Sex and Death: The Movie: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 6)

by J. J. Henderson

  “The only dogs in this story are crazy old mutts,” Lucy said. “Conrad Platznik and Morris Karlstein. And that beast,” she pointed with a flourish at Claud, “Ain’t no mutt. Hey, let’s go, guys, I’m getting antsy here.”

  They wrapped up and headed out. Indian summer had given way to hard, chilly fall, and a brisk wind swirled through the streets. They went east on Broome, cut north on Lafayette, and stopped at a diner on Houston. “Do you remember coming here, Luce?” Harry said. “It was…”

  “Our first ‘date’ after Jamaica,” she replied. “How could I forget?” They sat. “You ordered liver and onions, and I thought, Jesus, what have I got myself in to here?”

  “That’s what you thought?”

  “Liver and onions in a greasy spoon? Yes,” Lucy said. “It was definitely aberrant behavior.”

  “Well, I hadn’t been off dope that long then,” Harry said. “I needed to hang on to at least some marginally risky behavior. You know what,” he said to the world-weary waitress who’d materialized at their table, her doughy face tinged green in the humming fluorescence. “I’ll have the…do you still have it?...yes!” he said, scrutinizing the menu. “Liver and onions. Jeesh, it used to be four ninety-five!”

  “Yeah, and our rent used to be eight hundred a month,” the waitress said. “Now its three grand.”

  “And the liver’s eleven ninety-five,” Harry said. “Fair enough. Luce?”

  “A bowl of chicken soup and a lemonade, please.”

  “I’ll take a coffee, too,” Harry said. “And ice water.” She shuffled off. “Well,” Harry said, “Here we are. So what’s going to happen, Lucy? What’s the movie location drill?”

  “Well, we all stand around a lot while the actors ‘prepare,’ and then we all stand around some more while they shoot and re-shoot the same twenty seconds, or two minutes, or whatever, until Paul is happy with it. You know in truth there hasn’t been that much re-shooting, because the cast is good, my dialogue generally works, and Paul loves long takes and also hates to waste time because time is so very much about money on a movie set.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Lots of bodies on union clocks, even on a low budget indie like this. I couldn’t tell you the hourly but trust me, many thousands of dollars a day are being spent on this little project.”

  “And you’re getting some of it.”

  “A bit. Twelve grand so far and Paul says there’s more to come. Actually aside from this weirdness with Wadsworth, it has been cool. We just had to rewrite the shit out of the story to make Manny’s deal work.”

  “Do you think it works now?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, Harry. I…Paul’s got some editing to do, and I want to see how the scene goes today, and then, well, I probably still won’t know. But what the heck, it’s only a movie.”

  The food arrived, a modest bowl of chicken soup and a brown mountain of liver and onions steaming on a platter. “God that looks scary, Harry,” Lucy said.

  “Hey, I was living on goat meat jerky last week, Luce,” he said, digging in. “This is a major feast.” After they’d eaten for a few minutes, Harry said, “You say its only a movie, Lucy, but you know and I know this thing goes anywhere your career could skyrocket.”

  “Yeah maybe, but it could also tank, which seems more likely to me. After the X Dames I am a woman of little faith when it comes to fame and fortune in the mass media.”

  “Yeah, I know, but still, it would be cool to see the movie get reviewed and distributed nationally and all that. You’re definitely stepping on to a larger stage here, Lucy.”

  “Again I’ll say yeah maybe, but maybe not, and leave it at that. There are many obstacles between here and the serious big time for Paul, and I’m not sure he’s up to the challenge.”

  “Well, I guess he could always murder and blackmail his way to the top, right Luce?” Harry asked. “I hear that works in Hollywood.”

  Fifteen minutes later Harry unwrapped his leftover liver-to-go and fed it to Claud on the sidewalk outside the diner, and then they headed over to the location. From a block away they could see the small army of movie people, the power truck, the lights, and the rest of the movie-making junk distributed around the intersection and the front of the bar. A small crowd of gawkers stood around gawking. The movies, in action! “Here we go, Harry,” Lucy said, as they slipped through the crowd and onto the edge of the set. She caught Paul’s eye and they went over. Paul and Harry did two minutes of catch-up, and then they all turned back to the bar.

