Stand-up
Page 12
37
Marty came in at three sharp, on time for a change. Before he’d arrived I’d asked Geneva where Ed was.
“Got the day off.”
“Why did you give him the day off?”
“He asked for it.”
“I need to use Marty away from the bar, Gen.”
“Well, I didn’t know that when I gave Ed the day off, did I?”
“Well, how am I going to take Marty—”
“I can handle it here until it gets busy. Just have him back by six.”
Actually, I figured I’d probably have him back before then.
“You white men, you make a big deal out of everything.”
“Hey, hey, no racist remarks in my bar.”
“That wasn’t a racist remark, it was an observation based on fact.”
“Well . . . none of that, either.”
When Marty came in I told him not to bother getting behind the bar.
“Why not?”
“I need you for something else.”
“Like what?”
“I’ll tell you on the way.”
We caught a cab outside, and I gave the driver the address of Stan Waldrop’s building. By the time we arrived, I had explained to Marty what I wanted him to do.
“Can you do it?” I asked as we got out of the cab.
“I can get in there and snoop around, Boss, but a lot will depend on the program he had and whether or not he used passwords.”
“Passwords?” We got into the elevator. “What do passwords have to do with anything?”
“If he labeled his files and used passwords, I won’t be able to get anywhere without them.”
“That’s just great.”
“From what you told me, though, somebody got into his machine and stole something. They couldn’t have done that if he had a password for the file.”
“That’s good.”
“Unless he had a password, and they knew it.”
“That’s bad.”
We got out of the elevator, and I let us into Waldrop’s apartment.
“It’s in the bedroom.”
“Am I getting overtime for this?”
“You’re doing me a favor, which I’ll keep in mind when it comes time for holiday bonuses.”
“We didn’t get a holiday bonus last year.”
“That’s what I’ll keep in mind.”
We went into the bedroom, and I watched as he sat down in front of the computer and turned it on. Already he’d done something I probably couldn’t have done without him.
“Okay,” he said, staring at the screen, “he’s got Windows, Microsoft Word for Windows, he’s got WordPerfect for Windows . . .”
He continued to mutter like that, and he might as well have been speaking a foreign language for all the sense it made to me.
“. . . Prodigy, Quickstart, Quicken . . .”
Yeah, I thought, Framus, Remus, and Thingamajig.
“Let’s try this . . . what am I looking for, Boss?”
“A file with jokes?” I said. “Or maybe a file that used to have jokes in it, but doesn’t anymore.”
He turned around and looked at me.
“If someone stole the file it won’t be here. If they duplicated it, then it would still be here.”
“Wait,” I said. “Somebody could have duplicated the file?”
“Sure.”
“Is there any way to tell when that’s been done?”
“No. If they make a copy, there’s nothing left behind to indicate that it was done.”
“Wait, wait . . . I want to get this straight. If someone is knowledgeable enough to tap into his computer and steal a file, why wouldn’t they just copy it so that he wouldn’t know it was gone?”
“I don’t know.”
I didn’t expect him to know.
“Keep working, I’m just talking out loud.”
Much the way he was as he continued to do what he was doing. With both of us muttering, nothing much was going to get done.
“I’ll be in the other room.”
“Fine.”
“Will it bother you if I use the phone?”
“No.”
I went into the other room and sat on the sofa. Maybe whoever stole the joke file wanted Waldrop to know about it. Maybe the point wasn’t to steal his jokes for their own use, but simply to drive him crazy and ruin his act.
But why?
I dialed Andrea’s work number and she picked up on the second ring.
“It’s Miles.”
“Well, hello, I—”
“I’m at Stan’s, and I’ve got some questions. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Well, yes—”
“Do you know who Stan’s friends were?”
“He didn’t have many—”
“I need one or two.”
“Why?”
“I just want to talk to someone who knew him, preferably someone in the same business.”
“Well, there’s Sam Friedlander.”
“Who’s that?”
“He was Stan’s mentor. He used to work the Catskills as Sammy Freed.”
I frowned. The name sounded familiar, but I wasn’t sure.
“He’s retired now.”
“Where can I find him?”
“He’s usually either at home or at the Stage Deli having lunch.”
“Okay.”
“Or at Wolf’s, or the New York Deli . . .”
“Where else?”
“Maybe the Carnegie.”
“I get it, the guy eats deli.”
“Every day.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Well . . . he’s in his sixties and wears a really bad rug. It’s dark, and the fringe of hair he does have is white. You can’t miss him.”
“And where does he live?”
She gave me his address.
“Okay, who else? Preferably somebody his own age.”
She took a moment to think.
“Well, there’s Lenny James.”
“Another comic?”
“Yes.”
“Do you handle him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t think he’s funny.”
“Does he make a living at it?”
“No.”
“Okay, where can I find him?”
