"Who suggested that? Which one of my worthless cousins suggested that to you?"
"Does it matter which one?"
"It might. If somebody is trying to throw suspicion on other people, it could mean they're trying to throw suspicion off themselves, couldn't it? I've read a few books, you know. But let me say two things to that accusation. Number one, I didn't have to make an appointment to talk to Uncle Barney. He was crazy about me, and I could just drop in and talk to him any time I wanted. Number two, I was Miss January in Pentup, in the issue, yeah, and then I was Miss January again in their calendar. But I was only January and I've never done another Pentup pinup, and I've never done another calendar or another girl of the month in any other magazine. So having my toe in January isn't exactly running through the calendar, now is it?"
"Where were you Thursday afternoon?"
"Working, all right?"
"Working where?"
"At home. I'm an artist. I was painting a picture."
"Of what?"
"There's no easy answer to that. It's an abstract. I could show you."
"Wouldn't prove anything. Did anyone see you?"
"No."
"If your uncle's remark about running through the calendar didn't refer to you, who could it have referred to?"
"You might talk to my sister Esther, the judge.” Detective Foley registered sibling resentment. “She runs through a court calendar every day of her life!"
Berwanger turned back to the audience. “That sent us to the chambers of Judge Esther Willing at the Superior Court building."
Changing persona again, Foley spoke before he was asked a question. “Let me tell you officers something: I believe the rights of a citizen are sacred. If you want a search warrant, you'd better have a good reason. I wasn't elected to this office so I could be a rubber stamp on a police fishing expedition. Is that clear?"
"Quite clear, Your Honor. But we're not here to request a warrant. It's about your uncle's death."
"Oh, that. I had very little to do with my uncle, but of course I shall answer your questions fully and completely."
"Where were you the afternoon he was killed?"
"In court."
"Did anyone see you?"
"Oh, the bailiff, the court reporter, twelve jurors, four alternates, a defendant, a bunch of lawyers for both sides, a few cranks who come to watch the show every day. That's about all."
Berwanger turned to the audience. “In short, Judge Willing was the only relative with an apparently solid alibi, but we weren't through with her.” He turned back to Foley. “Your Honor, before your uncle died, he referred to meeting with a relative who ran through the calendar. That could refer to the court calendar, couldn't it?"
"I suppose it could, but Detectives, I do not run through the calendar. Ask anyone in this building if I am known for undue haste in fulfilling my duties. They will tell you just the opposite is the case, and some of them find my tendency to deliberation rather annoying. Now, I do have to get back to the courtroom. Is there anything else?"
"Can you imagine what else your uncle might have meant?"
She shook her head. “As an officer of the court, I would help you if I could. But as a member of the family, I'm glad that I can't."
"There was one more relative to see,” Berwanger said, “Jason Fitzgerald.” He turned back to Detective Foley, who had cast off his feminine mannerisms. “Mr. Fitzgerald, you work in radio, is that right?"
"Yes, that's right.” Foley had deepened his voice an octave to sound like a radio person.
"Does it pay well?"
"If you're Howard Stern or Rush Limbaugh, maybe. For most of us, it's about on a par with being a grocery-store manager."
"At least you're not at box-boy level."
"Well, I was when I started out. I've done it all on radio, at every kind of station. Commercial, noncommercial. Every kind of assignment, too. News, sports, interviews, telephone talk. Mostly playing music, though—rock, country-western, jazz, classical, you name it. I enjoy it. My wants are simple."
"Ever do any TV?"
He shook his head. “Face for radio, as they say."
"Can you tell us where you were the afternoon your uncle was killed?"
"Well, let's see. My on-air shift ended at noon. I had a little lunch at a place near the station. They know me there, but I left by two o'clock. I came home and meditated."
"Can you prove that?"
"Only if you have a way of probing my quest for enlightenment. I was alone the whole time. Nobody called, or if anybody did, I'd let the answering machine take it."
"Any idea what your uncle's comment about running through the calendar meant?"
"Not a clue."
