Show Business Is Murder (5 page)

“Beats spending the day in a birdcage.”

“But it's a lot riskier if Franklyn finds out. Make sure he doesn't.”

“Don't worry. We'd better not talk or see each other again until afterward. This is what I want you to do. Just
colors, because they're easier than numbers to see accurately through the blindfold. Forget the zero and double zero because you may not land near enough to them. Pick the colored slots in this order for your thirteen appearances. You'd better write them down. Red, red, black, black, red, black, red, black, black, red, black, black, red. That's seven black, six red. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“I won't see you Wednesday night. Thursday night I'll be in my car behind the Landing Strip at midnight to give you your cut and talk about the next show.”

“I don't work Thursday,” she reminded him. “We can make it earlier if you want.”

“No, midnight's best for me. I'll see you then.”

Wanda hung up, wondering what she was getting herself into.

ON WEDNESDAY JUDD
Franklyn greeted her at the door as he always did. “Good to see you, Wanda. Feeling lucky tonight?”

He'd never asked her that before. “What good does it do me to feel lucky? I don't bet.”

When she mounted the turntable at the center of the wheel at nine o'clock, she glanced casually around at the faces in the crowd. At first she didn't see Sam Dole, but after she donned the doctored blindfold she spotted him with a short young woman who was making a bet. Then she crouched down as the turntable started to spin. She rolled off the padded wheel and stretched out her joined hands. Just ahead of her was eighteen red. She didn't even have to cheat.

There were the usual cheers and groans from the players, and then applause as she took her bow and promised to return in fifteen minutes. She didn't see Dole, but she assumed he or his friend had collected their winnings. The
evening went along routinely after that. Once around eleven o'clock, between performances, she went to the bar for some tonic water and found herself standing next to the young woman who'd been with Dole.

“Having any luck?” she asked casually.

“Off and on,” the young woman replied. “You do this for a living?”

“I've had some Off-Broadway gigs and I was at the Brooklyn Museum last year. Performance art is hard to define sometimes. This is my first experience as a human roulette ball. I suggested it to Judd and he bought it.” She drank a bit of the tonic water. “What's your name?”

“Minnie Brewer. And no jokes about a short beer. I've heard them all.”

Wanda chuckled. “Do you come here a lot?”

“This is my first time. I heard about your performance and I had to see it for myself.”

“Well, I'm on again in a few minutes. Good luck with your betting.”

This time she had to slide a few inches to hit the proper color, but it was hardly noticeable. By midnight when it was time for the five thousand dollar limit, she didn't see Minnie at all. But Dole was in the front row of bettors, looking pleasantly surprised when thirty-six red came up. It had been a good night for them both.

On the way out she saw the reporter, Rick Dodson, lingering at the bar. “When's the story running?” she called over to him.

“Soon as I can get a good angle,” he told her. “My editor was hoping for something a bit sexier.”

“I'll perform nude next week if it'll help,” she said and kept on walking.

She slept late on Thursday morning and woke up remembering she had to meet Dole that night. For a few minutes she considered forgetting about the whole thing,
letting him keep all the money. But she'd earned her part of it, why not collect? Driving out to the Landing Strip a little before midnight she decided she'd take the money this one time and give him back the blindfold. She'd experienced the rush of it and needed no more.

Dole's car was parked near the back of the lot and she could see him seated behind the wheel. She opened the passenger door and slid in beside him. “It went smoothly, but that was the last time. Pay me off and I'll say goodbye.”

When Dole didn't answer she thought he had dozed off waiting for her. She gave him a jab to wake him up and that was when she felt the knife in his side, buried up to the hilt.

WANDA LEFT THE
car quickly, pausing only to wipe her fingerprints from the door handle. If Judd had found out about the scheme, she could be next. She could be in big trouble. She drove to her apartment and went quickly inside, remembering to enter the code and disarm the security system.

