“So then what?” Lucy said.
“It was…I had told Manny about Kristalli right away, even before we found the money, and then when we did, Manny decided…I mean we both decided but it was his idea first…to frame Kristalli for murder and the robbery.” She stopped, and got out another cigarette. Paul quickly lit it for her.
“So we made sure to not clean up anywhere he’d been or touched that I could remember. And we put his wine glass where we were sure the cops would find it. After we did all that Manny and I dressed Christopher back in his clothes and took him out to the street and laid him down there. We took the money and the camera and walked back to Manny’s. When the cops questioned me yesterday I gave Kristalli up. Turns out he has a nice long record, too, some sexual assault, a couple of burglaries, and…”
“But he didn’t do it, Carole,” Lucy said. “And he doesn’t have the money. You do. Both of you.”
“That’s true. But the cops won’t believe he doesn’t have it, will they? If they pin the murder on him they’ll just think he stashed it somewhere and won’t give it up. Why would he, if the murder rap sticks he’s got nothing to lose by not giving up the money.”
“And you want to keep it.”
“Damn right she does,” said Paul. “So do I.”
“So did Halloran go after him?”
“I guess,” Carole said. “I don’t really know. All I know is…”
“You got a wad of money that isn’t yours and…”
“Come on, Lucy, get off your high fucking horse!” Paul exclaimed. “You want that two-bit psychopathic sadist to get his hands on this money? Or would you rather make sure it gets back into the account so that Christopher’s long-suffering multi-millionaire mom and dad claim what is theirs?”
“Well,” Lucy said uncertainly. “When you put it that way, I guess the answer is no, I don’t. I see your point. But…” But what? This smelled bad no matter how you cut it. “Hey, let’s go back in and get another drink and finish this conversation in another state of mind, eh?” she said, and headed in. Over her shoulder she said, “I met that Kristalli guy, Carole, and he is a seriously creepy dude.” Lucy went to the bar and got two whiskeys and her double shot of tequila, the tequila that would surely serve to ease her moral quandary if she actually had one—she wasn’t quite sure—and three beer backs. She joined them at the table.
“Then you’ll probably be happy to hear that he’s on the disk,” said Carole.
“The one you shot?” Lucy asked.
“That’s right,” Carole said. “Manny and I…Manny said he wanted to see what was on it to see if I was in any way…responsible for what happened. I wasn’t, that was obvious, except that I didn’t, you know, jump up and stop him before it was…too late. It is all Christopher going through his exceptionally creepy routine, saying hi to mom and dad, doing the whole bit, except right in the middle of it when Kristalli walks into the scene, does the fake-out bit with the chair, calls Christopher a motherfucker or whatever, and then stomps off-camera.”
“So he’s lunch if they find him?” Lucy asked.
“I’d say so,” Carole said.
“They already have,” Paul said. “I called that cop this afternoon and he said they arrested him late last night for beating up a girl in a massage parlor in Sunset Park.” He looked at Lucy a little guiltily. “Place was right around the corner from the Fetish.”
“But why did you call the cop, Paul?”
“Hey, my movie depends on the money, the money depends on all this tricky shit going right. I need to know what’s up. And now I’ve got to deal with the family, which is going to be a real headache.”
“What family?”
“The Wadsworths, of course.”
“What, they’re in on this?”
“No, no, they’re not in on anything except their own greedy stupidity. But they’ve gotten their attack dog attorneys to freeze the joint account, and they’ve accused me of stealing half a million out of it and they’re trying to take back the money and stop my movie and maybe bust my ass too. So…”
“But you didn’t do anything so what’s the problem?”
“The money’s the problem. The half-million. As in, we have it, we need it, we want to keep it.”
“We don’t want to give it up,” Carole said.
“Neither does Manny,” Paul added.
“Manny? What does Manny have to do with it?” Lucy said.
“He was there that night. He’s aware of everything that happened. He knows where the financing for the movie’s coming from,” Paul said. “Meaning his paycheck.”
“So what are you two—and Manny—going to do?” Lucy asked even though she thought she knew the answer.
