Getting Old Is Criminal (30 page)

FORTY-SEVEN

THE NEW MAN

L
adies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?” She taps a spoon on a glass. The eating
stops momentarily as Hope Watson addresses the
dining room group. She smiles a little too brightly.

Evvie is only half listening; her attention is on
Philip chatting with the woman on the other side
of him.

“We have a new resident, Mr. Donald Kincaid.

He tells us he’s formerly from Brooklyn.”

Donald Kincaid stands and bows. Evvie glances
up. This new man is the picture of a jolly roly-poly
sixty-year-old, dressed in a rather loud checkered
jacket. He gives the impression of an easygoing
guy with no worries. “Thanks, Hope. Just to let ya
know, I’m single and available. And a good
dancer.”

G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 3 0 1

There is some tittering at that from some of the
ladies. Even Evvie smiles.

“I also spent years as a security guard at Wal-Mart. And I even got to play Santa Claus at
Christmas. Lucky I have rich kids who can afford
to send me here.”

More laughter. Evvie notes that he’s coming
across as a likable guy. Yet, there’s something
about him . . . She goes back to her meal and joins
Philip in his chat with other people at their table.

“So,” continues cheery, blustery Donald, “if
any of you ladies feel like you’re in trouble or
something, I have a great big gun, so just dial my
extension, five-oh-five. I will be at your apartment
in a flash.”

The seemingly sexual innuendo receives a lot of
laughs. Hope pretends to be shocked.

Evvie looks up from her Dover sole. She’s startled to see Donald Kincaid looking directly at her.

“Remember, five-oh-five, if you need me.” He
winks, and then quickly glances away.

Did I imagine it? Evvie thinks. Was he talking
to me?

*

*

*

Evvie wakes up. She imagines she heard something. Something in the hallway. She glances at the
clock. One-fifteen A.M. Philip is sleeping, although
restlessly. She tiptoes to the door and looks
through the peephole. She is surprised to see Hope
Watson and the new resident, Donald somebody,
3 0 2 • R i t a L a k i n

who just moved in. The man she imagined had
winked at her.

They are talking softly. And looking at Philip’s
door. What does it mean? She and Philip are being
watched? Why? The man, Donald, what was it
about him? He said he had been a security guard?

But he looks like a cop. A real cop. Something in
the way he stands there. At attention. Ready for
what? Is Watson going to throw them out for mis-behavior? Something’s wrong . . .

She is pulled back into the room by the sounds
of moaning. Philip is thrashing about, trapping
himself in the sheets, seemingly deep in some
nightmare.

He’s mumbling, becoming more and more agitated. “No . . . go back . . . you can’t come out . . .

No!” As Evvie leans close to him, his arm whips
out, hitting her.

“Phil! Wake up!”

His arms flail. “Get back. I didn’t say you could
come out . . . My head . . . my head . . .”

She hears more mumbling, but she can’t make
out the words. Once he cries out, “Ray!” and
then, “‘To sleep perchance to dream . . .’”

And suddenly it’s over. Philip is sound asleep.

FORTY-EIGHT

MISTER TEN PERCENT

Itake the rickety elevator up to the third floor.

The building is old and smells of decay, and it is in a warehouse part of Miami I’ve never been to before.

I walk down the dreary hallway lit by very low wattage. I’d be afraid to walk it at night. I’m not that comfortable during the day, either.

I enter the office of Herbie Feldkin and Associates, on time for my ten a.m. Monday appointment. I don’t see any associates. I don’t even see Herbie Feldkin. I do look around. It’s a one-man office with a lot of very old furniture and very old faded black-and-white photos on the dingy walls, along with a number of movie posters, equally from long ago. It seems at one time Herbie had a few fairly well-known actors in his stable.

3 0 4 • R i t a L a k i n

And there he is, in an old glossy black-and-white: Ray Sullivan, a.k.a. Philip Smythe. I have to touch it to believe it. Next to a photo of a famous movie star.

“When they make it big, they leave.” Herbie Feldkin, I presume—late sixties, short, bald, and stubby—enters carrying a brown bag. “That’s the nature of the business.”

He takes out two hot plastic cups of coffee and a couple of Danish and by removing a messy stack of
Hollywood Reporter
s and
Variety
s, he makes room on a table already decorated with discolored circles from years of hot coffee cups.

“Cream and sugar?” He indicates the little packets.

“Thank you, that’s very thoughtful.” I help myself.

“Don’t get a lot of company, as maybe you already guessed. But I used to be a contenda,” he says imitating Marlon Brando. Evvie would love this guy. They could talk movies forever. With the thought of Evvie, I grow cold. I must get this over with and get home. I feel a clock ticking in my head.

He sits down behind his scarred desk. I sit in front of him.

“This is really a set.”

“What?”

He indicates the furniture. “I bought the original set of
The Maltese Falcon.
Actually I’m very G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 3 0 5

rich and retired and live on Fisher Island, but it amuses me to come in once in a while.”

I don’t know whether to believe him or not, but I like him. He doesn’t take himself seriously.

Maybe the shabby suit he wears came from the wardrobe of the same picture.