They found his body about an hour later, and it was a story on the morning news even before they'd announced his identity. Wanda spent most of Friday debating whether she should show up for her performance that night or hop the next plane back to New York. She wanted to get out of town fast and forget the whole thing, but fleeing might appear to be the action of a guilty person. And Judd paid her for the week on Fridays, when he could calculate the handle for the three nights she worked. She hated to leave without her week's pay.

So she showed up as usual on Friday at quarter to nine. For once Judd wasn't at the door to greet her, and the bartender pointed toward his office. “The cops are questioning him about that killing.”

“What killing is that?” Wanda asked innocently.

“Fellow named Sam Dole, a small-time operator from back east. He tried to shake down some Atlantic City casinos and they think he was trying something out here that got him killed.”

Wanda shrugged. “You never know.” She hung up her coat and pulled the hood over her hair, then climbed up to the turntable with the real blindfold. In total darkness once more, she had no idea what number she hit until the croupier called out, “Nineteen red.” Double zero came up the next time and it wasn't until nearly ten o'clock that Judd Franklyn reappeared with the two detectives.

One of them watched Wanda go through her performance and as she left the wheel he stopped her and asked to examine the blindfold. “Sure,” she said and handed it over.

“Fine,” he said after holding it to the light and poking at the padding. “Just checking.”

Judd Franklyn came over to her as the two detectives left. “Some punk got himself killed last night so they're checking with the casino owners. One of my chips was in his pocket and they came here. No cash on him. It was probably just a robbery.”

“Did you know him?”

“Not by name. They showed me his picture and I think he was here a few times. Hell, am I supposed to remember every face I see?”

She performed the rest of her appearances until midnight, then received her week's check from Judd. “Maybe I'll take off next week,” she said, testing the waters.

“Take off? You can't do that. We got a contract!”

“Do you really need me?”

“Damn right I do! I got customers only come here on your nights.”

“We'll see how I feel on Monday.”

She walked out to the bar and was surprised to see Minnie Brewer at the wheel, placing a bet on the spin of the white
volleyball. “I didn't get here in time to see you tonight,” she told Wanda. “I was over at the Sands.”

“You didn't miss a thing.” She asked the bartender for a tonic. “Sorry to hear about your friend.”

Minnie gave her a puzzled look. “Which friend is that?”

“Sam Dole, the man who was killed. I saw you talking to him one night.”

“You make friends fast around a roulette wheel, especially this one. Watching you is like, I don't know, watching an Olympic gymnast.”

Wanda laughed, deciding it was meant as a compliment. “Well, thanks.”

“Anyway, I didn't know that Dole person you mentioned. If I was talking to him it was just idle conversation.”

Wanda nodded. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Thanks but I just finished one. Got to concentrate on the numbers.” She put some chips on Even and was rewarded when six black came up.

Wanda got her cape and went out to the car. The traffic always seemed heavier on Friday nights and it was close to one o'clock before she turned into the apartment parking lot. Someone was waiting in the shadows near her door and she grew apprehensive until she recognized young Rick Dodson.

“When's the article going to appear?” she asked, repeating her usual question.

“Sunday, I think. Can I come in?”

“It's pretty late for socializing.”

“I've got another question for you.”

“All right. Come on in.” She unlocked the door and turned on the lights, tossing her keys and purse on the table. “Do you want a drink?”

“No, no thanks.”

She settled down on the couch opposite him. “Now what's your question?”

He took something from his pocket and showed it to her. It was a blindfold, a mate of the one she'd worn for Sam Dole. “Do you want to keep on, working with me instead of Sam?”

Wanda took a deep breath. “You killed him, didn't you? You were never a reporter writing a story. You were getting information on me for Sam, so he could decide if I'd be likely to go along with his scheme.”

“Forget about Sam,” he told her, waving away her words.

“Why did you kill him, Rick?”

“I'm the one who thought of the idea and he was cutting me out of my share. I was supposed to bet the final five thousand but he was on the other side of the wheel placing a bet, too. We won sixteen grand, not eleven, and he wouldn't give me the cut he'd promised.”

