1 Breakfast at Madeline's

by Matt Witten

  I gave the smile back to her. "Then that's what I'll have. By the way," I added, "did you used to give The Penn free coffee?"

  Madeline shook her head. "No. Matter of fact, he always paid with exact change. I used to wonder how he managed to get ninety-seven cents' worth of change every single day."

  Since I didn't have an answer to that, I took the coffee and headed for the back room, while Gretchen got involved in yet another shmoozing exercise. There was an empty table way at the rear, near the back stairs to the basement. As I sat down, I remembered this was where The Penn always used to sit. My brain swam a little, the events of the last forty-eight hours catching up to me. To say nothing of that blow to my head.

  I greedily guzzled my java, trying to get rid of the dizziness so I could interrogate Gretchen properly about Penn’s NYFA application. But when she finally arrived at the table, before I could even open my mouth she immediately began filibustering. "Stunning work," she exclaimed, gesturing at the pointillist obese people defacing the walls. "By Joanne Clemson—do you know her? Such a fabulous artist. I'm featuring her in our very first exhibit at the new Arts Center. I just know the tourists who come up for the ballet in July will love Joanne. It could really put her on the map!"

  Joanne Clemson wasn't the only starving artist Gretchen hoped to put "on the map" this summer, as she went on to explain. She had thought things out very carefully. Offbeat types like Clemson would be exhibited in July, when the New York City Ballet did its thing at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center, a huge but elegant amphitheater in the state park right outside of town. Gretchen would exhibit more mainstream artists in August, when the middlebrows came to Saratoga for the horse races. I watched Gretchen, no longer listening to her words exactly, just mesmerized by the constant exuberant gesticulations of her arms. This woman was so totally dedicated to helping starving artists. I personally knew two painters and one sculptor who had been catapulted to nationwide prominence, and economic solvency, by Gretchen's Herculean efforts. And soon, with the help of her new Arts Center, Gretchen would be leading even more starving artists to that promised land.

  And this was the woman that I suspected of...of what? Some kind of chicanery with Penn's NYFA application? Something that might help explain my burglary? And what about that crazy business about threats to Penn's life? I tried to remember what Molly had said about Gretchen, but my thoughts were somehow echoing strangely all over my head. I poured some more Ethiopian down my throat, but it didn't help. What exactly did I...

  "So what exactly did you want to talk to me about?" asked Gretchen.

  Damned if I knew. The coffee cup was getting awfully heavy. It fell from my hands.

  "Jacob? Jake?"

  And everything went black.

  12

  I truly hate hospitals. I can't even watch ER, have to leave the room when Andrea turns it on. So I'll spare you the details. Let's just say that when I woke up later that day, I was in some crummy bed with flimsy sheets, there were plastic tubes attached to various parts of me, and some doctor type in a white jacket was blabbing at some other doctor type in a white jacket about "delayed concussion syndrome." Apparently my nerves, coffee, Jack Daniel's, aspirin, and adrenaline all wore down at the same time, and my body finally decided to close up shop for a while. Fortunately the prognosis was good, as long as I steered clear of any pressure cookers in the near future, and stayed in the hospital long enough for them to rack up some exorbitant fees.

  Andrea bopped in around dinnertime with Gretzky, Babe Ruth, and a bunch of daisies, and I smiled bravely and we did that scene as best we could. But the Sultan of Swat started to cry and the Great One peed in his pants. So let's just do a quick Cut To, as they say in the biz.

  Speaking of the biz, when Andrea came to visit by herself later that night, she brought me a FedEx package from L.A. I opened it. Inside was a contract full of fancy legal language which boiled down to this: By June 15—one month from today, I noted—I would complete a rewrite of The Night of the Mutant Beetles.

  For which I would be paid $750,000.

  I looked at Andrea. Andrea looked at me.

  It's one thing to turn down huge amounts of money when it's just talk on the phone. After all, most Hollywood deals fall through anyway. But it's another thing to turn down huge amounts of money when they've been typed into an honest-to-God binding legal contract complete with "henceforth"s and "whereas"s, and all of those beautiful zeroes are staring up at you. Four of them, in fact. With that cute little "75" in front.

