by Al Roker
He came forward, cards in his left hand, his right extended. Against my desire, Adoree freed mine so I could shake it. “This is great,” he said. “I take it you and Addie are … friends?”
“This lovely man and I just met,” she said. “He came with Carrie.”
“Really?” Webber gave the word a musical three-syllable pronunciation. He turned to the blond actress with a curious yet oddly pleased expression. “I gather from the TV show that you two spent the day together at what turned out to be a murder scene. Bummer for romance.”
“Billy and I are friends,” Carrie said, using a corrective tone. “He was kind enough to keep me company on the drive here from the station.”
Webber turned to me. He seemed a little deflated that his star and I weren’t ready for our tabloid romance. I wondered why.
“We paused the game to watch you and Carrie,” he said. “That lady in D.C., what’s her name? Vida? She’s got a real chip on her shoulder pad for you, Billy. Am I right?”
I shrugged.
“Well, anyway, you didn’t let her get to you. And we were ecstatic that Carrie was able to plug our little movie project. Speaking of which, the beautiful lady at the computer is my coproducer, Madeleine Parnelle.”
The henna redhead gave me a noncommittal nod and continued to glare at Webber, who was pretending not to notice. “Gerard just emailed her the rough draft of his next chart-busting opus, and she’s a bit anxious to check it out. She’s vetted all his books. Some say she does more than that.”
I understood he was saying that Madeleine Parnelle might even be as responsible as her husband for the success of the novels. But since he, Webber, was hitting the sack with Madeleine, that made his comment something of a double entendre, not that anyone but I seemed to notice or care. Evidently, they were more sophisticated than I. And in my unsophisticated way, I wondered if the affair might be running out of steam. That could explain why the idea of my matching up with Carrie appealed to Webber. If she were changing partners, maybe Parnelle might consider reclaiming his wife’s attentions.
Webber interrupted my speculation by asking, “Did Addie tell you the part she’s playing in the film?”
“I am Madame Acardine, the monstrous, how do you say, mean girl of the piece?” Adoree said, trying to look sinister but only making herself more adorable.
“That must take quite a lot of acting,” I said.
“Adoree’s a wonderful actress,” Carrie said. “She was nominated three times for the César.” The French Academy Award.
“Always the bridesmaid,” Adoree said.
“Never the bride?” I asked.
“Not so far.” She held up her left hand and wiggled a naked wedding-ring finger.
“Hard to believe,” I said.
“Meet some other members of the crew, Billy,” Webber said, indicating the poker players. “The Frenchman with the white powder on his mustache is our director, Austin Deware. Austin directed the en Français version of the book that made a ton of loot and won a million awards and turned him into an international A-lister. We fully expect him to top himself with the American version.”
“It weel be my Shinatowne,” Deware slurrily proclaimed. He could have still been in his twenties, pudgy with a soft pale face he was hoping to toughen with a Fu Manchu mustache that actually did seem to be hosting a few dots of white powder. Probably not dandruff.
Webber continued his intros. To Deware’s right was the room’s elder presence, Lars Bergamot, the film’s cinematographer. To his right was a ferret-faced black man named Harp Didio, The Thief Who’s assistant director, a misleading title, since the AD actually assists the producer. The almost too-handsome blond hiding his eyes behind aviator sunglasses was a current television heartthrob, Sandford Hawes. According to Webber, he was the romantic lead, an incompetent insurance investigator who ultimately wins the antisocial heart of the hard-boiled girl thief.
The final card player was Webber’s business partner, Alan Luchek. “Alan is the bad cop at Onion City Entertainment,” he said. “I handle creative, he handles the biz, and he’s more ruthless than a Somali pirate.”
Luchek certainly didn’t look the role. He had the freckled face of a teenager and a mop of red hair that, unlike Webber’s perfectly molded coif, seemed to have been clipped by a distracted country barber. Opie as bad cop? A stretch, but he did have the majority of the games’ poker chips stacked in front of him.
“P-pleased to meet you, Chef B-B-Blessing,” he said, making that bad-cop image even more fanciful.
