by Parnell Hall
Sherry Pressman said nothing, just glared at me.
“So, have there been any authors up here since you got that number?”
“Authors, no.”
“Authors, no? How about anyone else? Who was up here since Thursday?”
“What’s the difference? That doesn’t fit with your theory.”
“Yes, but it’s just a theory. The caller doesn’t have to be an author. It could be anyone. So who was here?”
“I had two prospective clients.”
“Prospective clients? I thought you said no authors. You mean these were unpublished authors?”
She waved it away. “There’s no such thing. Unpublished author is an oxymoron. These were wannabes.”
“Wannabes?”
“Yes. They wannabe authors, but they’re not. They’re aspiring writers, at best.”
“What would an unpublished writer want with a publicist?”
She looked at me. “Are you kidding? Where have you been? I can hype a book to an agent, an editor, a publisher. Even the press. A new writer, just starting out, trying to get published, you have no idea what good word of mouth means before that first manuscript makes the rounds.”
“Did either of these two people sign with you?”
She shook her head. “No. Couldn’t cut the mustard. I charge seventy-five hundred for the first six months.”
My mouth dropped open. Good lord, was I in the wrong line of work.
“Well,” I said, “if they knew that, why did they come to you?”
Her eyes shifted slightly before she said. “For evaluation.”
“Evaluation?”
“Yes.”
“You mean of their manuscripts?”
“That’s right.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said. “Are you telling me you read people’s manuscripts, and then offer career advice?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And you charge a reading fee?”
“Well, I can’t work for nothing.”
“How much do you charge?”
“Why? Do you have a manuscript?”
“Not at the present time. But I’ve certainly considered it. How much do you charge?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
“Five hundred dollars?”
“That’s right.”
“And two people just paid you that?”
“Yes.”
“For you to read their manuscript and tell them what you thought?”
“That’s very reasonable. Some people charge a thousand.”
“Good lord. Tell me, were either of the manuscripts any good?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Actually, I’m just curious. But I suppose it might make a difference. So were they any good?”
“No, they weren’t. In point of fact, neither one was publishable.”
“And did you tell them that?”
“Not in those terms.”
I studied her a moment. “Of course not,” I said. “You told them the manuscript needed work, and it would probably be advisable to generate some publicity before handing it over to an agent or editor.”
“That’s unkind,” she said. “In each case, I actually gave quite helpful and practical advice on rewrites.”
“And how did they take the criticism? Did either of them seem unbalanced enough to hold a grudge?”
“Not at all,” she said irritably, “and I’ve resented the implication from the start. One of them is a very sweet woman with a mystery novel about cats. Totally unpublishable, which gives you an idea of how bad the writing was—pretty hard to miss when it’s a woman with a mystery about cats. The other was a man with a thriller. Equally bad. Depressing, sadistic, a holy mess.”
That sounded promising. “What’s he like?” I said. “Tough, macho type?”
“Hardly. Mr. Penrose is a sweet little man, quite harmless, I assure you.”
“But if he’s writing a gruesome thriller ...”
She waved it away. “Don’t go by that. That’s just the flavor of the month. He’s also done a P.I. novel, a courtroom drama, and a cozy. All equally bad. The man has no talent whatsoever. But that doesn’t seem to stop him.”
“I see,” I said. “Of course, you keep encouraging him with your evaluations.”
She set her jaw defiantly. “I am not leading him on, I am merely trying to be kind.”
“I’m sure you are,” I said. “The fact is, this is a repeat customer, which is why you feel you can vouch for him.”
“You really suspect Mr. Penrose?”
I shrugged. “As I say, it could be anyone. A man who’s failed that many times could resent someone who’s succeeded.”
“So he threatens his wife,” Sherry Pressman said sarcastically. “That’s worse than one of Mr. Penrose’s plots.”
“That might be,” I said, “but I’m going to need his address and phone number. Him and the other one. The woman with cats.”
Sherry Pressman gave me the names and addresses and I copied them down. She did so very reluctantly. It was clear the woman was hugely frustrated by the fact that no one was going to let her publicize the death threats.
It occurred to me it would be particularly frustrating in the event that she was the one who had arranged for the death threats in the first place.
13.
EARLY NEXT MORNING I WAS in my favorite position behind the hot dog stand on West 34th Street waiting for the creep to make the call. But this time I was somewhat more prepared. I was wearing my beeper, the one I usually wear for my job with Rosenberg and Stone. Today I was wearing it just for me. I had given the number out to Maxine Winnington, with instructions to beep me the minute the call came through. I could call her, get the number, and know immediately if the guy had called from the phone I was watching, the East Side phone Kenneth P. Winnington was watching, or another phone altogether.
It wasn’t the best of all possible worlds. In fact, if Richard Rosenberg, whose beeper it actually was, had sprung for the newer, better beeper I’d requested, which allows the person beeping you to punch in a number that will be digitally displayed on your beeper, then I could have gotten the number instantaneously without even having to make the call. But Richard, in his infinite wisdom, felt it was his beeper, his office was the only one he cared to have beeping me, and why should he pay extra just so I could be beeped by somebody else?
