’t remember it. “Sure. You were in that?”

  “I was the guy who climbed the mast.”

  Marian put on a comes-the-dawn expression. “Of course! You went right up the—that was you! Oh, that’s terrific! Augie, you know the commercial, don’t you?”

  “I think so,” he said dubiously.

  Back to Rocky. “So you’re an actor. Did Augie tell you I’m a writer? Maybe we could work out an interview—what it takes to break in these days, you know, like that.”

  “I won’t say no to that.” Then he seemed to remember why they were meeting. “Uh, on second thought, could we put that on hold for a while?”

  None too swift, Marian thought. “I suppose.”

  Holland came back, carrying four bottles of beer and two glasses with his fingers alone, a little bit of showing off Marian suspected might have been for Rocky’s benefit. “Here we are.” He sat back down and started filling his glass.

  Marian took a swallow of beer and got down to business. “Okay, Rocky, about this hairbrush—how do I know it’s Kelly Ingram’s?”

  Augie choked on his beer.

  But Rocky didn’t see anything unusual about her approach. “Oh, it’s hers, all right. I can vouch for that.”

  “Yes, but you see, I don’t know you,” Marian pointed out. “And you’ve got to establish the authenticity of the brush before we can start talking price.”

  Rocky frowned, and then thought of something. “It has her hair in the bristles!”

  Holland laughed shortly. “You could put a strand of your mother’s hair in a brush and claim it was the Queen of England’s. Come on, Marian, let’s go—this ninety-seven-pound weakling doesn’t have anything.”

  “Hey,” said Rocky.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Marian turned back to Rocky. “There might be a way. Is the hairbrush part of a whaddayacallit, a collection, a—”

  “A lot,” Augie said helpfully, seeing she was floundering. “Is it part of an auction lot, a selection of various items?”

  “Yes, a lot,” Marian said, mentally blowing Augie a kiss. “A lot that has some other item that might verify the rest?”

  “Just one moment,” Holland said sharply. “Marian, you’re not thinking of buying the entire lot? We don’t have room for any more of these ostensibly priceless castoffs you insist upon accumulating against all dictates of common sense. The place looks like a warehouse now.”

  “We’ll make room,” she said earnestly, “or we’ll find a bigger place. Rocky, is there anything at all that might establish ownership? A letter, a diary, anything like that? I know her handwriting.”

  He shook his head. “No letters or diaries. You want more than the hairbrush?”

  “No,” Holland said adamantly.

  “Yes,” Marian said loudly. “Don’t listen to him. If it’s authentic, I want it. But there has to be something with writing on it.”

  Rocky was frowning in concentration. “I don’t think so.”

  “A shopping list, a Post-it note?” Marian took a deep breath. “Maybe notes she took, notes on instructions her director gave her?”

  Finally he thought of it. “How about a script? Her copy of the playscript, that’d have her handwriting in it.”

  Marian let her eyebrows climb. “Her playscript? Yes, that would do—that would do very nicely.”

  “How much money we talking about here?”

  “For the lot, or just the hairbrush and the script?”

  Rocky struggled with that one for a moment. “Just the brush and the script,” he said reluctantly.

  Marian shot a look at Augie, who picked up his cue. “The hairbrush, fifty bucks at most. The script, maybe as high as a thousand, depending on its condition.”

  Holland exploded. “A thousand dollars!”

  “I was hoping for more,” Rocky said.

  “You’ll get more, if you sell the lot,” Augie interposed, getting into the swing of it. “But once you break up a lot, the price drops considerably. You can’t sell items individually for as much as you can sell the lot.”

  “Why not?” Belligerently.

  Augie shrugged. “That’s the way the market works. Look, say we go to twelve hundred for the script. That plus the hairbrush, and you’ll still net less than thirteen hundred dollars. If you sold the lot, you could end up with ten times that, maybe even twenty thou. Depending on what else you’ve got.”

  Rocky looked at Marian. “You got that kind of money?”

  “I can get it.”

  “This is absurd,” Holland snarled. “Now you’re talking about throwing away twenty thousand dollars as if it were pocket change! And for what? You don’t even know what you’re buying!”

  “I’m not buying anything until I see the goods!” she snapped back. “Do you think I’m stupid? Rocky, I want to see the script before we go any further. If it’s genuine, then we’ll talk money. How about it?”

  Rocky began to look uneasy. “Uh, well, I don’t exactly have the script—”

  “What!”

  “Now, don’t get excited—this guy I know has it, that’s all.”

  “Then what’s the problem? Take us to him.”