“We might as well call the game for tonight, huh?” Sandford Hawes suggested. “I know we’re off tomorrow, but I can still use the z’s.”
“No!” Webber said, walking back to his chair. “Not with the hand I’m holding.”
“There’s something I have to talk to you about, Derek,” Carrie said.
“Sure,” he replied. “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s … personal.”
Webber wasn’t obvious about it, but he gave Madeleine Parnelle a quick glance before replying to Carrie. “Okay. Let’s take it into the living room. Billy can play my hand for me.”
“Actually, I’d like Billy to join us,” Carrie said.
Webber got that amused grin on his puss again and said, “Fine. Ah, Addie? Know anything about poker?”
“My papa was a croupier at Cercle Clichy Montmartre in Paris,” she said. “I began playing the game at the age of nine.”
“You learn something new every day,” Webber said, handing her the cards.
I watched her walk gracefully to the table and take a seat. She turned and winked at me, assuming quite correctly that I’d been following her every move.
“You coming, Billy?” Carrie asked.
Sadly, yes.
Back among the big pop-art paintings, I said, “So this is what you call your living room, Derek?”
“Living room, party room, screening room, library.” He turned to Carrie and said, “What’s up, babe? You’ve got my full attention.”
“Billy and I were shot at tonight.”
His eyebrows went up. “Shot. Like, bang-bang?”
“Like that,” she said.
“Where the hell were you, for Chri’ Pete? In some South Side dive?”
“Around the corner, on Schiller,” she said.
“No shit?” He looked from Carrie to me, not really expecting me to contradict her. “This is, what? That thing they were saying on the tube? Some crazy asshole killing everybody who was on that talk show?”
“Maybe,” I said.
Gone was the convivial host, replaced by the guy his associates saw during business hours. “Give me the full play-by-play,” he said. “No. Wait. Let me get Alan in here.”
The company bad cop ambled in, carrying a bottle of Mountain Dew. He suggested we move to a gathering of leather chairs on the far side of the recessed area. He perched on the arm of his chair and said, “Rek m-m-mentioned a shooting?”
While Carrie gave us an accurate description of what had transpired on Schiller Street, Alan Luchek listened carefully, his boyish head cocked to one side, eyes intent on the actress. When she’d finished, he asked me if I had anything to add.
I told them about seeing the other two figures heading toward the shooter. I held back on seeing the black SUV’s departure or that it had followed me in the past. I told myself it was because I wanted to minimize my participation in whatever was going on.
Luchek was frowning. “I thought the TV show tonight was just b-b-blowing wind. A k-k-killer b-b-bumping off guests on a talk show sounded a little Murder, She Wrote to me. Somebody b-b-beating up on Patton? No b-b-big surprise. The other guy, I dunno. Maybe he saw something. B-b-but a hit squad going after you guys, this is serious shit.”
“I guess we should call the police,” Carrie said.
“Whoa,” Luchek said, clutching his heart. “The insurance on the f-f-film is costing an arm and a leg as is.”
“May
be we should see where we are before letting the world know we’ve got a potential problem,” Webber said. “Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, only half convinced.
“You were driving?” Webber asked.
She nodded.
“Notice any cars following you?”
“I don’t—” Carrie began.
“Maybe,” I said, and told them about the black SUV and that I’d seen it before, following me.
“Th-th-that suggests you were the t-t-target,” Luchek said.
He seemed relieved.
Glad one of us was.
Chapter
TWENTY-THREE
“It didn’t worry you, Billy?” Webber asked. “Having somebody on your ass?”
“I wasn’t sure they were following me. They weren’t there earlier today, I don’t think.”
“Well, they made up for that tonight,” Webber said.
“It doesn’t matter who they were following,” Carrie said. “If Billy hadn’t pulled me out of the way, we’d both be dead.”
Webber moved closer to Carrie and put his arm around her. “Don’t worry, Carrisima. We’re not going to take any chances with your life. We’re gonna get you some protection.”
“B-B-Bucky,” Luchek suggested.