“You’re a smart girl, Lucy. You know what we’re going to do…if we have to,” Paul said.
“Blackmail? Is that it? You seem to be into that these days, Paul,” Lucy said.
“That’s right, Lucy. They let us keep the money, no strings attached, or…”
“You show them a little home movie and threaten to release it to…”
“YouTube? Fox News? You name it, the outlet doesn’t matter. Look, even if they hated his guts and had already disowned him, which I doubt since young rich guys from the suburbs fucking up in the city is practically a tradition, the point is this uptight Waspy Greenwich clan does not want a movie of their son committing autoerotic suicide—after waving a cheery hello to mom and dad while stark naked with a big stiffie—to come out in the mass media or to turn into a YouTube sensation.”
“You wouldn’t do that, Paulie,” Lucy said quietly, though she knew of course he would. What mattered to him was finishing his film and he would do what was necessary. Plus Wadsworth was dead and frankly who gave a flying fuck about his family?
What was wrong with this picture? Nothing other than it was seamy, soiled, ultra-sleazy, and did not appeal to Lucy’s higher instincts. But no matter, Paul was an artiste and a true artiste was willing to do what he or she had to to get the art done. Forget those rumored higher instincts.
And in this case, along with the art, accomplished Paul might get to run away from his family and get out of town forever—but that was a different story. Or was it? A two-part line from one of her old idols, Mr. Bob Dylan, came to Lucy’s mind as she absorbed these latest twists in the scenario: “Money doesn’t talk it swears, obscenity who really cares…”
“Hell I wouldn’t, Lucy,” Paul said quietly. “I want to get this film done.”
She gave Paul a long, hard look, a look harder and more measured, and measuring, than any she’d ever given him before. Then she drained her glass of Herradura. “Well, old friend, I could say a lot but I’ll spare you the sanctimony and bullshit. All I can say is it better be a damn good movie.”
Strolling along a bit later, after several more shots and beers and a conversation that veered into the actual screenplay where they somewhat drunkenly came up with a couple of useful notions, Lucy up and headed home. And then, while eating a take-out burrito on the weaving way west down Grand Street, Lucy had a light bulb moment, suddenly recalling with absolute clarity that Carole had started her sordid and fascinating tale by mentioning that there were three versions of the story of that night. Her remark now made perfect sense.
By the time she made it back to the building and up the stairs, Lucy had sorted out, more or less, her takes on all three versions of the story, which was not part of the movie but reality, a sort of murder and its ongoing aftermath.
Version One would be the long one Carole had narrated to them, which Lucy believed more or less to be the truth, since it pretty much matched up with what Kristalli told her. She couldn’t figure Carole and Kristalli coming up with that same complicated scenario by accident. There were a few suspicious holes—Manny’s role, for one, and Carole’s accidental and all-too-easy discovery of the money, for another—but it generally held up under scrutiny.
Version Two would be the one Carole had concocted for the c
ops, with Kristalli framed, boxed, and shipped up the river, the money supposedly stashed by him, no one knew where except him and he wasn’t talking. He was saving it for that rainy day twenty years later when he got out of jail if ever he did. For the police, this version would suffice.
Version Three would be the one Paul sold to the Wadsworth family, with which they would have no choice but to agree. This would be a variation on Version Two, wherein the family publicly, dutifully accepts that Kristalli is guilty of murdering their son, and sees him convicted and sent up the river—while knowing, in secret actuality, that Christopher Wadsworth merrily, drunkenly, dopily committed suicide, for they have been informed of the existence of a certain digital recording of Christopher in action. In this version the Wadsworths pretend to understand that Kristalli has the missing five hundred grand hidden somewhere, but wouldn’t dream of demanding it back because according to Paul, and this, at least, is the truth; their darling son Christopher actually owed that creepy character most of it anyway. And so the Wadsworths can kiss the money goodbye and keep their mouths shut regardless of how pissed they are because that little disk loaded with lurid digital imagery is not going away until this movie is done and maybe not then either.