  "So what do you think?" Andrea asked me.

  "I think it's a hell of a lot of bucks."

  "It sure is." She grinned.

  "Yeah, but mutant beetles. I mean, Jesus, what a dumb-ass idea," I grumbled petulantly. We both knew full well I was going to sign that deal with the Hollywood devil, but I didn't want to admit it right away.

  "You don't have to do it if you don't want," Andrea said, but that was just words. Of course I had to. Of course I wanted to. Didn't I? I knew I should be happy, but my head hurt. I rubbed it, and Andrea eyed me, worried. "Jacob, how are you feeling?"

  I couldn't tell her the truth—in fact I could barely tell myself the truth—which was that after six months of being unable to write, I was afraid I'd fail miserably and pathetically at this mutant beetles script. Maybe that Gas screenplay was a one-shot deal, a freak, and if I tried to write this mutant beetles thing, everyone would find out I was a total fraud.

  "I'm fine," I told Andrea. "I'm just sick of this stupid hospital." I flicked my fingers at the contract. "Can you believe this? For fifteen years, I practically have to pay people to read my stuff. Now all of a sudden people I've never even met throw money at me like it's some kind of carnival game. To rewrite some script I haven't even read yet, for God's sake."

  "You deserve it. You're a good writer," Andrea said soothingly, as usual understanding my deepest fears. She's the perfect wife. Irritates me sometimes.

  I leaned back against the bed, tired, wishing I could forget my self-doubts, and wishing I could forget about all the noble aspirations I'd had during my fifteen years of writing serious movies. Come on, I told myself, just enjoy all those zeroes. I pulled Gretzky and Babe Ruth's daisies over to me, hoping to revive myself by sniffing them. But I couldn't smell a thing, maybe some weird side effect of delayed concussion syndrome. Of course, my nostrils had never been my best feature.

  Andrea got her worried look again. "Are you sure you're well enough to start working? Maybe we should talk to the doctor before you sign anything."

  "I'm well enough," I said, putting the daisy vase down, "and even if I'm not, so what? Let's say I do a lousy half-ass job, no one ever hires me again, and my career is ruined." I gave a cheerful shrug. "No problem. Because after taxes and shit, we'll have ourselves another two-fifty grand. It'll be our 'fuck you' money."

  "Our what?"

  "We'll have so much money we can say 'fuck you' to anyone we want."

  Andrea laughed. "Sounds good. And it'll totally pay for the kids' college."

  "Only problem is, what if I don't do a lousy job?" She looked at me blankly. "Then I'll be back in the game. And I'll never be able to get out. The zeroes will have me by the balls. I'll spend my next ten years writing about mutant beetles and their equivalents, forgetting all my youthful ideals, and end up a terminally cynical middle-aged man drinking Scotch around the clock and wondering where the hell my soul went." I rubbed my eyes. "Of course, on the other hand, I'll be incredibly fucking rich. Where do I sign?"

  "You don't have to." Andrea took my hand. "We have enough money already. It's okay with me if you say no. It really is."

  I looked into her eyes. The amazing thing is, she truly meant it.

  "I love you, sweetheart. Hand me a pen."

  As I signed the contract, all four copies, a siren began blaring outside. I looked out the window at the ambulance, and it took my mind back to the ambulance that carted away Donald Penn's body. It sure was odd how the man an
d his magnum opus seemed to make an awful lot of people awfully nervous. In fact, I reflected as I signed the final copy, someone had been nervous enough to break into our house and—

  I stopped. "Andrea, where are the kids?"

  "Spending the night at Judy's. I got them the new Mighty Ducks video, so they should be fine—"

  "Honey, call Dave. The cop. Tell him to get over to our house now."

  Andrea understood immediately what I was getting at and grabbed the phone book. "What's his last name?"

  Damn. "Bass? Trout?"

  "Pickerel?"

  It was some kind of fish, but which? Tuna? Haddock? "The hell with it. Call nine-one-one."

  She started to dial, then stopped. "And tell them what?"

  “Tell them there's a burglary in progress at one-oh-nine Elm Street!"