“Perfect,” Webber agreed.
“You’re talking about a bodyguard, right?” Carrie asked.
“The ultimate bodyguard with the perfect name. Bucky Hurtz,” Webber said. “Three hundred and ten pounds of muscle, bone, and sinew. But he’s also street-smart, neat, clean, and polite. Some say he killed a guy by accident during a mixed martial arts match when he was attending Northwestern. Others claim he was the only survivor of a mercenary squad in Afghanistan. Folk songs have been written about Bucky Hurtz.”
“It’s late. I’ll c-c-call him in the morning,” Luchek said, and took a hit of Mountain Dew.
“What about Billy?” Carrie asked. “He really needs a bodyguard.”
The two men looked at me, then at each other. I made it easy for them. “WBC will pop for security.”
That was probably true, assuming I presented them with the problem, which I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to do.
Webber insisted on driving me to my hotel.
Being chauffeured by a billionaire in one of his three Ferraris was such a trip that in spite of my concern that the black SUV was lurking somewhere unseen, I was feeling obnoxiously superior.
Then Webber started talking about the murders and my mood flattened like a chicken paillard. “Any idea what the hell happened on that talk show to put you and my star in jeopardy?” he asked.
“Not a clue.”
“It’s got to be something involving Patton,” he said. “The guy was a murder waiting to happen.”
“What makes you say that?”
He executed a fancy turn before replying.
“He wasn’t a very nice man.”
“You knew him?”
He made one of those fake smiles, as natural as the grin of a skeleton. “Worse than that, I tried to do business with him. Onion City started out producing reality series. The Desperate DARs of Savannah, Bartenders: Life Behind the Whiskey Curtain. A few others. Patton pitched a true-crime series, based on CPD files and a diary he kept the whole time he was on the force. He wanted to call the show The Overworld. Every week would be another example of how the criminal underworld families of the thirties, forties, fifties, and sixties directly influenced today’s major movers and shakers.”
“Sounds like an interesting idea,” I said.
“That’s what Alan and I thought. Frankly, I’ve got a thing about the city’s gangland history. So we sat down with the guy and his lawyer and hammered out the deal. We all shook hands. But we couldn’t get Patton’s signature on the agreement. He kept giving us excuses. He wanted to get the concept approved by his buddy, Chief of Police Oz Dillman. Or his attorney felt the need to clear a few names, just to make sure no jailhouse lawyer could make trouble. A week before our first network pitch, Patton decided to walk away.”
“Give a reason?” I asked.
“Not to us. Not then. A couple weeks later, the son of a bitch wrote on his blog that he pulled out because he discovered Onion City had roots in organized crime, or as it is known hereabouts, the Outfit.”
I opened my mouth and then shut it. No sense asking a dumb question.
“Of course it was bullshit,” Webber said. “But that didn’t stop the FBI from putting us through the wringer for months. They wound up ‘discovering’ what everybody knew, that Onion City was an outgrowth of a little online service called Instapicks, which had its roots in my family’s garage, not in any Outfit boardroom. Getting that clean bill of health cost a lot of time and money, Billy. Thank you so much, Patton. May your dark soul rot in hell.”
“What was his point?”
“Beats me. At first I expected that shyster of his to tell us his client would make the whole thing go away for some ridiculous fee. When that didn’t happen, I wondered if they might not have sold the fucking series themselves directly to NBC or HBO.”
“Is it possible he really believed you were tied to organized crime?” I asked.
“I don’t know where he would have gotten that idea. Anyway, even though he had this super-cop rep, I’ve talked to people who say he looked the other way every now and then if the price was right. In other words, he wasn’t the kind of guy to be offended by the prospect of spending Mob money.”
Patton’s real reason for walking away from their deal was a puzzler, but it wasn’t my puzzler. “What can you tell me about Patton’s lawyer?” I asked.
“Huh?” Webber asked as his mind shifted gears. “His lawyer? A little—no, make that a big—weasel named James Clement Yountz. Of the firm Garaday, Hilton, Pendrake, and Yountz. On Boul’ Mich. Not exactly a shady operation, but they have their share of bent-nose clients, and this is Chicago.”