  He shook his head. “No, no … I can’t do that. He wouldn’t, uh, no, I can’t.” Rocky thought it over. “In fact, he wouldn’t like it … if he found out I’d said anything, I’d be in deep shit.” He thought some more. “Look, that was a mistake. Forget I said anything about the script. I can’t help you.”

  Marian studied him, evaluating. “What if I sweetened the pot a little? How would you like an introduction to a big Broadway director? A private introduction, no other people around.”

  He was openly skeptical. “How big a director? Who?”

  “John Reddick.”

  He laughed scornfully. “You know John Reddick? Sure you do.”

  “She does know him,” Augie said with a grin. “She’s writing a book about him.”

  That stopped the laugh. Rocky looked at Marian uncertainly.

  “I told you I was a writer,” she purred. “And what I’m writing right now is an authorized biography of John Reddick. That’s authorized, Rocky. He’s cooperating. Put me in touch with your friend who has the script, and I’ll take you to the Broadhurst and introduce you to Reddick in his own office.”

  Rocky was torn; he licked his lips and shifted his weight. Finally, self-interest won over caution. “All right, I’ll try. But this guy … he’s kind of peculiar. Let me talk to him, see what he says.”

  “Well … okay. But how do I get in touch with you?”

  That required a moment’s thought. “Meet me here tomorrow. And I’ll want to see a bankbook or something. To prove you can pay.” Rocky looked pleased with himself for having thought of that.

  “Fine. Say, four o’clock?”

  “Uh, make it six. I work out Friday afternoons.”

  “Work,” Holland said, “out. Are you an athlete?”

  “Yeah.” Smug. “I’m an athlete.”

  “Gold medal in Velcro jumping?”

  “Six o’clock,” Marian said hurriedly. “What if you can’t get the script? Will you still show up?”

  “Yeah, yeah—I’ll show. Now, let me out, willya? I gotta get moving.”

  Marian slid from the booth to let him get out. He walked away without another word.

  Holland watched the younger man’s departure with a frown. “You’re letting him go?”

  Marian sat back down. “Loose rein for a while, I think.” She grinned. “Besides, while you were getting the beer, he told me his name and address.”

  “He did?” Augie said.

  “What about you, Augie? Can you make it tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” He cleared his
throat. “You know those prices I quoted are off the wall, don’t you? I thought you’d want some bargaining room.”

  “I was wondering about that,” Marian said. “Thanks for thinking of it.”

  Augie looked from Marian to Holland and back again. “Are you sure you’re a writer? The way you led that guy to right where you wanted him …”

  Holland laughed. “Isn’t that what all writers do? Or try to.” He stood up. “We seem to be finished here—shall we go?”

  Marian nodded and said, “Six o’clock.”

  “I’ll be here,” Augie promised.

  Friday morning Marian called CBS to find out which advertising agency had made the Vitalo Sunscreen commercial. Then she called the agency to get the name of the actor who’d shinnied up the mast of the sailboat. The agency had a name but no address for him; they’d gotten him through a talent agency.

  Marian went to the talent agency in person, and the display of her badge got her the address. She asked for and was given one of Rocky’s publicity photos. Her next stop was the Broadhurst Theatre, where she caught the cleaning crew just as they were getting ready to leave. Every one of them enthusiastically identified Rocky as the hunk they’d seen in the Broadhurst Tuesday morning.

  “His name’s Kevin Kirby,” Marian told Lieutenant Overbrook, “or at least that’s the name he’s using for his career. He shares an apartment with two other Mel Gibson wannabes at 1066 Hastings Street. He doesn’t have a record—I checked. Evidently he’s been living on residuals from a commercial he made and is just looking to pick up a little change wherever he can until another acting job comes along.”

  “Like helping to burglarize the Broadhurst,” Overbrook said.

  “Yep. I got a positive ID from the cleaning crew—Kirby was one of them, all right. And I’d say that makes it a dead certainty that Ernie Nordstrom and Vasquez, first name unknown, were the other two. Kirby is going to be contacting Nordstrom today.” She told him about the meeting in the bar and everything that was said there. “We’re meeting again at six.”

  “And he’ll be bringing the script then?”

  Marian hesitated. “I’d say no. Kirby’s none too bright, but that doesn’t mean Ernie Nordstrom is equally slow on the uptake. Look how cautious he is about keeping his place of residence hidden. I’d guess that today we’ll either be told the deal is off or that Nordstrom wants a meeting. If Kirby shows up. But we won’t be winding it up today,” she finished apologetically.