  "But we don't know that."

  I grabbed her shoulders. "No, we don't. But whoever broke in last night didn't get what he wanted. This is his first good chance to try again."

  "Come on, Jacob, you're being—"

  I swung my feet out of the bed and stood up. Fortunately all of my tubes had been removed. "Let's go."

  "But—"

  "Hurry, before they try to feed me any more Jell-O."

  "Are you sure you're well enough to—"

  "Sweetheart, let's blow this joint."

  I threw on my clothes and we snuck out to the hallway, where two nurses were deep in discussion about how unfair it is that Sean Connery is still considered sexy at sixty-eight, whereas a beautiful woman like Angela Lansbury is considered over the hill. Knowing how passionate women get when talking about this subject, I was confident they'd never notice Andrea and me even if we walked out right in front of them. And I was right. Easiest getaway since Nixon got pardoned.

  Andrea took the wheel in deference to my questionable medical status, but we didn't lose any speed because of it. She grew up in Brooklyn and can run red lights with the best of them. And despite her protestations she must have been feeling as anxious as I was, because we made it home from the hospital in five minutes flat, and jumped out of the car.

  But there were no signs of weirdness. No suspicious vehicles out front, and no house lights turned on. False alarm.

  "That's too bad," Andrea said as we walked up the driveway. "I was kind of looking forward to doing my Geena Davis female action hero imitation."

  I laughed. "As long as you don't expect me to do a Bruce Willis—"

  She stopped suddenly and I bumped into her. "Whoa," I said.

  And then I saw it: a dark shadowy figure. Our house seemed to be full of them these days. This one was outside our side door and slinking away. "Hey!" I shouted.

  The shadow immediately stopped slinking and started running. It dashed into our backyard, with Andrea and me in hot pursuit.

  Her pursuit was hotter than mine, I must confess. I slipped in the wet grass—the rain had continued intermittently all day—and fell down. When I got up, the shadow had already vaulted over our back fence. But Andrea was vaulting right behind it. Go, Geena.

  I was about to do some vaulting myself when I noticed a glittery object sticking out of the mud in our back garden. I reached down and grabbed it, then went over the fence, yelling, "Andrea!"

  "Over here!" I saw her in the distance, racing up Western Alley. I darted after her, looking all around for that shadowy figure.

  Andrea stopped at the top of the alley and I stopped beside her, breathless, my head pounding. She put her finger to her lips and we stood there listening. It was a quiet small-town night, with crickets, a dog barking... and a car starting up nearby. Oak Street probably. We dashed toward the sound.

  We turned the corner just in time to see a dark mid-size car speeding away into the night.

  "Oh, God," Andrea groaned. "I was so close."

  I put my arm around her. "Hey, even Geena has her bad hair days. Look at Cutthroat Island. Besides, we have a clue."

  She eyed me doubtfully. "A clue?"

  "You betcha." I held up the glittery object I had found in our back garden.

  It was a shoe.

  A spiked, silver-colored, high-heel shoe.

  13

  "What must have happened," I said as we headed for home, "she took off her shoes so she could run faster. And then she dropped a shoe when she was jumping over the fence."

  Andrea examined it. "Size eight. She has medium-size feet."

  Andrea is sensitive about her own size ten and a halfs. "Big feet are sexy," I told her.

  She ignored me. "This shoe is stylish. Whoever it is, she has class."

  "Unless it's a he."

  "If it's a he, he definitely has class. But why would anyone wear high-heeled shoes to do a burglary?"

  "I guess if she got caught, she wanted to look her best."

  "Or maybe the burglary was just a spur of the moment thing."

  I nodded. That sounded logical. We were walking up the driveway, but then I halted suddenly and stared. "What's wrong?" Andrea whispered in alarm.

  I pointed. The windowpane on our side door was smashed open, and the door was ajar. Ms. High Heels must have broken in and been inside already when we drove up; then she panicked and tried to sneak back out the door. For the second night in a row, someone had invaded our home.

  "This isn't funny," Andrea said.

  "No," I agreed. I ran inside, crunching glass shards under my feet, and rushed up the stairs, then opened the drawer of my bedside table, looking for The Penn's magnum opus.

