“Oh my God,” said Paul. “Oh my fucking God.”
“I thought he was improvising the heart attack,” Jack said, sobbing. “I thought he was…oh Jesus Manny, how could you…” he broke down. “The guy’s in…was in…great shape. There’s no way he could have a heart attack. No way.” He sobbed.
Carole knelt down and put an arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Hey Jack,” she said softly, “It’s OK, man. Manfredo led a long and happy life.”
It wasn’t in the script, it wasn’t in the script, it wasn’t in the script, Lucy ran this in her mental loop over and over again as the whole scene and its aftermath played out: everybody realizing what had happened, the 911 call, the ambulance with paramedics, another brief, failed effort at reviving him, the whole drama of a public, high profile death. No, it hadn’t been in the script, but those guys had been doing so much improvising on what was in the script, when Conrad—Manny!—had fallen, clutching left arm in right in a classic heart attack pose, Lucy had simply thought, good idea, Manny.
And then he died. Even so, even if it was real and he was dead, really dead, it was a good idea, dramatically speaking.
And Paul had it all captured in his digital movie camera. It was part of the movie.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EPILOGUE: IT’S A WRAP
“Did you get it?” Paul said quietly.
“Yeah,” Lucy answered. “Thanks for the forward.”
“Strange, huh?”
“Sorta. But…it makes sense, don’t you think?”
“I guess.”
“It” was an email that had arrived in Paul’s inbox and which he had forwarded to Lucy.
“Hello Paul. By the time you get this I will be dust. Or ashes, if my lovely wife does as I request and burns me up. Or mud, if she fulfills the second half of my very last request and dumps the ashes into the Hudson River. I wanted to set your record straight, and also that of your esteemed colleague, Ms. Lucy Ripken, who did a superb job on the screenplay rewrite.
“I was two weeks from getting shot on the mafia show. They were done with me and I decided I didn’t want to give them the pleasure of murdering me on TV. My blood pressure was so high I was about to explode and I did not want to stop taking my sex meds or living the life I had waited so many years to live. I was told I had six months without major heart surgery or death. In spite of my recent successes I have never had any money of my own that I earned, and while I would hardly begrudge my wife her generous willingness to support me all those years, the thought of a large chunk of money I could call my own was very tempting.
“And so I urged Carole to take that money when she found it. At the time I thought some of it might somehow end up in my hands but alas, that never happened. I’ll say no more about it.
“I hope the movie does well, and if everything goes according to my plans—if you receive this email, then my plans have all worked out perfectly—you will have a real life death of a character to play with in your final cut. I’m not sure if this is a first or not, and I have to admit that it was not an idea that originated with me. I watched Lucy Ripken’s X Dames TV mystery movie, and they had a live death in it, although it was, unlike mine, completely unplanned. That was my inspiration—that and my heinous medical condition. I’m not certain exactly when my suicide will have taken place, but with Jack’s unwitting cooperation, if we get into a proper brawl it most certainly will take place.
“In your movie, Conrad dies of a broken heart, and I—well, when you get right down to it, so did I.
“Do what you want with the footage. I have no doubt that you will anyways, but I want you to know that having my real life death be part of your movie, should you choose to include it, would be an honor for me.
“See you on the other side, my friends.
“Signing off, now and forever,
“Manfredo Carapini”
“So where or who did it come from?” Lucy asked.
“Anonymous,” Paul answered. “As far as I could trace with the help of a tech pal, an internet café on Grand Street. But it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“I guess not.” She hesitated, since the really big question posed by this email had not yet been settled, not at the funeral or the wake, not at the post-production meetings Lucy had attended, not at the cast and crew dinner—a more raucous affair than anyone might have expected, given the two deaths associated with the production—and not even in any one of the several conversations Lucy had with Paul in the week since that day. “So, Paulie,” she finally went on, trying for a tone both light and serious, “What are you going to do with that scene? I mean its—“
“Manny’s—I mean Conrad’s—death? I have to use it, Lucy. You know that.”
“I do?”
“Yes. It is just too…I hesitate to say perfect because Manny died, but surely you can see my point. Dramatically speaking.”
“I wouldn’t have ended it that way. I didn’t end it that way.”
“No, and I felt your ending was…inconclusive.”
“So’s life, Paul.”
“This ain’t life, this is a movie. And this was a gift—from Manny. He turned my not-quite-tragic story into a tragedy and took it to its perfect, cathartic end. The only thing I’m thinking is I should shoot a funeral scene where Delia maybe forgives him, and Morris too, and…what do you think? Can you handle it?”
“I think no matter how well you do this, the movie will be seen as exploiting his death.”
“But I can’t take responsibility for that, Lucy.”
“No, I guess not. But I can’t do it, Paul. I’m done with this story.”
“There’s ten grand I owe you already in the mail to be followed by another five if.”
“No thanks. Harry and I are going to Mexico tomorrow, Paul.”
“Have fun, Lucy. And thanks for everything. You did great work.”
“Good luck finishing, Paulie. Break a leg.”
“Two no doubt.”
They went to Mexico and stayed at a tiny little luxury hotel on the Costa Maya, where Lucy forgot all about A Movie About Sex and Death. Living the high life, sailing, diving, and kiteboarding every day, they emptied her bank account, knowing ten grand would be waiting on return.
And it was. Lucy called Paul to check in and thank him. His cell phone had been disconnected. She called their house and got Grace’s voicemail, left a message. She called Carole, and her roommate said she’d left town and didn’t say where she’d gone or when she’d be back. Jack was not home. Michael, Nick in the movie, was on location on Long Island and not available. She didn’t have numbers for anyone else. Just as she was preparing to fling her phone across the room in disgust, Grace called back.