Berwanger turned back to the audience. “But it was a clue. Foley and I were sure of that. After interviewing them all, we returned to the crime scene and took another look at something that was found right smack in the middle of Fitzgerald's desk at the time he died and I noticed something—"
"I noticed it,” Foley said.
"Well, maybe you noticed it, but I interpreted it."
"Once I noticed it, interpreting it was easy."
Berwanger clenched his teeth as if submerging a caustic remark. “Working in tandem as a good partnership should, we noticed Fitzgerald's sales graph. It had the dollar business levels along the side, the months of the year across the bottom, and it covered the last year. This, you'll remember, was July."
"That's important,” Foley said.
"So the first month represented across the bottom of the graph was July of the previous year, and the months were indicated by their initial letter."
"You guys are mystery writers,” Foley said. “You should be able to get this."
"It's a challenge to the sitter,” Berwanger said. “If you have something to write with and on—and as writers, you should—just put the first letter of each month beginning with J for July, A for August, and so forth, and see what you get."
Most of the writers in the room followed instructions, and most of them had the following on their pads: JASONDJFMAMJ.
"Anybody get it?"
"Yeah,” said a booming voice from the front row. “His nephew Jason was a disc jockey, that is, a DJ, and he worked on all kinds of radio stations, so he probably worked at both FM and AM stations. So Jason and his credits run right through the calendar!"
"That's it. He was the suspect we zeroed in on, and he was the one tried and convicted for his uncle's murder."
"But what does that last J mean?"
"Justice?” Foley suggested.
Berwanger shook his head. “In fiction, maybe you'd have to explain that last J. We didn't. Once we got a search warrant for Jason's apartment, we found the weapon and it wasn't too late to get him tested for GSR. In the end, we had more evidence than we needed, just the kind of forensic stuff juries demand these days if you expect them to convict. And we wrapped the thing up only a day after the murder was committed through good, sound, dogged police work. So, as you can see, that wasn't really much like a fictional murder case at all."
"Sounds like one to me,” Foley said.
"No, not a bit. If it were fiction, the killer had to be the judge. She was the only one with a perfect alibi, right?"
A hand was up.
"Yes, sir."
"Detective Berwanger, did you guys make that one up?"
"Heck, no. We wouldn't think of encroaching on your territory. You guys make up the stories. We just protect and serve."
(c) 2007 by Jon L. Breen
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: WILD WALLS by Loren D. Estleman
* * * *
Art by Mark Evan Walker
* * * *
In this twelfth Valentino adventure, the UCLA film detective takes on the subject of child stardom, and travels farther afield than usual—to Ireland—to try to acquire some valuable comic film footage. As usual, Valentino's investigating ends up extending beyond the realm of fil
m, for the owner of the movies is soon charged with murder. The first Valentino novel, Frames, will be published by Forge in May 2008.
* * * *
Chub Garrett sat in his favorite pub in the Dublin suburb of Maynooth, drinking gin and bitters and mourning the smoky atmosphere of days gone by.
"Sure, it was poisonous, and they were quite right downtown to vote in the ban,” he said. “My only complaint is it takes twice as long to kill yourself with booze. But I'm an outsider; my opinion doesn't count. I only live here because artists don't have to pay income tax. Uncle Sam glommed on to what was left after my dear parents and darling ex-wives robbed me blind."
Valentino didn't know whether to chuckle at that. Chub—right name William, before his trademark babyfat cheeks had made him the most recognizable of the Pint-Size Pirates in a series of 1930s comedy shorts—appeared to have no sense of humor. Thiswasn't unusual among gifted comics, who in their private lives could pose for posters for anti-depression research. Wattles spilled over his heavy turtleneck and he wore loose-fitting khakis and rubber Wellingtons. His guest, who was suffering from jet lag brought on by two long hops, from L.A. to New York and from New York to Ireland, would have chosen brighter company if Chub ("Don't call me Mr. Garrett, son; that was my father, may he rot in hell") weren't sitting on a film ar-chivist's goldmine.
