All in all, Wallace didn't mind the fact that he was almost always angry. Something inside him had long ago told him to be afraid of what was in there, never to let it out, and since he hadn't, he was fairly proud of the way he'd dealt with things. He was not all that unhappy with the way he'd organized his life, and he felt he had things pretty much under control.
Until this past Friday, when Wallace's two main obsessions had come together to drive him into a state of barely controlled fury.
At first he didn't even realize what the problem was. He had finished all the real papers and was aggravating himself with the East End Journal. He made a mental note to remember how much money the school board was trying to gouge the town for and he checked out the diagram of a house that some Israeli was building in the Hamptons that was supposed to be the largest private residence in the world. There were several decent obits, too, so while sipping his final half-cup of coffee, he read quarter-page summaries about the life of one man whose hardware store had been on Main Street since 1957 and the history of another who'd invented some kind of special lawn-mower blade that had revolutionized the lives of gardeners everywhere. The third obit was about an actor, William Miller. It was longer than the others, and somehow it seemed more personal. Wallace paid particular attention to it because it was about Hollywood.
At first, Wallace P. didn't know what was bothering him so much about the obit. One thing that annoyed him was that he'd never heard of William Miller, and he was convinced he'd heard of everybody. But it was more than that. It was the 1938 costume drama, The Queen of Sheba. And William Miller's Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor. Even now, days later, Wallace felt the bile rising in his stomach. Nobody had ever been nominated for an Oscar for some historical piece of shit like that. And definitely not in 1938. Best Supporting Actor nominations that year were Gene Lockhart for Algiers-no one even remembered him-John Garfield for Four Daughters, Basil Rathbone for If I Were King, and-oh yes-Robert Morley for Marie Antoinette. Walter Brennan won for Kentucky. No goddamn William Miller. Nobody who had the word "cowboy" in the headline of his obituary. He didn't even have to look it up. Christ!
The Friday he'd read the article, Wallace had tried to calm himself down. He knew that the rage within was starting to spill over onto the outside. But he couldn't contain it. Fucking small-town papers! How could they make a mistake like this? How could they not know? And then Wallace P. realized he wasn't just thinking those things, he was speaking them aloud, yelling them, actually, although there was no one else in his house. For the first time in a long time, Wallace P. Crabbe also realized that he wanted to tell someone-no, needed to tell someone-about this horrible thing, this inexcusable error that seemed to him to spell the end of modern civilization. This was something he could not push away and ignore with a happy smile on his face.
He tried calling his girlfriend but all he got was her office voice mail. He left a message saying that it was important and she should call him. He then called one person who still worked at his old publishing company, a fairly precise production guy, but although this person sympathized with Wallace's opinions about the world's ineptness, he didn't see what the big deal was. After he hung up, he decided that this emergency called for some real action, so Wallace P. stormed to the phone book, looked up the number he wanted, once again grabbed the telephone hat hung on the wall of his small kitchen, and called the East End Journal. Amazingly enough, the person who picked up the phone was actually the man who owned and edited the paper, and he said he'd be more than happy to listen to Wallace's tirade. The owner did indeed listen, although not nearly as long as Wallace would have liked him to. And he kept calling him "Wally," which infuriated Wallace even more. At some point, the owner thanked him for spotting the errors and promised that he would take care of it. He asked for a phone number and address so someone could let him know when to look for the correction in the paper. The editor told him it would probably be printed in next Friday's issue. Wallace gave him the information-but only after insisting that the editor write his name down as Wallace, not Wally. He made him spell it back to him and still, when the man hung up, he said, "Thanks for calling, Wally."
Wallace was certain that no one would ever call, sure that the guy was lying to him. If there was something of which Wallace was positive, it was that he did not trust anyone who insisted on calling him Wally. He was sure that the owner was listening to him just the way Wallace listened to everybody else: patiently, smiling, nodding, and paying absolutely no attention. Wallace P. was as sure about this as he'd ever been of anything in his whole life.
So he was particularly surprised when someone from the police department called and asked if he'd be home in the afternoon. The policeman said that it was about the obit that had run in the paper.
Wallace said he'd be home and he'd be happy to talk about it.
He was delighted that someone had, in fact, been listening to him.
That delight turned to anger once again when, before hanging up, the policeman said, "I'll be there in about an hour, Wally." The first thing Wallace Crabbe noticed about Justin Westwood was that he was sloppy. No. To be precise, it wasn't sloppiness. It was a certain disdain for his own appearance. It seemed almost deliberate. The man's hair was a little too long and unruly. How difficult would it have been to run a comb through it? He wasn't fat, but if he didn't start working out soon, he certainly would be. This man did not turn down that extra cookie after dinner. Which was fine, but when was the last time he'd done a sit-up? And his clothes. They were nice clothes. Not cheap. But the shirt could have used a little starch. Not too much, but some. And the pants could be creased. Oh yes. Those pants could absolutely be creased. Plus: brown loafers. Puh-lease.
