Killed in the Ratings

by William L. DeAndrea

  Different from, idiot, I thought savagely as Falzet made the trek out of the office. That bastard. He knew I wanted out of Special Projects and back into production. He had me low and tight. I could get a job at another network, but they’d only be interested in me for Special Projects work, or whatever they call it at the other networks. I could quit broadcasting altogether, but that would be like amputating from the shoulder for a hangnail.

  When Falzet was gone, the old man speared me with a look and said, “All of that stays in this office, kid.” He shook a bony finger. “Just forget about it.”

  “Forget what, sir?”

  Evidently, that one was a regular thigh-slapper. When the laughter subsided, he said, “Cobb, I’m telling you this because I like you. Watch your ass. Your politeness is so obviously phony, it’s like an insult. You’re like me, can’t appease people you don’t respect. But I’m rich enough to get away with it.

  “I know all about Tom Falzet. He’s petty, and self-important, but he is one damn good executive. He won’t let anything stand in the way of his own interests, but I make sure his interests run parallel to the Network’s. He is a damn sight more valuable to it than you are, so don’t antagonize him. Now what’s on your mind?”

  I told him the whole story to date, omitting only the current state of my relationship with Monica, and the details of my humiliation over the Devlin phone call matter.

  He didn’t bat an eye, not even when I told him about the scene at Willowdale. When I told him about the attempt on my life, he could have been listening to a reading of the telephone book.

  When I finished, he said, “You never told me this.”

  “What? I’m telling you now.”

  “No, you’re not. You carried out the whole investigation on your own. You confided in no one else at the Network.”

  “Mr. Hewlen, somebody tried to kill me!”

  He looked at me. For the first time since I’d known him, he looked old.

  “Cobb,” he said. “Don’t you understand? I have built this Network. If what you say is true, or means something worse, I must not be involved. I’ll be needed, to build it back up again.

  “Cobb, believe me. No man ever lived who can say I broke my word. If any harm comes to you because of this, you’ll be taken care of, I promise.”

  I snorted. “You mean you’ll pay for my funeral?”

  “Look. That was almost certainly an isolated incident. And even if it wasn’t, it’s probably too late, now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The attack had to come because somebody sees you as a threat. How could you convince that person you are not? You don’t even know who it is.”

  He was right. The only thing I could do to neutralize any further night visitors was to go on and get to the bottom of everything, in spite of hell, if need be, or even Herschel Goldfarb. God, how I hoped his part of the story had ended when Carlson paid him the money.

  The old man went on. “Come back here when you’ve found out enough so we can decide what to do.”

  I hated myself for it, but I agreed. By way of parting, I said, “I hope you can persuade Mrs. Schick to see that doctor.”

  I didn’t think he was listening. His eyes had that introspective look old people often have; the look that means the person has decided that all the good parts of life lie in the past. It was new to Mr. Hewlen.

  “I should have had a son, Cobb,” he said. “Cynthia was always bright and ambitious and fascinated by the radio. When she was old enough to connect what I did with the programs she listened to, she looked at me with such pride and wonder ... as if I were a magician or something.

  “Did you know she’s the one that thought of the name of ‘Coony Island’? Came up with it when she was nine years old. Most successful kids’ show of all time. Nine years old.

  “Her mother died when she was born, you know. I was at an affiliates meeting in Chicago ...

  “Cynthia came home from school in Europe and asked me for a job. Said she’d do anything. I refused. Those days, only poor men’s daughters had to work. That’s the way it was, you trained your son to take over the business, and your daughter rode horses and played tennis. Today, things are different, I would let Cynthia have her career ...

  “She made a career out of Walter Schick. She channeled Walter Schick’s life, Cobb. She made him make himself a top-notch executive. Gave him her backbone, or he would have gone all to hell when that fool daughter of his ran off. Walter always had the talent, but it was Cynthia had the drive.”