  It was still there. We'd come home just in time to save it.

  I sat down on the bed, holding one of The Penn's yellowed old notebooks in my hand. Who wanted this pathetic excuse for a book badly enough to burglarize for it? Gretchen? But surely a fifty-five, maybe sixty-year-old lady would never be able to run that fast—or would she? Gretchen wasn't exactly a fat matronly type, far from it. But still...

  How about Bonnie Engels, the boxer/theater impresario? Or maybe Antoinette Carlson, the Grant Queen? The two of them had certainly seemed disturbed when I showed them Penn's magnum opus at Madeline's. But disturbed enough to burglarize my house?

  Was it the same burglar tonight as last night? Both times Andrea and I got the sense it was someone five six or taller, average weight, wearing something loose. Beyond that we couldn't be sure. It was hard to tell how tall a person was when they were always either crouching, running in the darkness, or bopping you on the head with pressure cookers.

  After Andrea swept up the broken glass, we sat down at the kitchen table eating bowls of chocolate ice cream—we were both ravenous. We were going to call up Dave about the break-in, but despite the heavy infusion of chocolate and sugar we were both so worn out we could hardly think straight, let alone remember what kind of fish he was. So we decided it could wait until morning, especially since Andrea was worried about my health and wanted to make sure I got a decent night's sleep.

  We found out later that getting a decent night's sleep is about the worst thing you can do after a concussion, because you can slip right into a coma. But at the time we didn't know that. Fortunately, tired though I was, I didn't fall asleep. Instead I lay awake obsessing. Over and over again, like an endless series of television replays, I saw The Penn lunging toward my feet. Even when I closed my eyes I saw it.

  Finally I grabbed a handful of The Penn's magnum opus, got out of bed, and slipped downstairs. I made myself some coffee and took another look at the umpteen gazillion different versions of the preface. I didn't know what I was looking for, but what the hell, it beat counting sheep.

  I carefully unfolded a long sheet of toilet paper on which The Penn had written a preface that began, "It was the kind of night Snoopy made famous..." This toilet paper probably dated from the 60s or early 70s, when Peanuts was at its height, before Doonesbury or Calvin and Hobbes.

  I picked up a Marlboro box that had been opened up and flattened out and scribbled on in tiny letters. "It was a cold night, and in the distance Paula B
arbieri and Paula Jones were howling..." began this preface. Definitely mid-90s.

  "It was so cold that night, God would have frozen His balls off, if He had any..." began a third. Hmm. The cynical 80s?

  Well, I wasn't coming up with any amazing Holmesian inspirations, but at least I was getting a nice tour of American history. Or as The Penn would have put it, "the history of Western civilization careening." My reading had another benefit too: It was making me finally feel sleepy.

  "The clister, or glister, glistened, or perhaps clistened, in the snow..."

  "Every man has his clister, his 151 proof, his dreams..."

  I yawned. Why this decades-long obsession with clister? I remembered, as a student at a small New England college, putting clister on my cross-country skis when the snow was so crunchy that regular wax wouldn't work. Clister was certainly nice to have around on days like those, but I couldn't picture spending thirty years writing about the stuff.

  "Only now, with his supply of Ethiopian threatened, did he understand his father's feelings for the glistening clister..."

  I was about to toss this preface aside—it was written on some kind of menu—when the next sentence grabbed me. "Like his father many years before, he would protect his clister/Ethiopian by any means necessary... and they knew it."

  Strange, that sounded ominous. I was eager to read more, but there was nothing else on the page but a list of muffins: pumpkin raisin, cappuccino walnut... This was the menu from Madeline's. I turned it over, and above the beverage selections, Penn had continued:

  "No, you don't fuck with a man's coffee. Especially when he needs it to create, to write, to exist. If humankind has constructed civilization in such a way that a man cannot easily obtain the small metallic and paper objects that have arbitrarily been defined as money, then he must find a way to secure his precious fluid, his beloved life force, for free. Fortunately, civilization has been so constructed that blackmail is a simple alternative."

  My eyes popped wide open. "Blackmail?"