The first thing Justin noticed about Wallace Crabbe's house was how extraordinarily clean it was. There seemed to be absolutely no dirt. Or clutter. Or anything personal except for the second thing he noticed, which was that there were at least several months' worth of newspapers stacked up in his kitchen. Crabbe saw him eyeing the stack, immediately got defensive and said, "I use them as sources of reference. I save them for four months exactly. Then I throw them away. Each day I throw out the ones from four months ago."
Justin nodded casually, as if it weren't the weirdest thing he'd seen in a long time. "Did you save Bill Miller's obituary?"
"What's so damn important about this obituary that you had to come all this way to talk to me?"
"The woman who wrote it was murdered." He watched Crabbe's face, waiting to see the reaction. The news seemed barely to register. "You don't seem too upset by that."
"Didn't know her," Crabbe said. "And she certainly wasn't a very accurate or competent journalist."
"So you couldn't care less?"
"I couldn't care at all."
"Nice."
"Mr. Westwood-"
"Detective Westwood. As long as we're being concerned with accuracy."
"Detective Westwood. Did you drive all this way so you could impugn my character?"
"No. I'd like you to tell me what got you so upset about the obit."
"Who said I was upset?"
"Weren't you?"
"Yes. But it was hardly irrational, if that's what you're implying."
Westwood didn't say anything, waited to see where this guy was going with it.
"I had every reason to be upset," Wallace Crabbe said. "There are standards to be kept up."
"And this obituary violated your standards?"
"The obituary violated everyone's standards. First of all, it said that this… this…Miller person… was nominated for an Academy Award in 1938. Preposterous. This man was never nominated for an Oscar. Believe me. Not in 1938, not ever."
"He was an old man. He exaggerated."
"He didn't just make up the award. He made up the movie."
"The Queen of Sheba?"
"Didn't exist."
"How do you know?"
"Detective, I assume you know all abou
t clues or evidence or whatever it is you do. I know movies."
"There was no movie called The Queen of Sheba?"
"Not since a little thing I like to call 'talkies' came in."
"Speaking of evidence, Mr. Crabbe, when I called you earlier you said you'd been away."
"Yes. That's right. I went away with my girlfriend for two days."
"Where'd you go?"
"I don't see that it's any of your business."
"It kind of is," Westwood said. "I'd like to see if you can account for your whereabouts when Susanna Morgan was murdered."
"I have no idea when she was murdered, but whenever it was, I most certainly can account for my whereabouts. The two days I'm referring to, I was in the Poconos. At a small lodge called Pococabana."
"I assume you can prove that."
"Whenever you'd like me to."
Westwood nodded. He hadn't really expected this little guy to be involved in the murder. He was lingering now just because he felt like being as annoying as possible.
"Was there anything else?" he asked. "In the obit, I mean. Anything else that bothered you."
"Other than the writing style? All the other credits were TV and theater. I don't watch TV and the theater's irrelevant in today's world- it doesn't concern me."
"So the answer's no?"
"The answer," Crabbe said, starting to get angry all over again, "is that getting something like an Academy Award nomination incorrect in a newspaper, even a newspaper like the Journal, is an egregious sin. And to make it worse, they were supposed to call me. The editor I spoke to said they'd call me when they discovered the truth. But like everyone else, they lied. I haven't heard a word."
"They've been a little distracted."
"By this woman's murder? It's no excuse for their lack of professionalism. If you see them, please tell them I said that."
"I'll do that," Westwood said. "As soon as I see them, I'll be sure to pass that along."
As Justin walked toward the front door, Wallace Crabbe cleared his throat. "I'll still accept a free subscription."
Westwood stopped, turned, faced the balding little man with the smug expression on his face. "Excuse me?" he asked.
"When they finally get back to work and they find out I was right about this Miller fake," Wallace P. Crabbe said. "I told them I'd accept a free subscription as an acknowledgment of my contribution. I still will. And make sure it's in the name of Wallace P. Crabbe. Not Wally." Then he added with a sniff, "Make sure you tell them that, too."
This time Justin didn't say a word. He didn't even nod. He just left the very clean house and was extremely relieved and happy to sit behind the wheel of his very dirty car.
7
Justin went to bed early that night, fell asleep with the TV on, and was out by ten-thirty. The dream came again, earlier than usual. He'd been asleep only an hour or so.
There were more details than the night before, the violence was even more vivid, the pain even deeper. This time the dream forced him to remember lying on the floor, and that the red was his own blood. He saw the man standing over him lift his leg to kick him, felt the impact of the shoe on his chest. He saw himself turning over, saw the look of pleasure on the man's face, then the look of shock. This time Justin knew that the explosion came from him. And then there was more red…
When he awoke there was no lingering haze. He was wide awake; his brain was going at full speed. This time he did not want the images to stay, so he flung off the blanket and swung his legs out of bed. He turned off the television, went straight to the laptop computer he kept on his kitchen table, inserted the disk he'd copied earlier that day at the police station, and looked at the notes he'd typed up.
He stared at the line that just said: "Walrus"????
"It sounded like Walrus," Deena had said. The blond man had wanted something, some information, and Susanna Morgan had given it to him. Something that sounded like Walrus.
