Killed in the Ratings

by William L. DeAndrea

  “How does a compulsive gambler wind up in a position like that, for Christ’s sake? Doesn’t CRI check prospective employees?”

  “Sure they do,” he said. “But I understand Vince was a late bloomer as far as his vice was concerned. He was one of those no-sleep schoolboys at MIT. He probably never had leisure time to use up before he got the job at CRI. Besides, a lot of computer guys are fascinated with gambling, think they could figure it out, you know?”

  “But not you.”

  “Not me. Five bucks on the trotters, maybe. I only like sure things.”

  “Okay,” I told Devlin. “Now it’s time for the big money question. Who paid Carlson to deep-six ‘Harbor Heights’?”

  “I don’t know. Vince wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Bullshit,” I said.

  He shrugged. “You don’t have to believe me.”

  “I don’t. I don’t believe Carlson kept a secret this one time in his life, when I have it on good authority he had almost a compulsion to talk about his troubles, especially when he was pressed. And I don’t believe you kept quiet about it without knowing the whole story.”

  “Sorry, Cobb, but I’m stuck with the truth. Vince was a good guy. He said he was keeping quiet to protect me. And I liked the guy, I felt sorry for him. Hell, his wife divorced him, but they were still making threats against her. It tore him up. He loved her until the end.

  “Besides, it was no skin off my ass if some stupid TV show got cancelled a week or so early. I don’t even like TV.”

  I stood up and pointed a finger at him. “All right,” I said. “For now I’ll take your word for it. But Carlson’s conscience was getting to him. He was going to spill it to me, and he died. It’s a good bet whoever paid him knows something about who killed him, if he didn’t do it himself, and if you’re holding out on me, and I find out about it, I’m going to personally hand you your head.”

  He raised his eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. He pulled at his Scotch.

  “I can sympathize with you, Cobb,” he said. “When you find out which of the other networks did it, you can turn them every way but loose. They must have been real scared of ‘Harbor Heights.’ ”

  I doubted it. “Harbor Heights” had never been what you could call sure-fire stuff. If a rival network was out to do something bad to our schedule, why didn’t they go after “The Jolleys,” the top-rated show on TV?

  No, add it all up, and Walter Schick was still the number one suspect ... for the computer-tampering, not the murder. Ostensibly, Cynthia Schick had the same motive as her husband, but she had an alibi for Tuesday night. I could not believe the Bible-quoting Mrs. Agatha Locker had told me a direct lie. She might duck the question, but she wouldn’t lie. Roxanne had come into enough money to pay Carlson, but why? Sure, she might have given or loaned it to her old man to use, but that brought us to the same dead end in the hospital bed for the murder. And Roxanne had the same alibi as her mother did. I wanted to scream.

  Devlin was patting himself again.

  “Will you cut that out?” I snapped. “It gets on my nerves!”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry,” he said.

  The phone rang. I jumped for it, hoping it was Monica.

  “Hello, Matt?” It was Cynthia Schick. I wondered what she was up to now.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Matt, I’m just calling to apologize for ... for putting you on the spot with Father yesterday. I made such a fool of myself, I—”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Schick,” I said, “I’m sorry I had to say what I did.”

  “What choice did you have? I was a fool, I know. I just wanted to apologize. I ... I want you to know I’m going to see that doctor. I can’t go around losing control of myself like that.”

  I heard a noise behind me and whirled around. It was only Devlin opening the overnight bag, probably counting his socks, I thought. Your nerves are going, Cobb, I told myself.

  I gave my attention back to the phone. “I’m sure he’ll be able to help you,” I said. “By the way, Roxanne didn’t go to the movies in Bridgeport Tuesday night, did she?”

  “No, Roxanne and I were both at home Tuesday, ah, talking. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, a friend of mine went, thought he saw Roxanne there. I told him he must have been mistaken. Listen, if I can do anything to help ...”

  “Just continue to be our friend, Matt.”

  “You can count on it.”

  “I knew I could. Roxanne sends her love. Bye, now.”

  “Bye.”

  I caught Devlin in the middle of a yawn.