“Hi, Lucy,” she said. Then stopped.
“Hi, Grace, how are you?”
“Good.” She waited. Lucy waited.
“That’s good,” Lucy said. Still nothing. “So what’s up with Paul and the movie? I go out of town for two weeks his cell’s gone, no one’s home, I can’t figure out…”
“He’s gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Don’t you know?” she said. “Didn’t he tell you? Seems like he told everyone else he…we…knew.”
“Know what?”
“He’s in Rio, Lucy, starting his new life.”
“Oh. I see.” She didn’t really. Not with all this stuff at stake. Paul she didn’t write. The movie she did. “What about the movie?”
“That was my pay-off, I guess. My prize. He gave me a hundred and fifty grand and lots of points and anointed me the producer. He’s coming back for the premiere if he can work out a deal with the Wadsworth people and also the cops.”
“Premiere. Where? When? What kind of deal?”
“He’s a smart boy, that Paulie. You know that. He knew I could get him somewhere if he’d let me produce. In this case, post-produce. As in send this movie out in to the world and make them think they need it. I’m really good at this shit.
But he couldn’t just do it, recognize my talent and give me the job, he had to…humiliate me by dumping me. But I did get him into a fat primetime slot at the Tribeca Film Festival.” And you did strip him naked and beat him with a whip at least once a week for the duration of your marriage.
“Tribeca? That’s fantastic, Grace. That’s…”
“He doesn’t deserve it, but the movie does. You should see the last cut he did, Lucy. It’s awesome.”
“I bet. Paul’s got a great eye. So what did you guys do with the death scene?”
“Manny’s? I mean Conrad’s? It’s there, of course. Followed by a barn burner of a funeral, with all kinds of wailing and moaning and shit. And of course the death scene is all over the press releases. Those festival guys love the movie but they love the real death in a dramatic feature even better.
“What a wonderful world.”
“Yeah right,” Lucy said. “Well hey, I just got back, got a lot to do.”
“See ya, Lucy. I’ll let you know when there’s a screening.”
“That would be good. Oh, but this deal you said Paul needs to make? What’s that about?”
“Remember the business with the family? The Wadsworths?”
“Yeah, I was at that meeting. Paul was going to return half the money and all that.”
“Right. Well he didn’t. He gave me like I said a hundred and a half and took the rest. So he can’t come back until he sorts that out.”
“I see. And what about…” she caught herself and stopped. Who knew who knew what? “Hey, thanks for all the info, Grace. And please do call when you show the movie, eh?”
“Will do, Lucy. You get partial writing credit, by the way. Along with that imbecile Jimmy Waxman, and Paul.”
“Cool. Let’s pray for Oscars.”
“Let’s pray for distribution first.”
“Check. See ya Grace.”
Paul finally called her about a week later, just when she’d more or less put them all out of mind and decided to try and figure out what next since this movie premiere was months away and money disappeared fast, especially in Manhattan in the early days of the 21st century.
“Hey Lucy, it’s me,” he said, sounding crackly and distant.
“Paulie, where are you? It’s great to hear your voice. I can’t believe you…”
“Rio, Luce, like I told you. It’s incredible. We’re…I’m having such an inspired time…I’ve got like three scripts in various stages and I could shoot down here for three lifetimes and never run out of ideas, images, you name it.”
“Sounds great, Paulie. So are you guys coming up for this premiere?”
He hesitated. “Guys?”
“You and Carole. She’s there with you, right?”
Silence. “How did you figure that one out, Luce?”
“Where else could she be? And when your lovely—wife, ex-wife?—told me that you’d taken all that money instead of half, and then given her a big chunk, well, since Carole had her hand in that till from the get go, and that major creep Kristalli is maybe after her, well, it was an educated guess.”
“I see your point. Yep, call me the old lech, at it again.”
“Don’t sound pleased with yourself, please, Paul. It is extremely unbecoming. And what about your baby, Paul? What about Antoinette Graciela? Don’t forget what the song says, money can’t buy me love…”
“I had to do what I did, Lucy. Spare me the moral judgments.”
“Fine, Paul. That’s just fine and dandy.” With her tone she made sure he knew it wasn’t. Not by her lights anyway. “So are you going to sort out your shit and come to the premiere with your little leading lady?”
“Grace gets the distribution deal she thinks, I can pay those motherfucking Wadsworths back with interest, they’ll lose interest in harassing me, the cops will go away, then—yes.”
“See you then. Bye Paulie.” She hung. “Asshole,” she said.
“What’s that?” Harry called from the other room.
“Nothing,” Lucy said. “Nobody.” She didn’t think Paul’s excuses carried water. It was as simple as that. He was a lecherous man, a Lothario, a serial adulterer, and a dishonest man. But she loved him and hoped to God his movie did well. After all it had her name on it, somewhere in the sea of credits.
“Story by Paul Wittgenstein”
“Written for the screen by Jimmy Waxman, Paul Wittgenstein, and Lucy Ripken”
No periods. Credits didn’t have periods. Nor were they alphabetically listed, in this case. But the audience applauded loudly, and the applause lasted long enough to qualify as more than polite. Over the course of several nights, Lucy took her several little bows in the several places she was supposed to, and went on with her life.
After all, Harry had proposed again, without prompting, and having said yes, now she had a Mexican wedding to plan.
This concludes book 6 in the Lucy Ripken Mysteries. Book 7, Utah, will be out soon! In case you’ve missed any, you can find the rest of the Lucy Ripken Mysteries on Amazon:
Sex and Death: The Movie: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 6) Page 20