"Goddammit." He said it out loud, got up and ran to his pants that he'd tossed on the bedpost, stuck his hand in the left front pocket. He found the crumpled Post-it that Harlan Corning had given him, the one with Wallace Crabbe's phone number on it. Corning had written "Wally" on it. That's what had thrown him off. The man had even said that he preferred to be called Wallace, but Justin was thinking Wally all the way.
Justin Westwood glanced at his watch. 11:45.
"Fuck it," he said, also aloud, and quickly dialed the number. Wallace P. Crabbe was trying not to let his anger overcome him. His girlfriend had brought up that subject during their two days away. She'd told him that she thought it was unhealthy the way he got so upset over little things, that he'd make himself sick. He was surprised she had noticed. He'd thought he kept his emotions so far below the surface that they were undetectable. But she'd taken his hand in hers, said she knew that was what he thought, but she had gotten to know him well. Possibly even better than he knew himself. So she could see what was going on below the surface. This scared Wallace. But it also made him happy, in a strange, disconcerting way, and he told her he would try to work on this problem.
When he went to the door to answer the doorbell, his first instinct was to erupt. And he had plenty of reasons. First of all, he was watching a DVD of The Third Man, certainly in his top ten of all time, maybe even the top five. And he was nearly at the moment when Orson Welles appeared for the first time, the shot in the shadowy doorway when he was so handsome and so mysterious. He hated being interrupted when he was watching a movie, especially this movie and especially at this moment. Second, it was nine o'clock. That was way too late for anyone to be ringing his doorbell. Third, he was not expecting any more visitors and he was in no mood to entertain anyone he knew or talk to any other policemen or listen to the ranting of a proselytizing religious fanatic, and those were the only three options he could envision.
When he opened the door, he was surprised to find a fourth option.
"Are you Wallace P. Crabbe?" a blond man, quite handsome, asked. He didn't seem to notice that Wallace was trying to contain his fury. Or if he did, he certainly didn't care. The stranger seemed perfectly at ease. "The Wallace P. Crabbe who called the East End Journal about the obit?"
Wallace P. was stunned. So they actually did do something. Maybe that police officer really had passed along his message. Amazing. They even sent someone to apologize. What was the world coming to?
"You're from the paper?"
The blond man nodded.
"I was right, wasn't I?" Wallace couldn't help crowing. It came out smugly, but that's okay, he thought, I deserve to be smug. But then his anger crept back into the smugness, and he said, "Do you have any idea what time it is? This is an outrage!"
"You are Wallace P. Crabbe?"
His ego won out over the lateness of the hour. "I told them they screwed up, didn't I? I was right about everything, wasn't I?"
"You were right," the man said. "Congratulations."
Wallace vented then for thirty seconds or so. He couldn't help himself, no matter what he'd promised about trying to remain calm. He just started spouting off. About the state of the newspaper business, about the state of the world, about the lack of work ethic in just about everyone. About the fact that no one takes his job seriously anymore.
"I take my job very seriously," the man said. "May I come in? I know it's late but I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"About what?"
"I'm curious how you discovered the errors."
"Is this for the paper?"
"Well, it was such a serious screwup I think we're going to do a story on it."
That set Wallace off again. By the time he was finished spouting about his knowledge of movies and his awareness of history and the fact that the errors in the obit were so blatant he hadn't even needed to check them against a reference book, he was sitting in an easy chair in his living room and the blond man was comfortably ensconced on the couch.
"Wow," the blond man said, "you really do know yo
ur movies."
"It's something I take quite seriously," Wallace Crabbe said.
"Me too," the blond man said. "I'm kind of obsessed with movies."
"Well, I don't like to use that word-I think it has a slightly negative connotation-but…"
The blond man nodded toward the TV and DVD player. "What were you watching when I interrupted you?"
"The Third Man."
"A classic. I probably listen to the sound track more than any other one. You know directors and writers and cinematographers, too?"
"And the editors and the cameramen and the composers."
"Can I test you out?"
Wallace was eating this up. It could have been four in the afternoon as far as he was concerned. The paper was writing a story about his diligence and knowledge and he had a fellow movie connoisseur in his house. Heaven.
"Okay," he said, nodding. "But I warn you, I'm very good."
"Extreme Prejudice."
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's one of my favorite movies. Who directed it?"
"Oh, I didn't realize you were starting." Wallace couldn't help his superior smile. "Walter Hill. Nick Nolte and Powers Boothe were the stars."
"Wow. How about The Hand?"
The same condescending smile. "Early Oliver Stone. Michael Caine is a cartoonist whose hand is severed."
"The Big Heat."
"Fritz Lang. Glenn Ford is the policeman whose wife is killed and he goes after Lee Marvin."
"Do you remember the actress who gets the hot coffee thrown in her face?"
"Gloria Grahame. A marvelous performance." Wallace put his hand over his mouth to stifle a cough. "The films you're asking about- they're all extremely violent."
"I guess that's true," the blond man acknowledged. "It's what I like, though. I wonder what that says about me?"
"This has been extremely entertaining," Wallace said, "but I guess we should get on with it. What am I receiving?"
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