  “That was Mrs. Schick?” he asked. “Mrs. Walter Schick?”

  I told him it was.

  “It’s a shame when a beautiful woman like her has to suffer like that, I mean it.”

  “You mean it would be all right if she were ugly?”

  He gave me a sly smile. “Well, you know how it is. Her husband brought her along for the big buildup CRI gave for ARGUS, and at one of the banquets, I was at their table, to do the technical mumbo jumbo bit. I was charmed. That’s a lot of woman there.”

  “You didn’t make too big an impression on her,” I said. “She doesn’t remember you.”

  “That’s a shame,” he said. “Well, she’s got a lot on her mind. A lot of woman, no man. Worse. She’s got all the drawbacks of being married with none of the advantages.”

  “And you’d fix that.”

  “Not me, pal. My father taught me, ‘Don’t talk back to a cop, don’t piss into the wind, and don’t mess with married women.’ Anyway, I’m about to get snagged myself.”

  The phone rang again.

  I was more restrained about it this time. “Hello?”

  “Good afternoon. Am I speaking with Matthew Cobb?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Well, Mr. Cobb, I’m calling on behalf of a Miss Monica Teobaldi.”

  “What do you mean, On behalf?” I was irate. “Put her on the phone!”

  “That’s impossible, Mr. Cobb. Miss Teobaldi isn’t feeling well. In fact, it’s only recently she’s recovered enough to tell us to get in touch with you.”

  Devlin said, “What’s the matter, Cobb, you look sick.”

  I was sick. “Who is this?” I asked the phone.

  “My name is Herschel Goldfarb,” the voice said.

  15

  “Same to you, fella!”

  —Bob Newhart, “The Bob Newhart Show” (CBS)

  HIS VOICE HAD AN amused undertone to it, like that of a guest at a funeral trying not to laugh when the minister’s pants fell down.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “It’s not what I want, Mr. Cobb. Miss Teobaldi wants very much to see you. She feels it will aid her recovery. Apparently, you have a beneficial effect on her health.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In a very safe place, Mr. Cobb. I have an employee waiting in a car outside your building. He will take you directly to Miss Teobaldi.”

  “Do you know the penalty for kidnaping, Goldfarb?”

  “Kidnaping? Don’t talk nonsense. Some prankster lured Miss Teobaldi to my mother’s address. She was taken ill, and Mother, dear soul that she is, agreed to take care of her.”

  So that was the way he was going to play it. The bastard could probably get away with it, too. If I called the cops in, he could fix it so that Monica just disappeared completely, that she had “wandered off in a daze” when no one was looking.

  “Okay, Goldfarb,” I said, “suppose I go along. Will the sight of me restore Monica sufficiently so I can take her home?”

  His voice put on that chuckling tone again. It was offensive. “Well put, Mr. Cobb. Let me say I’m sure it will restore her to excellent health. She wants to see you so desperately.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet. See you soon.”

  He started to say something, but I hung up on him.

  I turned to Devlin. “I have to go out for a while. You’re welcome to stay here until I get b
ack.”

  “Thanks, but that’s not really—”

  “Let me put it this way. You’d better stay here until I get back. Otherwise, I might start remembering things the police would like to know, not to mention the FCC. All right?”

  “Well, since you put it that way, I accept. How long are you planning to be gone?”

  “No telling. There’s food in the refrigerator.” That reminded me there was also a gun in the safe. I hesitated a moment, then decided not to take it out. I wasn’t going to get anywhere trying to shoot it out with professional hoodlums.

  I told Devlin not to spill Scotch on the rug, and left.

  About ten feet to the left of the building entrance, a grey Imperial was parked. The driver honked, and I walked over and got in. There were two guys in the car.

  “Where’s your friggin’ dog?” the driver wanted to know. He was big and blond, and one of his long arms had a bandage on it. The kind they put on when a dog bites you.

  My brain sent a panicky signal to grab the door handle and get out, but before a muscle could even twitch, the sight of a forty-five caliber automatic canceled the order.

  It was my pal, Shorty, holding the forty-five. It was as big as his whole forearm. It looked like a howitzer.