"You seem to have done all right for yourself since then,” Valentino said. “Homes in Santa Fe and Ireland, royalties for your signature line of children's fashions."
"The royalties barely cover both mortgages. I could liquidate and live quite comfortably for the time I have left. Only I can't, because both properties are frozen solid until I can prove I'm not an imbecile. Bad luck for me, good luck for you. The courts overlooked the product of my art."
He used the word with irony; but “art” was what Valentino thought of those reels of safety stock Chub maintained in climate-controlled storage in Dublin: the entire existing run of Pint-Size Pirates comedies, unseen in their original state since long before Valentino was born. In the meantime the world had had to content itself with grainy prints butchered to make room for commercials during afternoon TV airings and late shows. The UCLA board of directors had been persuaded to foot his travel bill to procure the films for a reasonable price. Valentino himself had done the persuading. The loss of so valuable a collection of artifacts to the history of popular entertainment would have cast in shadow all his efforts to preserve the twentieth century's past to date.
Chub drank, spilling color briefly into his sallow octogenarian features. “I wanted to will them to the Smithsonian, but my damn doctors are determined to keep me alive past a hundred, and I don't intend to spend that time in a nursing home. Eleven children from eight marriages are just as keen to declare me incompetent and divvy up my estate. I need cash to fight them in court, which is why I'm being so mule-ass stubborn about the asking price."
"It's worth it, in my opinion, but it's not my hand on the purse strings. If the university were to agree to your terms, it means passing up the next three ex-presidents speaking at commencement. They don't come cheap. The way they look at it, settling for a former secretary of state would mean accepting second-class status behind Harvard. Would you accept an honorary Ph.D. in lieu of the difference7"
"I already have two, from USC and Penn State. Not bad for a kid who bribed his tutors to give him a passing grade in math so he could play David Copperfield on radio. I think Edith took both diplomas when she cleaned out the house in Burbank. She sold them on eBay, along with my honorary Oscar. One more wouldn't get me a GED. So I guess you know my answer."
Edith was Chub's sixth wife. He'd had two more before one stuck, for fifteen years until she'd died. “That's all I can offer,” Valentino said. “I might swing you an honorarium as a visiting lecturer. The film school's slim on those from the classic age."
"That's only because Jackie Coogan had the bad taste to die. I couldn't accept anything less than a hundred grand. That's the standard retainer for the legal talent I need. I can get two weeks out of it."
"The people I work with won't go that high.” He felt as played out as anyone who had ever embarked upon a crusade, only to settle for less than a lousy T-shirt. He wondered if a side trip to London might yield an acceptable print of Lassie Come Home. Roddy McDowall, before he died, had given him hope that one still existed in the basement of an assistant director on Basil Street.
"I like you,” Chub said, thumping down his glass. “If I agree to a private showing, do you think your people might reconsider?"
"I'd kill for it. But I couldn't say yes in good conscience. Chub, I'm a fan."
Chub Garrett, the brains of the Pint-Size Pirates, stewed over the question, glass in hand. Despite his bald head and age spots, he remained an icon of Valentino's youth, the mischievous savant of a band of juvenile delinquents with the best of comedic intentions. While he was considering, a plump, buxom barmaid—she ran so true to type that no pangs of liberated shame entered into the choice of terminology—came over and offered them a pint on the house, in deference to Chub's good reputation. A twinkle of old times sparked in the old man's pale blue eyes, but he asked her for the bill. Valentino covered it with a five-pound note.
"Boyo, you couldn't have settled it better with a knighthood.” The former child star hoisted himself from his seat. “Let's go see just how cruel the passage of time can be to a boy from the Lower East Side."
Chub drove, at the wheel of a stubby little car with a windscreen close enough to bend Valentino's eyelashes, his fingers clutching the dash on the left side where the steering wheel belonged, oncoming traffic threatening him from the wrong lane, explosions from the exhaust pipe farting black smoke, and the driver using his horn in preference to the brake. When they rocked to a stop in front of a charming ivy-jacketed cottage straight out of The Quiet Man, the passenger unclamped his fingers from vinyl and remarked upon the beauty of the place.
