It Happened One Knife (28 page)

“I mean the ones with cognitive function,” he said.

“No need to get snippy. If you can’t do it, you can’t do it. I’ll see if I can find somebody who can.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say I
can’t
do it. I said it was
stupid
to do it when you could buy something much better and brand new for the same money.”

“Okay,” I said, and headed for the door. “See ya, Bobo.”

Bobo sighed. “Where is the Wreck of the Hesperus now?” he asked.

“At police headquarters. I can get it to you this evening, ” I told him.

“I’ll see what I can do, but I make no promises. It’ll take two weeks.”

“Two weeks! That’s my only mode of transportation!” I said.

“I could sell you something right now and you could ride it home tonight,” Bobo countered.

“How about a loaner?”

Bobo twisted up one side of his face. “A loaner? What am I, your tristate Lexus dealer?”

“You’re getting my business,” I said. “You get my business on a regular basis. Let me borrow one of your bikes. Who knows; maybe I’ll love it so much I’ll want to buy it, just like you’re always telling me.”

“Yeah, and if you don’t, I’m stuck with a bike I can’t sell as new. No way, Elliot. Take cabs.”

I gave him my best pathetic face, and Bobo remained unmoved. “You’re losing my business, Bobo,” I told him.

“Fine. Go to one of the big-box stores and see if
they’ll
try to fix your bike for you.” He was good.

“I just hope I’m still here to pay you after walking home late at night over the Albany Street Bridge for two weeks,” I told him.

“You’re breaking my heart.”

“What with being depressed and all over my sense of violation, and the trauma I’ve been through . . .”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” he said, or words to that effect. “I’ll give you a loaner.”

“You’re a prince, Bobo.”

“Yeah. Prince Sucker.”

I
signed the papers to get the remains of my bicycle away from the Midland Heights Police Department, and was given assurances that it would be brought to Midland Cyclery by an officer as soon as possible. On the way out, I knocked on Chief Dutton’s door, and he yelled, “Come,” so I went in.

“Don’t you have a show tonight?” he asked.

“I’ve been finding lately that I’m not really necessary at every showing,” I told him. “Sophie and Anthony are running the place tonight. It’s Jonathan’s night off.”

Dutton gestured at the chair in front of his desk. “Sit,” he said.

I did. “That was something,” I said. We both knew to what I was referring.

Dutton nodded. “Uh-huh,” he said.

“You’ve seen worse?”

“Once or twice,” he acknowledged. “But that doesn’t make this any easier. It does make for quite a case against Les Townes, though. I’m sorry for you.”

That surprised me some. “For me?”

“Yeah. How are you going to watch those movies again with that image in your mind?”

“I haven’t really thought about that yet,” I lied. “I’m trying to take it one step at a time, but I don’t know what the next step is. How are they going to find Les and Wilson?”

“Well, let me ask you this: What do you think was the point of the attack on your bicycle? Why do that, if they’re trying to stay under the radar?” Dutton wasn’t asking as if he already knew the answer; he sat back and laced his fingers behind his head, thinking.

“To scare me off. To get me to stop asking questions. The same day I started calling people about Vivian Reynolds again, this happens to my bike. I think that’s pretty clear.”

Dutton closed his eyes. “Except that it doesn’t add up,” he said. “How would they know you’d made phone calls to studio employees from decades ago? And why worry about you, when two states and I don’t know how many police departments are looking for them?”

I hated it when he made sense. “So what are you saying? ” I asked. “That they’re trying to get caught? They’re interested in making a big enough splash that they become visible again? How does that make sense?”

Dutton opened his eyes, and shrugged. “Some criminals don’t make sense,” he said. “They don’t have a set plan; they improvise as they go along.”

I stood up. “I’m throwing in the towel,” I said. “I’m no detective, and I’m tired of being a target. You let me know when they catch these two, and I’ll be happy to go and spit in their faces in jail. Beyond that, I’m happy to let those of you who do this professionally take the lead. As my people say,
abi gesundt
.”

“What does that mean?” Dutton asked.