  It wasn’t like he was telling me. It was more like he was dictating notes for his autobiography, and I was a stenographer. Just as I’d been for his daughter, I was an excuse to say in words what he’d been thinking a long time. A tape recorder would have served as well.

  “She was always pushing me to name him to the presidency, telling me to step aside, that I’d ‘earned a rest’ was how she put it. But how could I step down? How could I? True, I own the biggest block of stock, but it’s far from a controlling interest. The stockholders couldn’t be expected to believe I’d named Schick solely because of his qualifications, and not because he was my son-in-law, could they?”

  “ ‘Harbor Heights,’ ” I said.

  I should have kept my mouth shut. He started to nod, but in the middle of it the spell broke, and he came to himself with a start. “All right, Cobb, you’ve wasted enough of my time here. I won’t take it from McFeeley, and I certainly won’t take it from you. Get out.”

  Quietly I said, “Yes, sir,” and left him supporting his head with gnarled hands.

  12

  “The armadillo has natural protection, but you do not. That’s why you should protect yourself with health insurance from Mutual of Omaha.”

  —Marlin Perkins, Mutual of Omaha’s “Wild Kingdom” (NBC)

  WHEN I GOT BACK to my own office, I saw something I never thought I would: Detective Rivetz with a smile on his face. He was flirting with Jazz, and she was flirting back, just to keep in practice.

  “Hello, Rivetz,” I said. “What’s new?” I figured he’d come around to give me the horselaugh for my blunder, and I wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.

  The smile vanished. “All sorts of things, Cobb. I found something interesting just now, thought I’d ask you about it.”

  “Sure,” I said, “why not? Just a second.” It was practically five o’clock, so I told Jazz she could go home.

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Cobb.” She was so enthusiastic, she had to be looking forward to a heavy date.

  I invited Rivetz into the office. I sat at the desk. “Want a jelly bean?” I asked.

  He turned me down. Maybe he had scruples about taking jelly beans from people he was looking forward to arresting. He said, “It’s only a matter of time, you know, Cobb.”

  “Hold it,” I said. “Hold it just a damn minute. Earlier today, Lieutenant Martin was here, all sad and sympathetic. Now you come around with the veiled threats. Are you trying a Beauty-and-the-Beast routine on me? Because it’s not going to work, I know too much about it.”

  He looked at me the way I might look at a boll weevil, with a combination of academic interest at something I’d never seen before and disgust at what I knew to be a destructive pest.

  “No,” he said. “It’s just working out that way, Cobb. The Lieutenant is sorry for you. He’s a good cop, even for a—he’s a good cop, but he’s known you for a long time, and he can’t get himself to believe you killed Carlson for that Teobaldi twist.”

  “But you can.”

  “You’re damn right I can, and I’m gonna prove it so even Martin has to believe it. After that, a jury should be no trouble.”

  “You had some questions?” I reminded him.

  “Yeah. You know, this Carlson was in town Monday, a whole day before he called you. If he had something so important to talk about, why did he wait?”

  I knew what he was leading up to. I figured I’d make it easier for
him. “Maybe he had somebody to see,” I said.

  “Yeah, maybe.” Rivetz was very good at looking cynical. “You ever hear of Herschel Goldfarb?”

  “I’ve heard the name,” I admitted. I didn’t tell him it was only about an hour and a half ago.

  “He’s a crook, a money-hungry piece of shit. Carlson went to see him Monday, paid him fifteen hundred dollars on a forty-five-hundred-dollar debt. Guys down in D.C. say Carlson sold his car.”

  “So?” I asked. He was obviously waiting.

  “So a while back, Carlson owed Goldfarb nineteen grand, which he paid back. Where did he get that?”

  “That is the big question,” I said. My being calm seemed to get on his nerves.

  “You wanna know how I answer it, Cobb?” His face was red, and getting redder by the minute. “I say he got the money from his wife. I say he’s got something on her, and he blackmailed her for that nineteen grand.”

  “You’ve got an exaggerated idea of how much money an actress makes,” I said.