  Nick and Delia sat head to head, an empty bottle of red wine to one side, a second half-full between them, their glasses full, their eyes seeing nothing but each other.

  “I know, I know,” Nick said. “But forget about all that. You—we—need to get out of here. Have some more wine,” he urged her. She drank.

  “I’m getting high, Nicky,” she said, and smiled, slightly tipsy. “I’m going to…lose control of myself in a minute here I think.” Without moving, or even blinking, she ramped her sexuality way up.

  “That Carole’s hot,” Harry whispered to Lucy.

  “No shit, dude,” Lucy said, and jabbed him in the ribs. “Keep your mitts to yourself, buster—or on me.”

  “No harm in looking, Luce,” he said.

  “That’s OK,” said Nick. “In fact I think it is very good. After all you’ve been through you need to relax, Delia. And what could be more relaxing that a week in Antigua?”

  “So, this man said you could use his place for free?”

  “Well, actually I owe him six dinners for four, to be collected over the course of the next year, but I can handle that. And the tickets. But we have to go next week, there’s a window because someone cancelled and…”

  “But what about the…what about Conrad and Morris?” she asked, face suddenly stricken.

  “Delia, you have got to forget about them. They’re…look, if you think that you want to, you know, start up a relationship with Morris some time in the future that’s OK, that’s your business. But Conrad—if it were up to me I would go to the police, and if they didn’t do anything I would go to my cousins who live in Calabria, and they would come over here and take care of him.” He stopped abruptly, suddenly aware of his own anger.

  “You…you’re serious, aren’t you?” she said. “You would…”

  “I don’t know. No. It is hard to see doing harm to an old man like that, but…God, Delia, he should not get away with what he’s done.”

  “He isn’t getting away with it, Nicky,” she said softly. “Because he has lost me. He was my father for twenty-five years and now I don’t ever want to see him again.”

  “Cut,” Paul said softly. “That’s good, that’s perfect for now. Everybody take a break.” He turned to an assistant. “You want to round up Manny and Jack?”

  “Hello, Mr. Wittgenstein, Ms. Ripken.” The detective Halloran appeared, abruptly popping up like a little red-headed jack-in-the-box at Paul’s side. At least he’d waited for the end of the take.

  “Halloran,” Paul said. “What’s up? Can’t you see we’re working here?”

  “Hi, Jake,” Lucy said. “How goes it?” No reason to antagonize the guy.

  “Fine, Lucy,” he said. “And I suggest you just chill, Wittgenstein. I think you might want to hear what I came to say.”

  “What’s that, Halloran?” Paul said. “What could you possibly have to…”

  “I’m cutting your pal Mark Kristalli loose.”

  “Cutting him loose? But why would you ever want to do that?” Lucy said. Maybe because he’s not guilty, she thought.

  “He made bail on the assault charges, and we are dropping all charges relative to the Wadsworth business on the basis of exculpatory evidence.”

  “God damn,” said Paul, exasperated, uninterested in what the cop had to say. Lucy thought it odd. “Do we have to do this now? I’m trying to wrap this up, for God’s sake!”

  “What sort of evidence would that be
?” Lucy asked, curious, and sensing what was coming.

  “This,” he said, pulling a small disk out of his pocket. “This being just about the ugliest little 20-minute movie I’ve seen in quite some time.”

  “What is that?” said Paul, and then he knew. “Is that…?”

  “That’s right, Wittgenstein. Christopher Wadsworth in all his naked glory, doing the dance of death. Mark Kristalli was there too, but he was gone before…”

  “Where did you get that?” Paul asked. He still seemed curious rather than concerned. He’d done the math, and didn’t see how it could affect him. Or his budget, the real issue.