"I’m not sure. I think ’wear it in good health.’ ” I started for the door, and then it occurred to me. “Chief, what about Anthony’s movie? We’ve got to find it for him.”

“Two seconds ago you were retiring from police work, which would be a relief to everyone in uniform on the East Coast, and now it’s ‘we’? How does that work?” But Dutton’s smile gave him away.

“Nobody’s shooting at me or destroying my property over Anthony’s movie,” I said. “I think I can handle it.”

“All right, let me give you a puzzle,” Dutton offered. “The movie was there for the showing, and then it wasn’t there. It was there when we looked in the storage space, and then it wasn’t. Who was in the building on all those occasions? Those have to be your only suspects.”

I went through the incidents in my mind. “You’re right,” I said. “I think I’ve got that one figured out.”

38

IT
would take a day or two to organize the group I hoped to assemble in the Case of the Missing Bad Movie, so I concentrated on running my theatre for a change. I called Vic Testalone to give him my order for the next four weeks, but as usual, Vic refused to listen to my choices on the phone, and said he’d be at Comedy Tonight the day after tomorrow. Then I went into the lobby and put up one-sheets for the attractions that would begin on Friday, then went back into the office and called the candy distributor, reading from a list in Sophie’s handwriting, which was revealingly girlish.

But getting the right group together also meant calling Sharon, and that was something I’d been putting off. We hadn’t exactly left each other on a soaring note the morning before, but I didn’t want to believe that was the last contact we’d have. I wasn’t sure we were meant to cohabitate, but that wasn’t the only option left to us, was it?

My stomach had the same tight feeling it had decades before when I’d call a girl from my geometry class to ask for a date. I hoped that my voice wouldn’t crack when Sharon answered.

She must have read the caller ID, because it took a few rings while she decided whether she’d pick up the cell phone, and when she did, it was with a curt, “What is it?”

“Is that how far we’ve fallen?” I asked. “ ‘What is it?’ ”

“You slept with me and then accused me of a crime,” Sharon said. “Were you expecting, ‘Hi, honey’?”

“After all we’ve been through together, I was hoping for the benefit of the doubt,” I said.

“So was I.”

“You had it. I didn’t accuse you of anything; I was trying my best to prove that you
didn’t
do it.”

I could hear the scowl. “You’ll forgive me if I’m not overwhelmed by your gallantry,” Sharon said. “Why are you calling?”

“I was hoping you could come by Comedy Tonight on Friday afternoon,” I said.

“Why?”

This was the part I had been dreading more than the rest, and I spoke too quickly. “Because I’m going to get Anthony’s movie back, and I want you to be there.”

There was a long pause. “What?”

“I think you heard.”

You could light a match on her voice. “Are you inviting
all
the suspects?” Sharon asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, how could I pass up an invitation like that?”

She hung up.

“I’ll e-mail you with the details,” I said to no one in particular.

Well, that had gone well. I stood up and tried to shake it off. I would have lifted some weights, if I’d owned any. And if I’d known anything about lifting weights. And if I ever intended to get into shape in any way other than riding my bicycle.

Somehow, lifting weights seemed to be the wrong response to my situation.

I could have worked off the tension on the new bike Bobo had loaned me. Unwilling to part with one of his top-of-the-line beauties on a temporary basis (and I didn’t blame him, but I couldn’t tell him that), he’d lent me a bicycle that had probably been sitting in his “showroom” for a couple of years. Still, it was quite a bit newer than mine, and I had to admit, it rode more smoothly.

But that wasn’t the point. I’d already lost my Pikes Peak snow globe. There was a limit to my personal suffering, and the bike was beyond what I was willing to endure.

The phone rang, and I stared at it for a moment. Did I really want to talk to Sharon if she was as angry as I imagined? Who else would be calling in the early afternoon? The theatre wasn’t scheduled to open for another five hours; even the staff was still in school, not due for some time. I decided to take my medicine, and picked up the receiver.

“Comedy Tonight,” I said. “The Funniest Movie Theatre in New Jersey.” I made that up on the spot. Impressive, huh?

“You’re not gonna stop, are you?” It was a bad attempt to disguise the voice.