As usual, I had found Richard impossible to argue with, so I still had the old beeper, which couldn’t do anything but beep. If it beeped this time, I would know it wasn’t the office, because the office knew I was on a leave of absence. It would be Maxine, wanting me to call her. As I say, it was the best I could do.
Long about nine fifteen a rather shady-looking individual used the phone, but with my track record from the day before, I didn’t jump to any conclusions, just waited to see if my beeper went off. It didn’t, and I let the gentleman go about his merry way.
My beeper went off about five minutes later. The good news was the call had come through. The bad news was, it wasn’t from my corner. At the time I got beeped, there was no one on the phone at all.
I crossed the street, dodging cars, and called my client.
The phone was answered on the second ring. But no one said hello. There was just suddenly a loud, empty, echoing sound that meant the connection was open.
“Hello,” I said. “Maxine, are you there?”
Then I heard her, over the speaker phone. “Oh, thank god it’s you. We thought it was him.”
“Him? What, calling back?”
“Back?” she said. “What do you mean, back?”
“Didn’t he just call you?”
“No,” she said. “He hasn’t called. That’s why we thought it was him.”
“Then why did you beep me?”
“Beep you?”
“Yeah. Why did you beep me?”
“I didn’t beep you.”
“Yes, you did.”
&
nbsp; “Don’t be silly. I would know if I had beeped you. I didn’t beep you. I’ve gotta hang up now, so we can keep the line open.”
And she hung up the phone.
Damn. What a revolting development that was. The beeper malfunctions, making me look like an asshole in front of my client.
If it had malfunctioned. But that had to be it. The only other person who might have beeped me was Alice. But it couldn’t be her, because the beeper has two tones, intermittent and steady. Alice always beeps me on steady—that’s how I know it’s her.
The office uses intermittent. Which is the main number. The one I’d given Maxine. If she hadn’t beeped me, the only one who could have, presumably, was the office. And, as I say, they wouldn’t have, because they knew I wasn’t working.
But it occurred to me, Richard Rosenberg’s switchboard girls weren’t that swift, and I suppose it was conceivable one of them might have forgotten I wasn’t on call.
I dropped in another quarter, called the office.
“Rosenberg and Stone,” said either Wendy or Janet. The two switchboard girls, in addition to being incompetent, happened to have identical voices, so it was impossible to ever know who you were dealing with.
“Hi,” I said. “It’s Stanley.”
“Stanley,” Wendy/Janet said. “You’re on the beeper. I thought you weren’t working.”
“I’m not working.”
“Then why are you on the beeper?”
“I was using it for something else. Did you beep me?”
“Of course I did. Who else would beep you? But I didn’t expect you to answer.”
“Then why did you beep me?”
“Oh. Richard told me to.”
Richard told her to? That didn’t compute at all. Richard knew I wasn’t working. And Richard was competent.
“Then you don’t know why?” I said.
“No.”
“Then I’d better speak to Richard.”
“Just a minute.”
Wendy/Janet put me on hold. Seconds later, Richard Rosenberg came on the line.
“Stanley,” Richard said. “Why are you on beeper?”
“It’s a long story, Richard. Why did you have me beeped?”
“I thought it couldn’t hurt. It didn’t occur to me you’d have the thing on.”
I felt as if my head were expanding. “Richard,” I said. “Pardon me, but that doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe not,” Richard said, “but that’s the situation. You answered the beeper, now I’m on the hook. Where are you?”
“I’m at a pay phone on the southeast corner of Thirty-fourth Street and Seventh Avenue.”
“Yeah, well, stay there,” Richard said. “They’ll pick you right up.”
“They? Who’s they? Richard, what the hell is going on? Why’d you beep me?”
“Just one of those unfortunate things,” Richard said. “Seems you’re wanted by the police.”
14.
I MUST HAVE BEEN WANTED very much by the police, because I hadn’t been standing there more than five minutes when a cruiser with the lights on pulled up and two uniformed cops got out.
“Stanley Hastings?” the older of the two said.
I tried to ignore the little knot that always seems to form in my stomach when I hear a cop call me by name. “Yes?” I said.
He opened the back door of the cruiser. “Get in.”
I did, and the cops did, and away we went.
No one said a word.
I assumed this was the silent treatment, trying to get the suspect to crack. Since I wasn’t sure what I was suspected of, it wasn’t working.
“Where are we going?” I said.
No one said anything.
“Aw, come on,” I said. “I’m a citizen. I have my rights.”
The older cop who was driving said, “He has his rights.”
The younger, shorter, stockier cop said, “Yeah, right.” He half turned in the seat, said, “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent ...”
I blinked. Miranda? The guy was reading me my Miranda rights? What the hell was going on?
I waited till he was finished, said, “What am I charged with?”
