1 Breakfast at Madeline's (11 page)

The sky outside was slowly brightening, but it still felt ominously quiet. I wished I had a gun, but all I had was The Penn's grant application. I better hope that old
cliché
was true, the one about The Penn being mightier than the sword. I smiled to myself. The more tired I got, the worse my jokes were getting. I poured myself a much-needed cup of coffee, sat down at the kitchen table, and started to read.

Name: Donald Penn.

Category: Writer.

Amount Requested: $172.32.

$172.32. The exact same amount he requested a year
later. I'd read that far in the '97 application before the fire hit.

Statement of Purpose: I
am requesting these funds to as
sist me in writing my three-volume work
The History of Western Civilization Careening, as Seen through the Eyes of One of Its Primary Practitioners.
After working on this book for three decades, I am now nearing completion.

I shook my head with amusement at that bald-faced lie—
"nearing completion.”
But was it really a lie, or had he somehow manage
d to delude himself into believ
ing it? Having spent so many years as an unproduced screenwriter, deceiving myself about one project after another, I knew how amazingly powerful self-delusion could be. I had a swig of my coffee and continued.

This book will have a major impact on the way Americans perceive themselves as the millennium draws to a close. My thesis is that the merest
act of love can bring almost un
bearable responsibility, and this is why we, all of us, live our deepest lives isolated in cle
ar sky, in Ethiopian, in newspa
pers
...

Oh, terrific, his S
tatement of Purpose was just an
other version of that goddamn preface. And it was three pages long. I co
uldn't bear the thought of read
ing the whole thing, so I just skimmed it quickly for hints about blackmail
, then moved on to the next sec
tion:
Budget of Project. (Please be as specific as possible.)

Having filled out my share of grant applications over the years, I knew what you were supposed to do when you hit the budget section: Come up with some random numbers, inflate them as much as you think you can get away with, then double them for good luck and write them down. It's a con game. You'll find more truthfulnes
s in a Republican campaign docu
ment than in your average arts grant application.

But I guess no one ev
er told this to Donald Penn, be
cause he was painf
ully honest. And talk about spe
cific—his Budget went like this:

EXPENSES, MONTHLY

Rent including utilities
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
$350

Coffee—3 cups daily, at various

restaurants (
necessary
for creativity)
             
             
             
             
             
87.00

             
             
             
             
             
             
             
(includes tips)

Food—daily consumption of 1 can
chunk tuna, 8 oz. milk, 2 cups

Tastee-O's breakfast cereal, 8 oz. frozen orange juice, 4 slices

day-old
bread, and 2 tbs butter
             
             
             
             
             
62.40

Notebooks, pens of various colors, pencils,

erasers, and other writing material
             
             
             
             
             
14.36

Entertainment—1 movie matinee
             
             
             
             
             
 
4.75

Toothpaste, miscellaneous
             
             
             
             
             
 
4.75

Safety-deposit box
             
             
             
             
             
  1.25

Transportation—bus to and from mall for
movie
             
             
 
1.20

Telephone, clothing, shoes
             
             
             
             
             
 
0
___

TOTAL
EXPENSES, MONTHLY:
             
             
             
             
             
$525.71

INCOME, MONTHLY

Social Security disability
             
             
             
             
             
$504.36

NYFA grant (projected)
             
             
             
             
             
14.36

             
($172.32 annual)

Can and bottle returns
             
             
             
             
             
             
  
7.75

TOTAL
INCOME, MONTHLY:
             
             
             
             
             
$526.47

Boy, talk about living on the edge. This guy's life was a regular Flying Wallenda Brothers routine.

I suppose, though, that he wasn't really so different from all the other millions of "emerging artists" in the world, subsisting in tiny bug-infested apartments, stealing salt and sugar packets from their local fast
-
food outlets, working their asses off for years for zilch money while dream
ing of fame and fortune. No won
der so many artists are crazy. The surprise is that more
of them aren't. Like most people—including artists themselves—I have mixed feelings about "emerging artists"; I vacillate
between pity, scorn, and admira
tion.

I turned the page. Under
Additional Comments,
Penn wrote:
A grant of $172.32 will enable me to write for the entire year, free of financial worries. I will not have to dip into my savings, which
total $18.57 (recent bank state
ment enclosed). I hope you will be able to assist me in this very important project.

"Very important project."
I couldn't read anymore. I sighed and rubbed my tired eyes, then gazed out the window. Dawn was burs
ting forth at last, in spectacu
lar fashion. Three broad red streaks laced the soft blue morning horizon. I wondered, where was The Penn now?

Hopefully, he was busy applying to some great arts panel in the sky.

And hopefully, some divine panelist would check the box marked
Accepted
.

16

I showered, shampooed, put on new clothes, and stuffed my old smoky clothes in a plastic shopping bag in the basement. Then I made a phone call. It rang three times before Molly Otis answered. "Hello?" she said, her voice squeaking with fear.

I spoke fast, trying to get it all in before she had a chance to slam dow
n the phone. "Look, the applica
tion. Any other copies?"