In all three versions the five hundred thousand dollars remains in the hands of Paul Wittgenstein, Carolina Belinskowicz, and Manny Carapini, and the movie got done.
Carole had said there were “at least” three versions of the story. Lucy considered how she could create a fourth version. That would be the one where most of the money ended up in the hands of a really well-run NGO that aided the hungry in Africa, Paul managed to finish his movie, and in the end reconciled with his family and won an Oscar or at least got good national distribution and Lucy got partial credit for the screenplay which got nominated for best original.
Last but not least in this lovely, ideal fourth version of the story, on a small but significant side note, an irrelevant turn of events, Harold Ipswich walked out on his marriage, gave up drinking and the DEA, and decided he loved Lucy Ripken like he did before, only more.
Lucy went to bed writing that one over and over in her tequila-loopy head.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TAKING MEETINGS
The next day’s first meeting took place in Nick’s One Twenty One restaurant, later in the same cinematic hour in which everything else of dramatic consequence had taken place. Even though it had been her idea and they would be speaking her words, Lucy, observing from the sidelines, had doubts about its plausibility—but Paul thought he liked the idea and so here they stood, watching cast and crew spend several thousand dollars to see if it worked.
Morris Karlstein, tightly wound in a cocoon of repressed, implacable anger, strode down the street with his hat pulled down on his head, a man on a mission. Given his Florida tan, he made for an odd sight, steaming through the crazy mix of Ludlow Street, hardly seeing the street where twenty-five years ago he had ruled the roost; now he walked as a stranger in the mob, the same mob that had owned these streets for a century or more, everyman in his many guises, old Reformed, young Orthodox, punks, retro-hippies, hipsters, trendsters, Eurotrash, gangsters and thugs, Puerto Ricans and Chinese and Nigerians and Albanians and Ethiopians and Ugandans and Canadians, God barkers, gutter walkers, street weepers and all the rest of the motley mob—through them all he plowed like an angry old bull, head down, shoulders up, draped in his brilliantly-hued au courant Florida resortwear. He glowered, staring ahead, searching for a place he’d never seen, looking for a man he once loved like a brother and now wanted to kill. Literally. His daughter’s rapist, her former father, his former friend. He spotted One Twenty One from across the street and down the block, and darted across through moving cars, slamming his fist down on the hood of a honking cab, then throwing open the restaurant’s front door. “Platznik in here?” he said, calm but forceful. There were five or six tables occupied with groups of diners, Nick in the middle, doing his nightly dog-and-pony show with his customers.
“Excuse me, sir,” Nick replied, “Did you want a table?”
“I’m looking for Conrad Platznik,” he said. “Have you seen him?”
Nick approached him, and said quietly, “You mean Delia’s papa? Yes, he was here a little while ago. But he was very upset. I thought he was going to…”
“Where did he go? Which way? Goddammit, please, I need to…”
“That way,” Nick said, pointing down the block. “Could you kindly stay calm, sir? This is a place of business and we’re working as you can see. I thought he said he was going to Delia’s place, but I’m not sure. Have you seen her? She was supposed to be coming here tonight.” He checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes ago.”
“She won’t be coming out tonight. She’s not feeling well.”
“She’s sick? I know she has had a very upsetting day, but…”
“She told you what happened?”
“With her father? Yes,” Nick said, misunderstanding the situation again. “But I expect she will…they will get over it, don’t you think?”
“She said you…you’re the owner here? Are you Nick?”
“Yes, I’m Nick. This is my place. And you are…Do you know Delia and her papa from…”
“He is NOT her papa, Mister,” Morris said. “Can you please stop calling that son of a bitch her father?”
A light dawned in Nick’s eyes. This was the real father. Nick had understood him to be coming in a few days but now here he was. And apparently things had not gone as well as this newly-anointed father had hoped. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I didn’t mean to…are you…the man from Florida. Delia’s fath…”
“That’s right. Morris Karlstein. Delia’s father. And you’re Nick. Delia said to tell you she’s sorry she can’t see you tonight. She asked me to come by and to tell you that, and to say that she will see you soon.”