  “Wait a minute,” Lucy said, treading water as she tried to figure the right move. “Didn’t you notice there was a stop, like a jump in the film just before you see Christopher’s body on the floor. How do you know Kristalli didn’t…”

  “What stop? There’s no stop, Lucy. I don’t know squat about movie-making but I’ve looked at this ugly thing enough times now to know it is unedited, unexpurgated shit.” He thrust the disk out, as far away as possible. “There’s all Wadsworth’s creepy stuff and then there’s Carolina Wainwright Belinskowicz charging into the picture and trying to get the stoned fool off the hangman’s rope and then rushing away, and coming back to cut him down after he’s already dead. He slams to the floor like a bag of dirt. Which is what he was, to my way of thinking: a dirtbag.” He shook his head. “This guy got what he was asking for, in my opinion.”

  “I guess that’s one way of thinking about it,” Lucy said, wondering how the hell did he get hold of the disk, especially what was apparently the unedited version. But the way Halloran described the “action” did prove that Carole had told the truth, which pleased Lucy, for she had come to like the girl. She wondered why Carole bothered to do the edit—and then realized it was obvious: to frame Kristalli, which had worked long enough to get a deal with the Wadsworths that would keep Paul in business; and if you’re thinking about a career in the movies you would not want this kind of footage to emerge, say, on YouTube.

  Regardless of that, it did appear that Wadsworth killed himself, accidentally on purpose.

  She sauntered up at that moment, did Delia/Carole. Carole that is, Delia’s softness having stayed in the bar with the character. “Hey, Detective Hollowman, what’s up?”

  “What’s up is I’m debating whether I should arrest you for conspiring to frame this scumbag Kristalli for knocking off Wadsworth,” he said. “But since you didn’t actually murder the poor idiot yourself, and actually tried to save him, or so it appears on this creepy little movie, I figure I’ll leave this one alone. As to why you were shooting the film, I don’t want to know.”

  “Because he asked me to,” she said, seemingly unperturbed. But, Lucy told herself, she is a natural actress.

  “Who did?”

  “Christopher. I think he wanted to give it to his mommy for Christmas.” She walked away.

  He did his red-faced cop’s slow burn, watching her walk back into the bar.

  Nobody had said a word about the Wadsworth family or the five hundred grand. Apparently the cops hadn’t made all the necessary connections.

  “So Kristalli’s out of jail?” Paul asked.

  “By tomorrow night,” Halloran said. “He might end up doing some time for the assault but he’s made bail in the meantime, so…” he shrugged. “Not a whole lot I can do about it.”

  “Now what?” Paul said, impatient. “I mean, thanks for telling us all this but I’ve got a movie to shoot.”

  “I know there’s something else going on here but I don’t quite know what it is. When I do, I’ll let you know.” He looked at Lucy. “Whatever it is I do hope you’re not part of it, Ms. Ripken,” he said. “I’d hate to have to upset my pal Bernie.” He walked away.

  “Asshole,” Paul muttered. “Okay people,” he said loudly. “Let’s get ready for the grand finale here. Are the Sunshine Boys on the set yet?”

  “Hey, what’s up?” Jack said, strolling onto the scene.

  “That cop was here,” Lucy said.

  “Halloran?” Jack said. “Really?”

  “Fuck him,” Paul said. “He’s got nothing on anyone. You ready to go, Jack?”

  “Yeah. I’m on, Paulie.”

  “Where’s Manfredo?” Paul asked.

  “He said he’d be here in an hour,” Jack said, glancing at his watch. “That should give us time to do this bit, right?”

  “You know your shit, it’ll be plenty of time,” Paul said. “Okay people, let’s get this next thing set up.”

  A short time later Morris walked into Second and Second. A woman with a shaved head tended the bar. Two girls leaned on it. Nick and Delia huddled over a table with their wine. Morris halted, shaken; he was clearly as surprised to see Nick and Delia sitting there as they were dismayed to see him walk in on them. Delia can’t keep anything off her face; she’s too uncalculating. Morris, no fool, can see that she is not in the least bit happy to see him.

  Still, he has to approach them. “Hi, Delia, Nick,” he said. “I didn’t expect to…”

  “Morris, what are…why are you following me?” Delia said, not angry but plaintive. “What do you want from…”

  “Following you? I’m not following you, Delia. I am sorry if I stepped in on you, but—maybe you find this hard to believe but I used to live in this bar. Me and your mother—Madge, and…and even Conrad, as little as he liked bars. Who brought you here, the first time, Delia? I bet it was Madge. This bar has been here forever, honey. Isn’t that obvious?” He looked around. The place was faded, shabby, from another time. “This was our hangout of choice back in…too many years ago.”