“Now, now,” the older cop said. “No one said you were charged with anything.”
“Then why read me my rights?”
“I thought you asked for them.”
“No, I just asked where we were going.”
“I don’t think that’s in the Miranda rights, is it?” the older cop said. “The right to know where you’re going?”
“Not that I recall,” the short, stocky one said. “Should I read it again to make sure?”
Great. As if I didn’t have enough troubles, I’d drawn a pair of cynical, wiseass cops who were under the mistaken impression that they were funny. I shut up and sat quietly in the back seat, while the car tooled downtown. The silence was oppressive, and it was a huge relief when the police car finally pulled to a stop.
Initially.
I tried to open the back, but of course it was locked. For a second I had a flash of panic that they were just going to go off and leave me there. Then the older cop came around and opened the back door. I stepped out gratefully onto the sidewalk.
And found myself face to face with Sergeant Thurman.
My heart sank.
I must explain. And apologize. I’ve had many dealings with the police in my less than illustrious career. And contrary to popular detective fiction, in almost all instances I found them to be clever, capable, intelligent men, far better equipped for solving crime than I could ever hope to be.
Then there was Sergeant Thurman, the exception that proved the rule. A walking cliché, straight out of a private eye novel. A cop so dense he couldn’t solve the crime if you xeroxed the solution and handed it to him. I’d had the misfortune to work with him before. I’d prayed devoutly that I would never work with him again. And yet, here he was, my nemesis, standing before me, large as life, and whatever the hell he wanted, it couldn’t be good.
“Well, well, well,” Sergeant Thurman said. He was a bull-necked man who looked and talked like a prizefighter who’d taken one too many blows to the head. “So, Rosenberg gave you up.”
I blinked. Richard Rosenberg had indeed given me up, if only through the bad luck of my wearing my beeper. Still, it was interesting Thurman looked at it like that.
“Come on, Thurman,” I said. “What’s up? Why did you pull me in?”
“As if you didn’t know,” Thurman said. It was one of his favorite expressions. And one of my least favorite.
“If I knew I wouldn’t be asking. Come on, what’s up?”
“You know where we are?” Thurman said.
Actually, I had no idea. I’d hopped out of the police car, seen Sergeant Thurman, and been unable to focus on anything else. I was vaguely aware we were in front of a white stone building of some sort, but what it was I couldn’t have ventured a guess.
“No,” I said. “Where are we?”
Sergeant Thurman put his hand on my shoulder. “Come on.”
We went upstairs, inside, down a hallway, around a corner, downstairs, through a swinging door. We were in a wide corridor with florescent lighting and a marble floor.
The smell of formaldehyde hit my nostrils.
I blinked.
“What is this, the morgue?”
Thurman said nothing, kept his hand on my shoulder, pushed, me along. We went down the corridor, took a left through another swinging door.
And confirmed the fact we were in the morgue. In it were two marble slabs. One was draped with a sheet. At the other, a doctor was slicing up a corpse. He was using an electrical circular saw, and had just cracked the chest. Blood was everywhere.
I’d never been present at an autopsy before, and I sincerely hope I never am again. At first glance, my knees grew weak, my legs got rubbery, and my stomach did a back flip. I think the only thing that kept me from keeling
over was not wanting to give Sergeant Thurman the satisfaction of seeing me do it. That and the desperate need to know what the hell was going on.
I made myself look at the face of the body, trying to place it. He was a young man with dark hair, a swarthy complexion, moustache and sideburns. I was pretty sure I’d never seen him before, but poor as I am with faces, that wasn’t necessarily true.
“Hi, doc,” Sergeant Thurman said. “Sorry to bother you again, but I got someone here I’d like to have take a look.”
The doctor was a white-haired gentleman, appeared to be around sixty-five. I found that encouraging. Now that I’m older, so many doctors I meet seem too young to be doctors, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I found the white hair reassuring, the elderly features strangely comforting. Were it not for the blood-splattered gown and gloves, I could imagine this man about to examine my eyes, ears, nose, and throat.
“Oh, sure, go ahead,” the doctor said, barely glancing up from the body.
Thurman grunted his acknowledgment, pushed me over to the other slab.
So, no wonder I hadn’t recognized the body. That wasn’t it.
Thurman took hold, of the sheet covering the slab arid pulled it down.
I took a look and blinked.
Lying there, staring up at me, was the body of Sherry Pressman.
15.
“MY GOD, IT’S TRUE,” I MURMURED.
“What’s that?” Thurman said.
“Nothing,” I said, mentally kicking myself.
“Nothing? What do you mean, nothing? You said, My god, it’s true.”
“I was in shock. Seeing the body.”
“You ever seen it before?”
“Not as a body.”
“You mean you’ve seen her alive?”
“Should I be answering these questions? I mean, am I a suspect here?”
“No one said you were a suspect.”
“No one said I wasn’t. Should I have an attorney present?”
“You have the right to an attorney. I can’t see why you’d need one.”