  It didn’t impress him. “She could get it. Woman who looks like that can always get it. But Carlson was starting back into the hole. He tried to hit her up again, but she wouldn’t go for it, that’s why he had to sell the car.

  “So I say she looked you up again, lifted the skirt for you, got you to bump Carlson off before he spilled it.”

  “Spilled what?” I exploded. “Don’t you read the papers? An entertainer can’t be disgraced anymore! Illegitimate kids, drug addiction, homosexuality—Christ! You can’t pick up a paper anymore without finding a story about some big star that not only does stuff like that, but is even proud of it. So what could it be, Rivetz? What’s the deep dark secret?”

  “We’re working on it. Whatever it is, it’s bad enough for Miss Teobaldi to skip out over.”

  “What!” I demanded. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  He laughed. I was getting tired of cops laughing at me.

  “So you really didn’t know,” he said. “You poor schlemiel. She’s skipped, all right. Didn’t show up at work, isn’t in her apartment, isn’t anywhere around. A neighbor saw her leave her apartment this morning in a real hurry with no luggage.”

  He laughed again. “She left you holding the bag. I could almost feel sorry for you.”

  I tried to think of a reason why Monica had run away, but the buzzing inside my head was too loud.

  “But I don’t,” Rivetz said, “feel sorry for you. You bastard. You’ll never know what you have to go through growing up as a Jew. People are too polite to say it, but you know what they believe. Even in New York. Even today.

  “And some son of a bitch like Goldfarb comes along, and he’s greedy, and he’s shrewd—hell, he’s fifty and he still lives with his mother even—and right away, that’s all the evidence people need. Just one guy who suits the prejudice.

  “So Carlson is blackmailing his wife to pay Goldfarb. Does she come to the police, so we can nail Carlson and use him to nail this bastard Goldfarb? No, she gets some idiot with his brain between his legs to do her dirty work for her, and Goldfarb stays home and makes plans to take his mother to Miami.”

  He’d had his voice raised. Now he lowered it to just above a whisper. “So now you know why, Cobb. I’ll have to get as much pleasure slapping the cuffs on you as I would have slapping them on Goldfarb. Be seeing you.” It wasn’t a friendly farewell, it was a promise.

  First Mr. Hewlen, now Rivetz. This was a big day for getting to know people. Now I understood Rivetz. I didn’t like him any better, but I understood him. Monica once told me her father used to sigh with relief every time he heard of the arrest of a racketeer who didn’t have an Italian name.

  Monica. What the hell was she up to? Where was she? I smote my psyche with those two questions all the way home.

  Spot was frantic with joy to see me again. On top of everything else, I had pangs of guilt for leaving him locked up alone too much.

  “Hey, Spot,” I asked him, “how would you like a little kid to play with?”

  “Woof!” he said eagerly.

  “Okay, I’ll buy you one. Boy or girl?”

  “Woof!” he said.

  “Fair enough. If I can find a woof, it’s yours.”

  The conversation petered out, and my thoughts slid back to my interview with Rivetz. Should I have told him about my visitor with the gun last night?

  No. Or Lieutenant Martin either. Rivetz’s theory, as repulsive as I found it to be, was not nonsense. I couldn’t prove anything about the attack. I could have bought that gun and fired a shot myself.

  Okay. Welcome back, Walter Schick. I saved you for myself, and now I’m stuck with you. Back to basics.

  First, a call to the Schick estate in Greenwich. I spoke to Agatha Locker. “And where were you on the night of the murder?” She assured me she was home that night, not choosing sides in an argument between Ms. Schick and Miss Roxanne about whether Roxanne should transfer to a college closer to home for the fall term.

  “And what time was this, Mrs. Locker?”

  “Oh, it started at suppertime and went on for a couple hours, at least.”

  “No one left the house, did she?”

  “No, Mr. Cobb. They were fussin’ the whole time.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Locker.” More good alibis.