“The city that works?” I said.
“The city that works you over.”
“You’re not a Chicago boy?”
He smiled. “Close enough. About fifteen miles to the north. Winnetka. Alan’s from the land of the big wind, too. We were high school buddies. New Trier. Go Trevians!”
“Your family still there?” I asked.
We were nearing my hotel. He maneuvered into the right lane.
“Nope. My dad’s … gone. Mom lives in Miami with a retired city judge. Nice guy, I guess. Heidi, my younger sister, is in L.A., working for a talent agency. And my older sister, Roz, is in Weston, Connecticut, married to an ad exec. Got a couple of kids. She opted for the housewife bit over a career. Says she’s happy.”
“You happy?” I asked.
“I don’t give it much thought. I guess that means I am. You strike me as a happy guy, Billy. You a family man?”
We were at the hotel parking circle, where about a dozen cars were blocking all three lanes, either awaiting passengers or disgorging them. “No family,” I said. “Not married. Never have been.”
“Ever wonder what it might be like?” he asked.
“Not a day goes by,” I said. “What about you?”
“Down one. But I’m not totally against another try. Just have to see what the future brings.”
A lane opened up, and he pulled the Ferrari into it. Several valets rushed us. It was that kind of sports car.
“I’m having a little party tomorrow night at Restaurant Pastiche. Mainly business. Some media. People with money in the movie. But it should be fun. Drop by.”
One of the valets had my door open. “I’ll be tied up with the Hotline show until eleven.”
“We’ll still be partying.”
Stepping out of the vehicle, I said, “Will Adoree be there?”
“Sure,” he said. “Addie’s a knockout, isn’t she? And, being French, that makes her a little different from the American actresses I’ve … dated. But she is an actress. That means she’s more than a woman and can make you feel les
s than a man.”
I guess I frowned, because he added, “Hey, scratch that, huh? I’m … not exactly an expert on romance. Go for it, if that’s what you want.”
He held out his hand, and I slapped it.
I watched the Ferrari drive away and decided I agreed with Charlie Dann, the Puff Potato man, that Derek Webber was one of the good guys.
Chapter
TWENTY-FOUR
“Do you realize the time, Billy?” Cassandra Shaw, the manager of my Manhattan restaurant, said between yawns.
“I’m sorry. Your message said to call you as soon as I got in.”
“I left that message at … Oh, well, fuck it, I’m awake now. A.W. is awake. Perhaps I should go downstairs and ring all of my neighbors’ door buzzers and we can all be awake.”
I looked at my watch. “It’s only two-twenty-five there.”
“I had a very long day, Billy, handling my job and yours at the Bistro.”
“I wouldn’t have called, except that you sounded pretty desperate.”
“You really have to turn your phone on,” she said.
We’d had this conversation before. The problem, as she well knew, was that I have to deactivate the phone whenever I go on the air, and, no matter how hard I try, I can never remember to reactivate it when the show is over. I’d been greeted by the voice mail she left at the hotel, to wit: “Billy, where the hell are you? This fucking restaurant is about to self-destruct.”
“What’s happening to my restaurant, Cassandra?”
“Oh, Billy,” she said and moaned. This was not like her. She was as tough as she was competent. “It’s a mess. We had another blackout about an hour before the first serving.”
“Great. We should put the electrician on staff,” I said.
“He found one problem. But evidently not the problem. Anyway, the customers seemed amused by the prospect of dining by candlelight. The electrician restored the power, but by then we were running an hour or so late. I told the waiters to offer drinks or appetizers on the house.”
“Good.”
“So what with keeping everybody happy and answering dumb questions from the staff and cracking the whip on the electrician—who was charging us double for emergency service even though he’d obviously screwed up on Friday—and trying to calm down Maurice, who, it turns out, really doesn’t like the dark, I was ready to blow my own fuse.” Maurice Terrebone is our usually unflappable kitchen supervisor.