“I should have known when I saw you there again the other night. You were Sam's betting partner. I thought it was a young woman he was talking to.”

“Sam was always talking to young women. That was another problem between us. But never mind him. Are you in this with me?”

“No, not when there's been a murder. You're on your own.”

He took the knife from his pocket and the blade sprang open. It could have been a mate to the one that killed Dole. “You don't understand. If you're not with me on this you're against me. I can't have you talking to the police.”

“I already have, Rick. When I saw you waiting for me just now I suddenly knew you were Dole's partner. He mentioned once that this roulette wheel stunt was better than sitting in a bird cage all day. But you were the only one I'd told that to, and your article for the magazine hadn't yet appeared. He could only have heard about the bird cage from you.”

He was shaking his head, playing with the knife. “You didn't talk to the police. You haven't gone near the phone.”

“I didn't need to. I simply neglected to punch in the code to deactivate the security system. The police should be here right about now.”

The knocking came right on cue, and a voice called out, “Police! Are you all right, Miss Cirrus?”

“No I'm not, officer,” she said, hurrying to open the door before Rick Dodson could decide what to do. “I'll tell you about it.”

DODSON WASN'T THE
sort to keep secrets. He waived his rights and confessed to the murder as soon as they got him downtown. Wanda slept all day Saturday and part of Sunday, then got up and thought about the future. Instead of heading for the airport, she had her costume dry cleaned and went back to Judd Franklyn's wheel on Monday night. It may not have been art, but it sure was show business.

ANNETTE MEYERS

HE BEGAN EMPTYING
the pockets of his suits methodically, collecting the scraps of paper, napkins, receipts, all of which he'd dropped, stored, left, forgotten but not, sometimes crumpled, one time or another in various pockets. He made several trips into the kitchen and only after studying each piece of paper did he put it in its proper place on the kitchen table. The order was important. It explained everything.

“No, it doesn't, David.”

Miranda stood with her brutal back to him, staring out at the fog that made their rooftop seem adrift. From the river came the nasal honk of a foghorn.

“But it does, love. You'll see.” He'd done what he had to do.

The kettle let out a shrill shriek, and he shut it down. He turned to Miranda. “I forgot to grind the beans.” But Miranda was gone.

His glasses were stained. He took them off and held them under the faucet, rinsing. The water stained the porcelain a rusty color. He dried the glasses thoroughly and put them on again. He saw with such clarity now. It was amazing.

Back to sorting. Here was the note on the flap of Sardi's matchbook.
Twenty-five. Silver
. Where was his Mont Blanc? He went back to the bedroom. Miranda was in bed, pretending. He stood watching her.

He'd done the right thing. Planned it down to the last minute, waited till Patrick left for school. She'd given him no choice. He had to put a stop to it.

It was a while before David remembered why he'd come to the bedroom. His pen was in the inside pocket of the dark blue Hugo Boss. In the kitchen again, he crossed out “silver” and wrote “diamonds.” Diamonds for Miranda.

MIRANDA. SHE WAS
the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. With his legal pad ready, David stood in the dark theater in front of the orchestra pit beside Bob Fosse as the girl dancers auditioned for
Chicago
. Chita Rivera and Gwen Verdon were already set for the leads, so this was chorus. But it was not news that Fosse was a control freak, right down to the last bit of costume, to the understudies in particular because Gwen was no kid. She'd be out a lot the way she was when she was in
Sweet Charity,
and that was nine years ago.

Bobby, Buddha-eyed, arms folded, watched as his assistant showed the first group of dancers the combinations, then stepped back and signaled to the accompanists and the dancers began.

She was a head taller than any of the others and another chorus dancer might have gotten lost in the back row. But not Miranda. She gave off a kind of glow. A blonde iridescence on long, elegant legs.

David looked over at Bobby. No reaction. Was he blind?

When the dancers finished, Bobby said, “Thank you.” The dancers felt the rejection, took it personally. David could see the slump in the shoulders as they left the stage. But not Miranda. She edged out as the next group of dancers came on and took their places.