  “Oh, not at all. You know, Mr. Cobb, we have a weekly Bible reading around the various churches, and with you knowing the Bible so well, and having such a nice voice and all, why, you’d be welcome any time.”

  Poor sinner that I am, I was touched. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Locker. I don’t know if I can ever make it, but I’m honored by the offer. Bye now.”

  I envied people who knew where to get their answers. All I ever seemed to come up with was harder questions.

  I sat there feeling sorry for myself (something I do exceedingly well) until the doorbell rang. Now, that didn’t necessarily mean anything, especially at that time of day. The doorman could have been hailing a cab for someone and a visitor was not called up, or it could have been one of my neighbors coming to borrow a cup of caviar or something. But after last night, I wasn’t in the mood to take any chances.

  I opened the safe, took out the gun Spot’s playmate had dropped last night. Then I went to the door, and looked through the peephole. What I saw was a gigantic eye looking back at me.

  “Who is it?” I demanded through the door.

  “Tony Groat. Can I come in?”

  “Back off the door, so I can get a look at you!” When he had complied, I recognized him as the kid who’d been in Monica’s apartment the night before. He was dressed more conservatively today, with a buckskin jacket and dungarees. I put the gun in my pocket and opened the door.

  “Don’t do that anymore,” I told him.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Put your eye up against the peephole like that. It scares people. What do you do that for, anyway?”

  Redheads usually blush easily, and he was no exception. “I don’t know,” he said. “Must be something Freudian.”

  “Well, what do you want with me?”

  He shuffled his feet and looked at the carpet. He looked younger than ever.

  “I ... I’m worried about Monica,” he said.

  I had to laugh. “Get in line,” I told him.

  “I mean it. I can’t find her. Nobody seems to know where she is. She didn’t come to the studio today, and it’s an important episode we taped, too. Had to use a stand-in for Monica.”

  “Didn’t she call in sick?”

  “Nope. Nothing. This kind of thing could cost her that part in ‘Deadline.’ ”

  “What part?”

  “Didn’t she tell you? They’re adding a female investigative reporter to the cast, and Monica is one of the actresses they’re considering for the part.”

  “She didn’t mention it. I was only there a little while.”

  He looked surprised. “Oh. I thought she might still be with you.”
>
  “The police are wondering where she is, too, Tony. A neighbor saw her zooming out of her apartment early this morning.”

  “Well, she hasn’t come back.”

  “You’ve gone there already?” He nodded. “Did you go inside?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? You’ve got a key, haven’t you?”

  He nodded again, blushing.

  “What’s the matter, Tony? You’re acting like the teacher caught you hiding a hard-on under your math book. You were suave enough last night.”

  He laughed self-consciously. “I was pretty smooth at that, wasn’t I? Shows what a good actor I am. What you got today is the country boy, not too long off the dairy farm.”

  “I’ve got you,” I told him. “Been like a dream, right? Good job right away, beautiful older women? Don’t worry about it, your ears will dry off in no time.”

  He perked up. “Happened to you too, huh?”

  “In reverse,” I told him. “I got out of high school just when this blue-blooded college upstate decided that the only thing it still needed was a winning basketball team. I was pretty good, and I had good grades, so they gave me a scholarship. After we’d won a few games, nobody could do enough for me. I had to check the mirror every morning to see if I was still me.”

  “That’s it,” Tony said. “That’s exactly it. I keep thinking people are mistaking me for someone else all this good stuff is supposed to be happening to. I ... I want to make sure it lasts.”

  “The best way to lose something is to want it too much,” I said.

  “Why do the police want to find Monica?”

  “Well, one policeman, anyway.” Now that I thought of it, Rivetz was probably heading for trouble, acting on his assumptions without consulting his superiors. It also occurred to me that here was a good way to ascertain how big his theories were going over with the brass.

  “Look, Tony, I’ve got to walk the dog anyway. Let’s walk up to her place and take a look around. Maybe she left a note for you or something.”