“I don’t know where he lives, but he works as a waiter in a restaurant on Nineteenth Street, between Sixth and Seventh. Uh, it’s called The Rodeo .”
“Country and Western?”
“With a name like that, what else?”
“Describe him.”
“He’s sort of a cross between Larry Fine from the Three Stooges and that guy that plays Kramer on Seinfeld.”
“I think I’d be able to pick him out. Andrea, how good was Stan with his computer?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long did he have it?”
“Not long. He only recently decided to use one for his jokes, and his correspondence, and I think his schedule.”
“Do you know anyone who would want to ruin Stan’s act?”
“A lot of people, Miles. Stan wasn’t what you’d call a nice man. He thought he was more successful than he actually was. He had an attitude that pissed off other performers.”
I started a little when she said “pissed off.” It wasn’t a phrase I would have associated with her.
I was going to ask her for some names, but decided not to put her in that position. I wasn’t too sure I trusted Andrea, not after what had happened last night. There wasn’t really any way she could hide his friends from me, but she didn’t have to give me the names of any of Waldrop’s enemies—especially if they were clients of hers. I could probably get those names from Friedlander or James.
I thanked her for the information and hung up even though she sounded like she wanted to talk some more.
Once I hung up I decided that I didn’t need to stay in the apartment with M
arty while he worked.
“Marty, see what you can find for me between now and five, and then head back to the store. Geneva’s going to need you for tonight.”
“Okay, Boss. If it doesn’t take that long, okay if I head back early?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I hope I find something for you. If I do, I’ll make a hard copy for you.”
“A what?”
He pointed to the printer and said, “I’ll print it out.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
I went out the door thinking that with all the foreign language we had to deal within this country somebody had to come up with computerese.
38
I went to the address Andrea had given me for Sam Friedlander, also known as Sammy Freed. It was an apartment building on the corner of Fifty-sixth Street and Seventh Avenue, with a doorman. Apparently, Friedlander was able to live comfortably in his retirement.
“I’d like to see Mr. Friedlander.”
“Sammy Freed,” the doorman said.
“Excuse me?”
“Everybody around here calls him Sammy Freed.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’d like to see Sammy Freed.”
“He ain’t here.”
“Where is he?”
“We’re not supposed to talk about our tenants.”
The doorman was in his thirties, a red-haired man who looked ill at ease in his uniform. He was standing behind a little stand, his hands clasped behind his back, and he rocked back on his heels slightly.
Body language.
I took out my wallet and extracted a twenty. It disappeared quickly behind the stand.
“He’s still at lunch.”
“Which deli?”
“Wolf’s today. Corner of—”
“I know where it is,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to pay extra for something I already know.”
“Hey, buddy,” he said, “everybody’s gotta make a livin’, ya know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
I started for the door, and he called out, “I’ll give you something for free.”
“Like what?”
“If you want him to talk to you, laugh at his jokes, no matter how old, or how bad—and tell him you remember him. He loves that.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Wolf’s is on the corner of Fifty-seventh and Seventh Avenue. I’d eaten there once or twice. Right across the street is the more ostentatious New York Deli, with its huge front windows strung with whole cuts of meat, and decorated with bottled pickles and peppers. I had eaten there a few times too, mostly when clients wanted to. Once upon a time the place had been an Automat, so it’s big, light, and airy.
Wolf’s was different. The ceiling was low, and there are different rooms, almost like tunnels, that can’t be seen from the front. It was my understanding that Wolf’s and the New York Deli are owned by the same people; what counted was that the food was good.
Inside I stopped a waitress as she was going by at high speed.
“Take a table—” she started.
“I’m looking for someone.”
“So look—”
“Sam Friedlander.”
That stopped her, and she smiled.
“Sammy Freed. He’s in the back room, that way.” She pointed.
“Thanks.”
“You want somethin’?”
“Bring me a brisket on a kaiser, with some fries, and a Doctor Brown’s cream soda.”
Like I said, I’d eaten there before.
Andrea had been right about Sammy Freed. I couldn’t miss him. Not only was the rug he was wearing a bad one, but it was on crooked. He was a comedian, though—at least, he used to be—maybe he meant to wear it that way.
As I approached his table he was telling two waitresses and a busboy a joke. They were smiling, but the people seated at tables around him weren’t because they were waiting for service. It was after three, but Wolf’s was still going strong.
“. . . so the monkey says, ‘sure . . . now!’”
The busboy and waitresses cracked up and went back to their jobs.
“Mr. Friedlander?”
The man looked up from his table. He was still smiling at his own joke and I could see that his false teeth were stained yellow. He looked about seventy, but I was willing to bet he was even older.
“The name’s Freed, lad, Sammy Freed.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Mr. Freed, my name’s Miles Jacoby.”
“Jacoby?” he asked. “Not Ja-co-bee?”