Bobby said, “That one.”

“The tall blonde?”

“Yes.”

So like Bobby, David thought, as he raced for the stairs to the wings. He liked to make them suffer a little before he gave them the good news.

She was on the street, her heavy bag hanging from her shoulder, when David caught up to her. “He wants you,” he told her.

Her eyes were a deep gray-blue, confused now. Her brows pale as her hair. “Who?”

“Bobby. He wants you. I need your name, and your agent's name, address, and phone number.” I need you, he thought.

“I don't have an agent,” she said. “I haven't been here long enough.” It was just starting to sink in. “He wants me?”

“Yes. Rehearsals start in four weeks. Are you available?”

She began laughing, a deep throaty laugh, which is when David fell for her big time.

“My name is Miranda Donnelly,” she said.

She gave him her phone number. “Find an agent and get back to me,” David said. “You should have an agent, although the dance contracts are usually minimum. I'll find you an agent. Leave it to me. You're going to be a star. You need someone who knows how to do it. And I'll help you.”

She was waiting, looking at him expectantly. “I don't know who you are,” she said.

He felt himself flush. “David Sharp,” he said. “I'm the assistant stage manager.”

She thrust out her hand and smiled at him. “Well, I'm pleased to meet you, David Sharp. Thank you for the good news.”

DAVID SET THE
matchbook cover down. Twenty-five years. He would shower her with diamonds. Yes. It would be really big. He'd take over Sardi's for the night. Let's see, who owed him? Half the world owed him, though they wouldn't admit it.

“I don't want diamonds,” she said. “I just want it to be like it was.”

“I do, too. And it will be, you'll see. I'll make it right.”

“Oh, David, you always say that.” She covered her mouth.

It had been wonderful then, when they were both beginning. Fosse, the brilliant Bob Fosse, had created a number just for her.

“He saw me as . . . what did he call me, David?”

“His perfect instrument.”

The show was a big hit. And David became production stage manager, calling the cues. And after the show every night, Miranda was his. All his.

They were married the week before rehearsals began on Bobby's new all-dance musical
Dancin',
with Miranda as lead dancer. This was when David decided he had to break out, become a producer.

He had a connection—the father of his Rutgers roommate was president of the teamsters N. Y. local. The connection greased the way for David to get an apprenticeship in ATPAM, the Association of Theatrical Press Agents and Managers. His short term goal was to become a general manager. He would learn the business of producing this way, then do it himself. And he would do it better than anyone had done it before. There'd be no stopping him.

“You were so intense,” Miranda said. “Sometimes it frightened me.”

“You were getting what you wanted, why shouldn't I?”

David studied the scraps of paper in front of him on the table. It was something specific he remembered making a note of yesterday or the day before.

Their first apartment. It had been in this building. A small one bedroom, third floor rear, right next to the elevator. Dark as hell.

“Now look what we have,” he said.

“A penthouse. Sixteen floors up. You wanted a penthouse.”

“So did you. Who's the genius in this family? Who's the deal maker? Who gave you the best?”

“David . . .”

“Yes. David.” He liked to hear her say it. She had that throaty voice. She was so beautiful and she was his. He reached for her now and she slipped away from him.

He went to the sink and splashed water on his face. He had to call the office. There were things to be done. He hit the direct dial button.

“David Sharp Productions,” a strange voice said.

“Put Betty on.” Betty Carbone. Not much of a looker, but a great gal. Loyal. When he began producing plays, he made her his general manager. She'd been with him for years. She was like family. He loved her like a buddy. He trusted her.

“Who is calling please?”

“The man who's fucking overpaying your salary,” he yelled.

The girl was flustered. “Oh, oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Sharp.”

Betty came on. “David?”

“Listen, Betty, there's something I have to do.”

“Yes? Is everything okay?”

“We're working things out. And Betty?”

“Yes?”

“I love ya, pal.” He hung up the phone.

Where was he? Oh, yes. He was sorting his papers. Ticket stubs. So many. They wouldn't mean anything to anyone else, but it made sense to him. It was their life together.