  “So you didn’t…?”

  “Follow you? God no, Delia. I know you need some time to yourself right now, and…well, to tell the truth, I was looking for…”

  “Conrad,” Nick said. He could see how this was shaping up.

  Morris looked at Nick, and then at Delia. “Yes. Conrad,” he said. “He used to come here, so I thought…” He stopped. “What else can I do? What would you do?” he demanded. “Delia, what should I do?” His voice broke a little. “I don’t know what else I can do except…”

  “Except what…Morris?” she said softly. “Except what…Father?”

  “Oh shit,” Nicky said quietly, looking up. There in the doorway stood Conrad, exhausted, wild-eyed, mad. Morris turned, and the two old men froze, staring at each other.

  “Cut,” said Paul. “God damn, this is getting interesting.” Everybody exhaled, started talking.

  “Cool words as usual, Lucy,” said Carole, who’d got up from her barstool and walked away, leaving Delia behind.

  “Whatever,” Lucy said. “Good work, Paul.” Then she looked more carefully at Carole. “So who do you figure got a copy of that nasty little movie to the cops, Carole?”

  She didn’t flinch. “Fuck if I know, Lucy,” she said.

  Morris and Conrad stared at each other, all their history, love and hate visible in their eyes; at the same time uncertainty shaped their body language. Now that they had come to this moment, neither quite knew what to do or say. For a moment they were frozen, as the storm gathered. And then it broke.

  “Bastard,” Morris hissed. “You stinking, scurrilous bastard.” He moved across the bar towards Conrad, leaning in the door.

  “Karlstein,” Conrad said. “Morris Karlstein, you worthless little putz.” he stopped, eyes darting around. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small handgun.

  “Daddy, no!” Delia cried, and both of the men looked towards her.

  “Delia,” Conrad said. “Delia, I’m so, so sorry.” He pointed the gun at Morris, and then turned it on himself.

  “No, Daddy, no!” she screamed as Morris tackled Conrad. The gun went off wildly, and flew across the room as the women at the bar screamed, ducking. The two old men tumbled out and crashed onto the sidewalk, flailing at each other. Nick and Delia went after them as they st
aggered to their feet, still swinging and yelling at each other. They tumbled off the curb and fell into the street, separated by a few feet. Both laid still for a moment on the ground, panting and dirty, clothes ripped. Morris bled from a cut over his eye.

  “Jesus, Platznik,” Morris said, climbing slowly to his feet. “You are still one crazy bastard.”

  Conrad, too, painfully got to his feet. Now they faced each other, ten feet apart, both breathing heavily, glowering at each other.

  “Gentlemen,” Nick said. “This is not the way you want Delia to think of you. This is not…Oh my God,” he cried out, as Conrad abruptly clutched at his left arm with his right, and grimaced, his face twisted, and ashen; he lunged, staggering a few steps, and then fell heavily forward. Morris got under his shoulders just in time to break his fall. Conrad collapsed onto Morris as they fell, together in an awkward embrace, into a heap on the street, Morris on his back, Conrad on top of him.

  “Conrad,” Morris said, shifting him off and onto his back. “Conrad, I’m sorry…Oh, shit,” he said. “Manny…Manny,” he gave him a shake. “Oh my God, it’s Manny,” he shouted.

  “Cut,” Paul said. “What’s with the…”

  “This wasn’t in the script, Paul, you know that,” Jack babbled as they rushed over to the two men on the ground. “I thought he was…Jesus Christ, Manny, cut with the improv,” Jack broke into tears as Harold pushed them all aside and went into CPR mode on Manny. “Holy shit, Manny, come on,” Jack cried out, sitting on the ground by Harold, who pumped vainly at Manny’s chest. The others stood over them, watching helplessly, surrounded by shocked crew and cast members, and the crowd of gawkers, everybody still and silent.

  The silence held for the moment or two it took to know that Manny Carapini was dead.

  “He’s gone,” Harold said, stopping his efforts. “I would say a major coronary.”