“Is that the best you can do, Wilson?” I asked. “You sound like you, trying not to sound like you.”

“That’s very funny. I guess this call is being traced.”

“By whom? You think I have the FBI in my office? You’ve seen my office.
You
barely fit into it.”

“So I’ll be quick,” he said, as if I hadn’t spoken. The man stuck to the script, like his father. “You’re going to stop asking questions, or you’re going to end up looking like that bicycle outside your theatre.”

“That was going too far, Wilson,” I told him, my voice signing a boldness check that my stomach couldn’t cash. “You crossed a line that you shouldn’t have crossed.”

“So have you.” Did I hear a voice behind him, telling him what to say? It was hard to tell. “And you’re gonna pay for it.” Wilson hung up.

I immediately called Dutton, and although he wasn’t there, a detective took the information and said he’d pass it on to the chief when he came back. He also said he’d get going on obtaining phone records for Comedy Tonight that might determine from where the call had come. But he didn’t sound especially interested, particularly when I told him the call involved a mangled bicycle. I could have mentioned the murder, but from the tone of his voice, I didn’t think even that would have lit a fire under this detective.

Don’t ask me to explain it, but I just wasn’t that threatened by Wilson’s call. For one thing, I’d met Wilson, and although he was large and strong, he was also decidedly stupid, and that tends to lessen the level of fear in my mind even when I’m dealing with someone who could rip my arm off if he got mad. For another, I got the distinct impression that Les had been prompting him, which lent less menace to the threats. It’s hard to think a guy is frothing at the mouth over the prospect of grinding you into a fine powder when his dad is behind him, telling him what to say.

When the kids came to work, I told them all to be ready for a special meeting at the theatre immediately after school hours on Friday, so they could make plans to come to work early. I told them I’d pay them overtime, and Sophie put her hand to her mouth and guffawed. “Overtime?” she asked. “Is that in our contract?” In addition to being a radical feminist, it was possible Sophie was planning to unionize the Comedy Tonight staff. I’d probably end up joining with them and striking against myself.

The shows that night went off in a routine fashion, and I spent much of the night in my office, paying bills and going over catalogues. But something about Wilson’s phone call was nagging at the back of my mind, and I couldn’t really identify it. When I realized I hadn’t heard from Dutton, I called him again, and was told the chief had left for the night.

I rode home on Bobo’s bicycle a little after midnight, and locked the screamingly green door of the town house behind me. I got into bed, knew I was tired, but couldn’t for the life of me close my eyes. I thought about playing Lillis’s guitar, but then remembered the town houses are connected, which was like having apartment neighbors, who probably wouldn’t have appreciated the music at this hour of the morning. Besides, I didn’t know how to play the guitar.

Finally, it was all bearing down on me. I got up and went into the living area. Anthony had converted the tape Broeker had delivered to a DVD, and I got it out of the messenger bag I carry on the bike every day.

I don’t know why, but I had to see it again. I walked over and loaded it into the DVD player. Avoiding the “sofa,” I sat on a director’s chair that had been provided for me (with my name on it, like they cared about me) on the set of
Split Personality
. I picked up the remote and started to watch the disc.

After a few minutes, I felt tears rolling down my face. Harry Lillis was dead.

It was hard to fathom, but there it was on DVD in front of me: one of my comic idols was dead, and I was at least partially to blame, as surely as if I’d strangled him myself.

Lillis died, in fact, over and over on my television in perfect digital clarity. It was enough to make me long for the days of rabbit ears and considerably fewer pixels per square inch.

For someone as given to self-blame as I am, this was a new level of hell. My mind raced until well after four in the morning, coming up with the hundreds of scenarios that would have prevented this from happening: if I hadn’t sought Lillis out; if I hadn’t used him to promote my theatre; if the advertising hadn’t somehow reached all the way to Queens and found Les Townes.

Lillis had died because of meeting me, and I’d have to spend the rest of my life with that knowledge careening around in my head. I might as well turn myself in to the police as an accessory to murder. It’s amazing what you can talk yourself into at four in the morning.