Miranda went on the road with
Dancin'
and he flew out to see her every weekend.

“I loved touring,” she said. “We'd go dancing after the show. I met so many people. It was so much fun.”

“I hated not seeing you every day. I hated that you were with them.”

“Them, David? Who is them?” He caught the exasperation in her voice. Didn't she know he adored her?

“Anyone you were with when you were not with me.”

He placed the stubs back in their place. All except one.
The Naked Truth
. His play. A review with sketches written by a dozen famous writers on erotic subjects, the performers either all or semi-nude. It had been done before, and it hadn't been successful. But that was because he wasn't involved. It needed someone with vision. He would do it better.

“And you did,” Miranda said.

“Yes. And then I bought the theater, too. You have to own the real estate,” he said, “otherwise, you're always paying the man.”

“Where did the money come from, David?”

“What difference does it make? I have friends who believe in me.”

“Why the hell not? You were laundering their money.”

“I didn't hear any complaints from you. You have the best of everything. Clothes, the penthouse, everything you could ever want.”

“Yes.” She gave him a sad smile. “Like the hot tub.”

“You loved the hot tub.”

“With you sitting in it doing business, a phone on each ear, making your deals, raising money, negotiating with the unions. Oh, yes, I loved the hot tub.”

“I was really something. Admit it.” He made another grab for her, but she eluded him. “I never understood how you could let Bobby talk you into going back. You had everything.”

“That was part of the problem. I felt as if I was just something valuable that belonged to you—”

“Oh, come on. I never heard anything so crazy.”

“And I missed dancing.” She raised a long elegant leg and rested the back of her heel on the table without dislodging the lines of scrap paper. “You never—”

“There wasn't any work for you.”

“You never let me talk. You never let anyone—”

“Talk? Anyone who wants to talk can talk. I'm the one with something to say.”

“You see what I mean? You finish my sentences. You do it to everyone. Bobby's offer to be his assistant choreographer was perfect timing.”

“You wanted to get away from me.”

“You chased me away. You chased our friends away. You compete with everyone, even to the point of where to buy the best focaccia.”

“Your lousy friends couldn't handle how successful I was.”

“They were our friends once.”

“They were jealous.”

“That's not true. You made them nervous. You talk nonstop right through everyone.”

He took the coffee beans from the refrigerator and poured some into the grinder, then ground them to drown out her sound. She was gone when he finished, back to the bedroom, back to her barre. She was always walking away from him.

He poured the hot water through the grounds. “There's coffee,” he called. She didn't answer. He could hear her singing as she worked. “Razzle Dazzle.” She'd replaced Ann Reinking in the revival of
Chicago
. Bebe Neuwirth herself had called and asked Miranda to do it. And Miranda had been a sensation.

David had hated it. He put his hands over his ears. He didn't want to hear “Razzle Dazzle.” It reminded him of Fosse and the old days before everything got so complicated, when you knew who your enemies were.

THEY'D JUST BEGUN
to live together. She was sewing elastic across the instep of her new ballet shoes and the needle kept piercing her fingers.

He licked the blood from her punctured fingers. “You can buy them with the elastic already there,” he said.

“It's not the same,” she said. “It has to be perfect. That's why I do it myself.”

He knew in that moment she was what he wanted. It was how he felt his life should be. But in the end she was not perfect.

“DAVID,” SHE SAID.
“What will you tell Patrick?”

“I'm working on it,” he said. He began looking through the scraps on the table for a clean piece of paper. Patrick was fourteen, almost a man. The best part of Miranda and him.

The jagged corner of a receipt caught his eye. He knew what it was though no one else would. Dick Boodle & Associates. Boodle was a former cop who'd set up a detective agency. David had used his services for body guards and stage door security for
The Naked Truth
cast.

“You've been having me followed,” Miranda said, an aura of sweet perspiration surrounding her. “Since the spring.”

“I found out who he was. Advertising. A loser. You fucked me over for a loser.”