“So, Mrs. Gold. You tell me over the phone you want to talk about Philip Smythe. You don’t say Ray Sullivan, so I’m intrigued. I haven’t heard that name in a lot of years. Not since I left my New York office in the nineties.”

“Probably eleven years.” I hope that stirs something.

Herbie looks surprised. “That’s about right.

Ray left the show
—World of Our Dreams—
and just seemed to disappear. I tried calling him after he got fired. Maybe I could have gotten him another job either as a writer or actor. I mean, he was still a sexy-looking old guy, but in this business old is dead. Look at me. But then again, he was behaving a bit nutzoid.” He makes a whirling motion with his hand. “You meant it when you said this was a matter of life and death? If it was to get my attention, it did. You don’t look like you’re the police.”

I hand him Morrie’s card. “If you want to check, call this number. I am helping with a homi-cide case.”

Herbie brushes the Danish crumbs off his pants onto the floor. “You’re joshing me, right? You look 3 0 6 • R i t a L a k i n

like you should be living in a condo by the beach and playing mah-jongg every day.”

“Close enough. But I am investigating a murder nonetheless. It’s a long story; I can’t fill you in completely. I’m sorry.”

“And Ray is involved?”

“We think so. For the last eleven years he has been living under the name of Philip Smythe.”

For a moment, it doesn’t connect. “You’re kidding.” Herbie’s face transforms as he puts things together in his mind. He gets up and removes a file from his old oak filing cabinet. “Here’s something weird. For that same amount of years, I have been getting money orders from Ray. On almost the exact same dates. Ten percent of what used to be his salary. For a while I didn’t cash them, trying to locate him. Figured maybe he was doing some kind of show in some local TV station. But those sta-tions wouldn’t pay this kind of money. Eventually I cashed them and kept the receipts in here. But what’s that got to do with his using his character name from the show?”

“By any remote chance, did you save the envelopes from where the money orders were sent?”

“No, sorry, I didn’t think it would be important, but I remembered they were from various parts of Florida. So I figured he retired down here, too.

Everybody does, eventually.”

“The checks came each year at the end of March, July, and November. Yes?”

“Wow. Either you’re a mind reader or he is in G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 3 0 7

some deep—” He stops himself. “Trouble.” He finds a less vulgar word to use in front of the little old lady from a condo.

“I need to talk to someone on his old show as soon as possible. The producer, Ms. Hill?

Somehow I doubt my calling her will do any good.

Could you arrange a meeting? I’d be willing to fly up to New York to see her.”

His eyebrows lift at the sound of that name.

“Like I said—everybody moves down here eventually. She lives in Boca. But I gotta tell you a couple of things. She left the show in New York; or rather they eased her out when she got to a certain age.

But that woman could not just spend her money and live the good life. Showbiz was her life.”

“What are you telling me, Mr. Feldkin?”

“You ever see a movie called
Sunset Boulevard
?”

“Yes, of course. With Gloria Swanson.”

“Well, that’s this Glory, too. She found some dumpy production company down here and she’s producing a two-bit syndicated tape soap for them. But she still behaves like, like, Gloria Swanson. It’s a weird scene. She’s using her own money for the fancy offices and high salaries.

Everybody’s playing parts, playing up to Her Highness. But laughing at her behind her back.

And taking as much advantage of her as they can.

Still wanna see her?”

“Yes, please.”

He picks up the phone. “It’s a done deal.”

I wait until Herbie speaks to what seems like 3 0 8 • R i t a L a k i n

one secretary after another until he is finally connected to Glory Hill herself. He talks to her as if she were royalty. She seems to be arguing. He uses his charm. “Glory, baby, for your old buddy, please? The woman is a fan. A big fan.”

I wait eagerly.

He listens and then looks at me. “Noon, okay?”

“Perfect.”

Herbie hangs up fast before she changes her mind. He writes the address on the back of an old envelope he pulls out of the trash and hands it to me. “I gotta warn you, she’s crazy, but still a bitch on wheels.”

Herbie pulls the photo of Ray Sullivan off the wall, blows the dust off it, and then hands it to me.

He walks me to the door. “You were bluffing, weren’t you? About this being a matter of life or death.”

“No. I’m deadly serious.” I can’t stop staring at the photo of “Philip.”

Herbie shakes my hand. “Listen, maybe you’ll let me know how this goes down?”

“You might be reading it in the papers. Even
Variety.
”

“Good luck, Mrs. Gold. You’ll need it. She wasn’t called the Black Widow of Daytime for nothing.”

FORTY-NINE

THE PRODUCER

The young, size-six, adorable blond assistant gives me a tour as we wind our way through many hallways, with walls totally covered with huge color portraits of the stars that’ve played on Glory Hill’s very famous former long-running soap opera. I search for Philip Smythe/Ray Sullivan, but no luck. Another wall features the stars of the soap opera Glory is working on now.

Of course Bree, as the assistant introduced herself, never calls it by that name. “Daytime serial” is the proper terminology, she instructs me. She walks quickly. I can barely keep up. But then I notice everyone I pass in the halls is moving at a fast pace.

Doors are open. I get glimpses of actors being made up, but I notice even their feet are tapping, or pacing as they practice lines in their dressing 3 1 0 • R i t a L a k i n

rooms. A woman pushing a hanging rod of costumes fairly runs past me.