  “Relax,” Shorty told me through his teeth. “Mr. Goldfarb only wants to have a little talk with you.”

  So he wasn’t a cop. I forgave Lieutenant Martin.

  “You’ll forgive me if I seem a little dubious,” I said.

  “I seem to recall Mighty Joe Young here coming to visit me the other night with a gun in his hand.”

  Mighty Joe started to sputter. “What? I only—that goddam dog! You made him attack me!” He showed me his bandage.

  “Aw, poor baby,” I cooed.

  The jockey-sized one laughed. “It was just a misunderstanding, Mr. Cobb. Tolly was just going to invite you for a talk with the boss. You were just thrown by his approach.”

  “This is Tolly?” I asked, indicating the driver.

  “That’s him,” the jockey replied.

  “You got a name?” I wanted to know.

  “Ray.”

  “Swell, Ray. You can call me Mr. Cobb. Do you people wave guns around the way other people talk with their hands, or what?” I pointed to the forty-five, which was getting bigger and uglier by the second.

  Ray laughed again. It was a good laugh. He was the kind of charming son of a bitch James Cagney used to play in the old Warner Brothers gangster pictures.

  “It’s part of our job, Mr. Cobb,” he explained politely. “We spend a lot of time convincing people. I’ve found that people listen better when you show them a gun.” He stowed the cannon away. “Actually, this ain’t got but one bullet in it. Tolly handles any shooting that might arise.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “Yeah,” Tolly said, “and I want it back.”

  “Look,” I told him, “you didn’t show it to me, you shot it at me.”

  Tolly was a study in injured innocence. “I never would have took it out of my pocket, but you attacked me. I waited for you so I could ask you nice and private, and you opened that door, and that vicious mutt tried to bite my arm off!”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “Did that mutt get his shots?”

  “He’s had his shots. And don’t call him a mutt. He’s got a better pedigree than you do.”

  I realized, to my astonishment, that I had fallen automatically into the cool private-eye routine these two seemed to be playing straight for. Maybe we had all seen the same movies when we were kids. I decided to keep it up; at least it was better than silence.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “From now on, you can refer to the dog as a ‘son of a bitch.’ That’s accurate.”

  Tolly was puzzled. “If he’s such a son of a bitch, why don’t you get rid of him then? What’s so funny, Ray?”

  I got my next question in before Ray’s laughter died down enough for him to explain.

  “Who tried to run me over last night?”

  Ray said, “Yeah, I saw that. How’s your friend?”

  “Are you trying to tell me it wasn’t you two?”

  “Are you crazy? Mr. Goldfarb wants to talk to you, he’s a businessman, he wants to make a deal. You should have heard Tolly getting chewed out for firing a shot that might have hurt you.”

  “Yeah,” Tolly put in. “That’s another thing I owe your goddam dog.”

  “Now,” Ray went on, “I know that wasn’t an accident up there. Somebody don’t like you, Cobb. All the more reason for you to listen close to the boss. His friends tend not to get hurt.”

  We were in that part of Manhattan called the Lower East Side. Tolly pulled over to the curb. “Here we are,” he said. “I gotta park the car. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

  “You’re learning, Tolly. Keep the car off the street.” Ray added an aside to me: “Lousy cops love to hang a ticket on the boss’s car. Okay, Mr. Cobb, inside.”

  He was talking about a brownstone, three stories and a basement. It was in good shape, especially compared to the rest of the decaying neighborhood. It had flowers in the window boxes.

  Ray kept me in front of him going up the nine stone steps to the door. I stood waiting at the top of the stoop until he caught up. He surprised me by ringing the bell instead of walking right in. I had just assumed that a henchman would walk right in.

  I got another surprise when the door was opened by a sweet-looking little old lady in a purple housedress and orthopedic shoes.

  “Oh, hello, Ray,” she said. She gave him a little kiss on the cheek that made him squirm like an eight-year-old. “Herschel is in the study,” she said.

  She turned her smile on me. “And this must be Monica’s boyfriend. Well don’t worry, I’m taking good care of her.”

  “I ... uh ... I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it,” I told her, truthfully.