She didn't answer.
"Molly, are there any other damn copies?"

Finally, a small, beaten voice: "In New York."

"New York City?"

Her voice got tight with hysteria. "We send one copy of every application to NYFA. Now please stop bothering me!" she yelled, and hung up.

I was still sitting
there holding the phone when An
drea came in wearing her birthday suit, though I was almost too distracted to notice. "Hi, honey, you sleep okay?" she asked.

"Like a log," I answered.

She pointed at the phone in my hand. "You calling Dave?"

I stared at her in confusion. "Are you kidding?" No way was I telling any cop about my little B and E job, even if he did snow-blow my driveway every winter.

"Why not?"

"Well, he is a cop, aft
er all. I doubt he looks too fa
vorably on burglaries."

Andrea frowned, puzzled. "Exactly. So let's call him."

It took me a moment,
but then I got it. She was talk
ing about Ms. Silver Heels's burglary of our house, not my own burglary of the Arts Council. She wasn't aware of that little escapade of mine yet.

And I better keep it that way.

She came closer, sniffing the air. "What's that smell?
Smoke?"

Despite my shower, evidently my pores were still oozing smoke. I hid my right arm, with its blackened spots, incipient scabs, and singed-off hair, behind my back. "I don't smell anything," I said. "Hey, you're right about Dave.
Why don't you call him?" I ner
vously held out the phone with my left arm, extending it as far as I could so Andrea wouldn't step too close and realize the smoke smell was coming from my body.

She eyed me like I was acting strange, but then took the phone from my hand with a small shrug. I guess she was used to my acting strange lately. As she got Dave's number out o
f the phone book (we finally re
membered—Dave
Mackerel
), I went upstairs to take another shower.

Andrea opened the bathroom door and called in that Dave was already at work, having been called in early to help redirect traffic on Broadway because of some big fire, but he promised to drop by later that morning to see us. Oh God, now I had to worry about Dave sniffing out my secret. How long would it take me to get rid of that s
moke smell? I scrubbed so vigor
ously even my arm that
wasn't
singed turned red, then put on a long-sleeved shirt.

When I came back downstairs, I told Andr
ea—with
out telling her about my illegal activities the previous night—that I neede
d to go to New York City immedi
ately. I had to exami
ne The Penn's 1998 NYFA applica
tion and find out if he really wrote that someone was threatening his life, and who it was.

Andrea stared at me, incredulous. "What are you saying? You think someone
killed
Penn?"

"Yes, I do," I said solemnly, and then showed her what The Penn had
written about blackmailing peo
ple. But I couldn't tel
l her about the arson and my in
volvement in it, and I couldn't convince her that The Penn was killed. In
addition to being an upbeat per
son, Andrea is also very no nonsense.

"For God's sake,"
she said almost angrily, "the guy wasn't murdered. We've got enough excitement around here already, we don't need to make up more. And besides," she con
tinued, "if he actually
was
mur
dered, that's a job for the cops, not you!"

"I'm just trying to goose the cops into—"

But Andrea still wa
sn't done. "We just got burglar
ized two times in two nights," she reminded me, "and now you want to leave me alone with the kids? Forget it!"

I had to admit, she had a point. I promised to be back from The City (as we upstaters refer to it) by nightfall, but that didn't mollify her. "The kids and I will be off at school all day
.
What if someone breaks in while we're gone?"

The fact that she was right didn't make her any less annoying. Dagnab it, I'll bet old Sam Spade never had to deal with anything like this. No way. Nero Wolfe, Travis McGee, Kinky Friedman—all of those guys were single, and I was beginning to see why.

Luckily, Andrea and I have developed pretty solid communication skil
ls during our nine years of mar
riage. Whenever we have a difference of opinion, we
simply shout and scream at each other for a while, then talk it over semi-rationally (emphasis on semi), and finally compromise, after which I buy her flowers. The quantity and quality of flowers depends on how much of a jerk I was.

So that's what happ
ened this time. After our requi
site marital squabble (worth a $5.99 bouquet of red tulips, I estimated), we eventually came up with a plan we were both happy with. Then I went to Madeline's to carry it out.

But I must confess, I added a little wrinkle to the plan that I didn't exactly tell Andrea about. I had a feeling she wouldn't like it.

On the other hand, Sam Spade would have loved it.

When I hit Madeline's at 8:40, smack in the middle of the morning rush, the place was packed. Just like I wanted it.

There was an excited buzz in the air, with everyone talking about the fire at the Arts Council building. From snatches of conversation that I heard, like "I bet it was that asshole from New Jersey who owns the place," the main theory seemed to be landlord arson.

Madeline, Marcie, and Rob were all behind the counter, and as usual at that hour, a large assortment of local notables were standing in line.
The Mayor's el
derly secretary, wh
o makes all the day-to-day deci
sions about running the city, was chatting with the wheelchair-bound assistant editor of the
Daily Saratogian
.
He wasn't actually standing in line, of course, he was sitting. A couple of bureaucrats from the Office of City Planning were ord
ering iced lattes. The arts com
munity was well represented too, with Bonnie Engels, Antoinette Carlson, and George Hosey sharing a table nearby.