"I'll take credit for that,” Chub said. “Me and Miles, my groundskeeper. It was overgrown with thistles when I bought it and hired him from the village. He's got enough poison stored in the old smokehouse to wipe out the British Army."
The interior of the cottage was open, the stone-paved medieval kitchen flowing into a comfortably furnished living room. The rotund host manipulated hidden switches, lowering a screen from the ceiling in front of a painting of peasants at work in a field and raising a bullet-shaped projector from inside a table between two leather armchairs.
Valentino enjoyed immensely the next two hours. Chub had spliced seven Pint-Size Pirates shorts onto four reels, and his guest laughed loudly throughout: Chub, in his trademark letter sweater and shabby fedora, “Sassafrass,” the group's poker-faced spokesman, Glory, a ten-year-old glamour queen, and Shadow and Moon Pie, the stereotypical black children, outsmarted Mugs, the swaggering bully, at every turn, frequently with results humiliating and messy for the slow-witted antagonist. Alonzo, the Pirates’ scruffy little dog, was always on hand to lick custard pie off Mugs's face. Every member of the cast was a gifted comic and, disregarding the shuffling behavior of the two minority members, their performances would stand up against any on the modern screen. Valentino had always enjoyed the features on cable, mutilated as they had been, but seeing them as they were intended to be seen was like spending quality time with the Mona Lisa, only with pratfalls.
* * * *
The old man switched off the projector and turned on a lamp. “I went into debt snapping up the prints when the studio went under and transferring them to safety stock, but I made it back in a hurry renting them to local TV stations across the country. I was smart enough to dupe off copies, knowing how scissor-simple those affiliates can be. I tried to get Bernie to go in with me on it, to reduce the outlay, but he was still hemming and hawing when he died."
Bernard Leibowitz was Sassafrass.
"He was killed, wasn't he?
"He got himself into a crooked pool game in Tijuana, as if there were
any other kind down there. He squawked and somebody knifed him. What a waste."
The curse of child stardom had stalked most of the Pint-Size Pirates later in life. Edward Washington, Moon Pie, had overdosed on heroin, and Shadow, born Toby Goss, had died fighting in Korea. The last Valentino had heard, Gerald “Mugs” McDermott was in prison for armed robbery. He might have died inside.
"What about Glory?"
"Gloria,” Chub said, smiling. “Sweet girl. She had a weakness for musicians. She married a drummer who beat her like his traps, then divorced him and took up with a saxophonist who liked to wear her underthings. That was a happy marriage, I heard. Anyway, he died. I still got Christmas cards from Gloria until a couple of years ago. Maybe she's dead, too. The reporters who write obituaries don't always keep up on faded celebrities."
"You came out all right."
No trace of a smile remained on his broad features. “I managed to give divorce a bad name, peed away several fortunes, and unleashed eleven ungrateful children on a world that wasn't in short supply to begin with. My own granddaughter's the ringleader of the bunch that wants to stick me in a droolarium. She doesn't even want my money for herself. She's bleached her daughter's hair, put her in braces, enrolled her in charm school, and is paying a speech therapist to—get this—give her a lisp. Six years old and she's starred in six commercials on national TV. Blame that on me, too. If I hadn't been such a pre-pubescent success, Melanie would never have got that idea in her head. At least none of the others managed to screw up two generations."
"Judy Garland died of a deadly cocktail. The girl from Diff'rent Strokes stuck up a video store and committed suicide. Robert Blake, Little Beaver, stood trial for murder. All child stars. It's not your fault."
"You know what a wild wall is?"
"A portable wall made from canvas flats for a movie set. The grips can shift it around easily to accommodate the camera. During the famous dolly shot in The Magnificent Ambersons, Orson Welles had them rigged to drop into place just before they came inside range. It made the house seem several times bigger than it was."
EQMM, December 2007 Page 7