  She had a twinkle in her eye. “It’s awful to say this, but I’m glad it happened. An old woman likes to meet young people. And maybe if Herschel sees how happy you two are, he’ll get some ideas, hah? Don’t get me wrong, my Herschel is a very good son, the best, but at his age ...”

  “Hey, Mrs. G.,” Ray interrupted, “don’t you think Mr. Cobb would like to see his girl?”

  She clicked her tongue, chiding herself. “Of course, what’s the matter with me, a silly old woman, talks too much. Go, go I have to dust. You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you, Matt, I think your name is?”

  “He’ll be delighted to,” Ray said. He hustled me off to the study, where I got my first look at Herschel Goldfarb.

  It was the most frightening experience of my life. Not because Goldfarb was the incarnation of evil and corruption. Just the opposite. Herschel Goldfarb was a dead ringer for Ozzie Nelson.

  It was obscene. Think of it: Ozzie Nelson, crewcut, crinkly eyes, mild tenor; the original Mr. Nice Guy, whose only occupation seemed to be arranging prom dates, suddenly reincarnated as a desperate criminal.

  Well, maybe not desperate. Goldfarb, dressed in the Ozzie Nelson garb of sweater, white shirt and tie, slacks and slippers, was sitting calmly on the sofa reading the second edition of the New York Post.

  “Glad you could come, Mr. Cobb,” he said. It was weird to hear the deep voice and formal speech coming from that body. “Did you have a pleasant drive?”

  “Positively divine,” I told him. “Tolly taught me the multiplication tables.” I had decided to stay with the light touch.

  “Ah, Mr. Cobb, you mustn’t judge the boy too harshly. Intelligent men tend to place too much value on intelligence.”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t be in this mess if I had any intelligence.”

  Goldfarb’s chuckle was worse in person than it had been on the phone. “That’s a good one,” he said. “But I maintain intelligence isn’t everything. Tolly is loyal, strong, and has a unique combination of sensitivity and brutality in his makeup.”

  “Like a Saint Bernard,” I said.<
br />
  “Exactly!” He beamed at me. “That’s exactly it. Now, Ray, while not brilliant, is very shrewd, and knows his way around the sort of people I deal with in my business.”

  “I don’t care if you keep them around to light the stove on Friday. I want to see Monica.”

  Just then, Tolly opened the double door (both sides) and walked in.

  “Ah, Tolly, Mr. Cobb and I were just discussing how valuable your services are to me.”

  Tolly blushed.

  “Tolly, go upstairs and tell Miss Teobaldi I’d like to see her in the study. If she’s asleep, though, call my mother to awaken her. Do you understand?”

  Tolly nodded, and backed out of the room, closing the doors after him.

  “He has a tendency to touch women in embarrassing places,” Goldfarb confided. “Curiosity. In many ways, Tolly is like a child.”

  I surveyed the room while we waited. It was a comfortable-looking place, if a little out of fashion. Bookshelves lined three walls, filled with books in many languages. All the titles in the four languages I can read were concerned with economics.

  The rest was very Victorian. Wingback chairs (with antimacassars) on a flowered rug. Ornate lamps and lamp tables, and knickknacks everywhere.

  One side of the double door opened, and Monica stepped in. She was dressed for the street, in a silk blouse and corduroy skirt. She had stockings on, but no shoes. Her hair was a mess, and there were tear tracks on her face.

  She saw me, cried, “Matt!” and ran toward me. Tolly and Ray both moved to stop her, but they froze on a syllable from Goldfarb.

  Monica and I held each other tight. “Oh, Matt, I’ve been so afraid.”

  “Shhh,” I said. “It’s almost over now.” That was probably true, I figured, one way or the other.

  “How long have I been here?” she asked. “I’ve been unconscious.”

  “A little less than two days, babe.” I looked to Goldfarb over her head. The bastard was smiling. “What has she been on? What did you dope her with?”

  “Don’t get so excited, Mr. Cobb. Miss Teobaldi seems better already, I knew your visit would do her good. Please rest assured she was given nothing stronger than scopolamine, which you can buy without prescription in many cold remedies. It was administered by a doctor.”