“Is she all right? Can I…”
“She’s upset about…about everything that’s happened,” Morris said. “That’s why I need to talk to her fath…to Conrad. She thought he might come here.”
“I understand. He did, and he too was very upset when he left. It is a…difficult situation, yes?”
“An impossible situation, Nick,” said Morris. “Abso-fucking-lutely impossible.” He charged off down the street, still angry, determined. Vengeful.
Watching him go, Nick saw that things were going badly with Delia. He slipped back inside, conferred with his hostess, said a few apologetic words to his guests, and then grabbed his jacket and put it on over his white chef’s tunic. He headed out, intent on emotional rescue.
“Cut,” Paul said. “That was fine, gang. Well,” he went on, with a glance at his watch, “Back to Eighth and C, kids.” He sounded weary.
“So what do you think?” Lucy asked him.
“It’s OK. I’m still not sure if we need it.”
“I know. But we definitely need Nick and Delia, right?”
“Yeah. But Nick and Delia don’t have to happen right now, do they?”
“You talking movie time or shooting schedule?”
“Either. Both. Shit, I don’t know,” Paul said. “I’m too distracted to concentrate. Hey, people,” he said. “We’re going to bag it for the day. Let’s meet at the apartment in the morning and do that scene then. Nine a.m. You OK with that, Michael?”
The actor playing Nick nodded. “Sure, Paul. I’m pretty beat anyway, after all that cooking.” He laughed.
“Ha,” Paul said once, then got on his cell. “Hey, Carole, Paul. Yeah. No, you can chill, we’re going to wait until the morning.” He listened. “I know, but things changed, plus we have the Wadsworth meet later and I’m obsessing about it too much to work….Yeah, right. No, bring it. You have a copy secured somewhere, right? Yes. See you there. 311 Fifth, seventeenth floor.” He closed the phone. “You want to come to this meeting, Lucy? Just for…”
“Background?” she said. “Moral support?”
“Well, I was going
to say just for fun. It should be an interesting gathering. On one side us, on the other side a fine selection of Wadsworths, and at least two of their impeccably pinstriped pit bull lawyers.”
“Sounds like a real party. You said 311 Fifth?”
“At three. Seventeenth floor. Williams Dornan Chandler is the firm name. Bryce Chandler is their guy. Bring your dancing shoes. And be on time, whatever happens is costing my movie three hundred bucks an hour.”
“Are you going to show your movie?”
“Which one?”
“You tell me.”
“Only if they request a screening.”
“I suspect they will.”
“Of which one?”
“Like I said, you tell me.”
“Well Luce, maybe you can rewrite a little more and somehow find a place in my movie for Christopher’s cheery little dance clip. We’ll put the two together, make it part of the story. I’m sure the brilliant Lucy Ripken can find a way to make it happen.”
“Paul, that is in such bad taste.”
“No, what’s in bad taste is auto-erotic suicide. And filming it. Using the film is, well, opportunistic.”
“Whatever,” she said, heading off. “I’ll try to make the show. But start without me. Meanwhile I’m going home to watch my phone not ring.” She looked downcast.
“It’s Harry, isn’t it?” Paul asked, suddenly all sympathy. He was, after all, a good old friend, and in spite of the crazy stuff going with them and the movie, he knew her history, he loved her, and he wanted her to be happy. “You’re missing him.”
Lucy stopped. “He’d be great to have around right now,” she said. “This whole Wadsworth mess is just the kind of thing he loves to sort out.”
“Why don’t you call him, Lucy?” Paul asked gently. “I know you know as much as I do, which is that he and the Russki babe are splitsville.”
“That rumor I have heard, Paul. But that doesn’t mean he wants to talk to me.”
“Call him,” Paul said. “You know he wants to talk to you, Lucy. He wants to marry you and he can’t do that without talking to you.” Seeing tears start in her eyes, he gave her a quick hug. “See you at three, Lucy. It should be a good distraction if nothing else.”
Sex and Death: The Movie: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 6) Page 15