“No, sir,” I said. “It’s spelled the same, but pronounced different.”
He frowned.
“There’s got to be a joke in there someplace.”
“Can I sit down?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you remember me or not?”
“Well, sure I do. You’re Sammy Freed, King of the Catskills.”
Freed laughed and said, “You’re good, son, but you went a little overboard. What can I do for you?”
“I want to talk to you about Stan Waldrop.”
“Stanley?” The old man frowned. “What do you know about Stanley?”
“I was working for him when he died.”
“Sit,” Freed said. “You want somethin’ to eat?”
“I already ordered.”
“So confident, you were, that I’d ask you to sit?”
“I hoped.”
“All right, then, sit and talk to an old man.”
39
Freed had a plate in front of him with one bite left of a corned beef on rye, and a few stray french fries. There were two little plastic cups that had been filled with coleslaw, only now they were empty.
The waitress came with my sandwich and fries and soda. She put the plate down and smiled at Freed.
“You want coffee, Sammy?”
“Yeah, Cora, coffee.”
As Cora walked away, Freed pointed to the coleslaw on my plate and asked, “You gonna eat that?”
“No,” I lied, “I don’t like coleslaw.”
“I love coleslaw,” he said, plucking it off my plate with a liver-spotted hand. “So, tell me about Stanley.”
“That’s what I want you to do, Mr. Freed.”
“Sammy,” he said, “you’ll call me Sammy, and I’ll call you. . . ?”
“Jack.”
“Jack,” he said, nodding shortly. “Okay, Jack, first you’ll tell me and then I’ll tell you, nu?”
“What do you want me to tell you, Mist—uh, Sammy?”
“What were you doing for Stanley?”
“I was looking for his jokes.”
“His jokes?”
“Somebody stole them from his computer.”
“In a computer, he put them? I knew he was all the time writing them down, but in a computer? Oy, what’s this business coming to? You know, I was never a stand-up comic, I was a comedian. Back when I was working we were all comedians. Mort Sahl, Morty Gunty, Jackie Leonard, we were all comedians. Joey Bishop, he was a comedian. Today, they’re stand-up comics? Go figure.”
“You never wrote your jokes down, Sammy?”
“Never, not once.” There was a spot of white at the corner of his mouth from the coleslaw. I didn’t mention it. I bit into my sandwich and waited.
“Stanley, he always had a bad memory, even as a kid.”
“You knew him as a kid?”
“I shouldn’t know my own nephew? My sister’s oldest boy?”
“Stan Waldrop was your nephew.”
“Stanley Waldropsky, that was his name when he was growing up. Me, I wanted him to call himself Stanley Wall, but the kid, he wanted to pick his own name. So, he became Stan Waldrop.”
“He wanted to be like you, right?”
“You’re smart,” he said, pointing at me with a fork, “I like that—but you’re also a wise guy.”
It took me a moment to realize that he didn’t mean that in the Italian sense of the word
.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You didn’t finish telling me what you were doing for Stanley.”
“I’m a private investigator. He hired me to find his jokes, but before I could do a thing he was dead.”
“I know he’s dead,” Freed said, sadly, “of that you don’t have to remind me.”
“Sorry.”
“A bang on the back of the head and boom, he’s gone. The police don’t even know who did it.”
“I know.”
“Hey, you’re a detective, why don’t you find out who did it?”
“It’s an active police investigation, Sammy. I can’t interfere. I’d lose my license.”
We paused while the waitress, Cora, filled his coffee cup.
“So, why are you interested in my nephew, then?”
“He paid me for a few days in advance. I want to earn my money.”
“Honest? You’re honest?” He feigned shock.
“I try to be.”
“What do you want to know, then, Mr. Honest Jack, about my nephew who I loved?”
Before answering, I swallowed the bit of sandwich that was in my mouth. Freed started swiping fries from my plate.
“Who wanted him dead?”
“Who knew him?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Stanley was my sister’s boy and I loved him, but he was a putz.”
“How so?”
“He wanted to make people laugh, but he didn’t want people as friends. That’s what kept him from being good.”
“Could you explain that to me?”
“An audience can feel when you don’t like them. Why should they laugh at you if you don’t like them? Don Rickles, he insulted his audience, right?”
“Right.”
“But he was a good man, he loved people. It was all an act and the people knew it. ‘Hockey pucks,’ he called them. You know who gave him that?”
“Uh, no—”
“Me,” Freed said proudly. “He came to me and I gave him ‘hockey pucks’.”
“Really?”
“I should lie?”
“No, no, I believe you.”
“You should believe me. Sammy Freed doesn’t lie. What was I talking about?”
“Stanley the putz.”
“Right. So Stanley was a shit. I hate to say it, but it’s true. He was the last family I had left, but he was shitty to people.”