Bonnie spotted me first. "Jacob!" she exclaimed,
crushing me with a welcoming hug that sent tingles of pain through my scorched right arm. Then she gripped my wrist, causing instant agony, and gazed into
my eyes with deep concern. "So
they let you out of the hospital? Are you okay?"

Gritting my teeth, I looked down at Bonnie's feet, trying to picture them in size-eight silver high heels. Then I sneaked glances at every female foot within glance-sneaking distance—is this how foot fetishists spend their time? How odd!—but unfortunately I couldn't tell their shoe size just by looking. I wanted to ask all of the women in the espresso bar to remove their shoes, but I was afraid that might be considered a little
déclassé
.

"I'm fine," I told
Bonnie loudly. "But we got bur
glarized again."

Announcing that you've just been burglarized is a great way to attract at
tention; try it at a party some
time if you're feeling
wallflowerish. Instantly
every
one in Madeline's was staring at me. The asshole from New Jersey was forgotten.

"Burglarized
again?
"
Antoinette called out dramati
cally, eager to place herself at the center of attention. I'd noticed this trait before; maybe it was why she got so many grants. "And on t
he
same night
the Arts Coun
cil burns down? Is this town going crazy or what?! How utterly, awesomely
bizarre!"

"No, not so bizarre." I solemnly held aloft a brown grocery bag. "They were looking for
this."

Everyone strained their eyes for a closer look at the mysterious grocery bag. In the excitement someone dropped a coffee cup to the floor and it shattered, but even that didn't distract anyone. "What in the world is in the bag?" breathed the Mayor's secretary.

"Something that
somebody
is desperate to get hold of." I took out a note
book and showed it to the assem
bled throng. "This is
Donald Penn's book.
I'm taking it to my safety-deposit box right now, so no one tries to burglarize our house a third time."

Their
eyes followed Penn's notebook as I waved it in the air and smiled to
myself. Everything was going ex
actly according to the plan Andrea and I had cooked up. With Madeline's chock full of people from City Hall, the Arts Council, and the
Daily Saratogian
, and with small-town Saratoga being the most gossipy place in the universe, I
figured that by tonight any po
tential burglars would know that searching our house for Penn's manuscript
would only be an exercise in fu
tility, similar to searchin
g Billy Joel songs for interest
ing lyrics (at least, that's my opinion).

Yes, everything was going exactly according to plan. But now
...

Now it was time to throw in my little Sam Spade wrinkle.

Madeline provided the opening when she asked me, as she filled a take-out cup with Ethiopian, "I don't get it. Why would anyone be desperate for Donald Penn's book?"

I could feel everyone's eyes glued to me. I let them stick there for a moment, then declared portentously,
"Because it's fucking dynamite."

Nobody said a word. This is way cool, I thought to myself, I should take up acting. Then Marcie broke the silence with a nervous giggle.
"Dynamite?
You mea
n like, really good, or like, TN
T?"

I gave my audience a grim Jack Palance nod. "Like, hydrogen bomb. This book will do to Saratoga what Monica Lewinsky did to Washington. Hell, it'll do what Rambo did to North Vietnam."

Another cup fell to the floor and shattered. Bonnie, Antoinette, and George stared up at me from their table, their jaws hanging comically open. The Mayor's
secretary tried to insert a muffin in her mouth but missed, hitting her cheek instead. The assistant editor of the
Daily Saratogian
got a strange tic in his nostrils.

I plunked down a dollar for my java and walked out.

As soon as I was out
the door and out of sight, I al
lowed myself a huge grin, feeling like Dashiell Hammett on one of his good days.
That ought to stir the pot a little,
I thought, and chuckled.

Maybe I should have felt guilty about trying to scare people, but I didn't. Not in the slightest. So far I'd been burglarized, beaned, burned, and shot at. It was high time to fight back.

Besides, the pot I
was stirring had a murderer in
side, which ought to give me some moral leeway
.

And most important
, I figured announcing to every
one publicly that The Penn's book was "dynamite" was a good way to ensure that nobody would try to kill me again
...
assuming that had indeed been the arsonist's intention last night. I h
ad worked it all out very ratio
nally, or so I thought. Donald Penn had picked the wrong person to bla
ckmail. That person—or persons—
killed him to shut him up.
Then the killer or killers bur
glarized my house and burned down Penn's apartment and the Arts Council of
fice in order to get rid of any
thing dangerous he might have written.

But now, as I had announced, Penn's manuscript was going into a safety-deposit box, out of the killer's grasp. So there was nothing any more that the killer could do. He, or she, or they, would have nothing to gain and everything to lose by killing me too. That would just prod the co
ps into doing a more serious in
vestigation of Penn's death, two dead writers in one week being a little too hard to blow off. And after my performance at Madeline's, the cops would doubtless
check into the very same
"dynamite book" the mur
derer was so afraid of.