Waiting (21 page)

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Authors: Frank M. Robinson

BOOK: Waiting
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Mitch sipped at his coffee. “Not Cathy. She was home at the time Larry was killed. I’m not saying she couldn’t be connected in some way, but she could hardly have killed Larry herself, even if she had wanted to. No time.”
“Which leaves Chandler,” Artie repeated.
“So what do we do? Both of us stop by to see him? He’d probably have difficulty handling two of us at the same time.”
“Contact Schuler—”
Mitch looked disgusted. “And tell him what?” He tore open another pack of sweetener and dumped it in his coffee. “Is Chandler close to anybody?”
Artie thought for a moment. “Yes and no. He’s close to everybody and close to nobody. Closer when we were younger and he was the class cutup and everybody’s friend. The act got tired when we grew older. Dave never changed. But you know all that.”
“So when do we pay him a visit?”
“Tomorrow? After work? I’ve got to check and see how much Susan left in the bank accounts. And put in a full day’s work—Connie’s beginning to bitch and I can’t blame her.”
Mitch yawned. “It’s close to six—you want to hit the sack again? I could set the alarm for eight.”
The thought was attractive but Artie was already wide awake.
“I’ll just show up for work early. Surprise the hell out of Connie.”
He finished dressing and folded up the couch and rearranged the pillows on top, piling the used sheets and pillowcase at the other end.
He was about to put the slippers on top, then held them for a moment in his hands, feeling slightly dizzy: the shiny patent-leather slippers that Mitch had lent him, probably a present from somebody. Nordstrom’s finest pair, maybe a hundred dollars, two hundred a pop—
—were now water-stained and covered with mud.
He’d had growing suspicions that it hadn’t been a dream at all, and now he knew for sure.
Somebody had just given him a guided tour behind enemy lines.
 
The streets were quiet
, the parking lot at KXAM almost empty. The attendant opened one eye when Artie drove up, then yawned and nodded off again. A moment later Artie was in his newsroom cubicle, staring dull-eyed at the plastic container of black coffee he’d bought on the trip in. Jesus, there were days God should have just deleted from the calendar, and this was one of them.
He dialed the Bank of America twenty-four-hour hot line and waited for voice mail to give him a number he could punch to ask for his balance.
Susan had taken exactly half of the almost five thousand in their savings account. She’d taken something like four hundred and fifty in cash from the checking. Again, exactly half.
She wasn’t coming back. The next time he’d hear from her it would be through her lawyer.
She apparently hadn’t used any of their credit cards, and Artie doubted that she would. She hadn’t wanted him to find her, that was obvious. She wouldn’t leave any tracks. Did she take any clothing? He’d check when he got home. She could have loaded up her car the day before, when he was at work. No way he would have thought of checking at the time.
Susan.
Aw
,
Christ …
It hit him then and for a moment he was afraid he was going to cry, something he hadn’t done since he was fifteen and True Love had waltzed out of his life on the arm of the high school diving champ. His father had been sympathetic, his mother much less so.
“Women will break your heart all your life, Arthur. You’re the thin-skinned type. Better get used to it now.”
He never had gotten used to it and knew he never would, though he doubted there would be a successor to Susan.
Was Mark with her? Not right then, but had he known where she was going? Probably. He’d catch up with his mother later, after his own Christmas vacation.
What hurt Artie most was that he knew Mark as little as he knew Susan. Both of them apparently had been willing to stick it to him.
But he couldn’t even be angry about it. Somehow it was his fault, though in what way he hadn’t the foggiest idea. He’d been faithful; he hadn’t cheated—had never even thought of it. He would have given his life for both of them, but that was an abstract that couldn’t compare to a bigger house, a larger paycheck, a member of management—whatever the tangibles were by which success was measured these days.
He knew he was feeling sorry for himself and wallowed in it, only gradually acknowledging that something far more important was going on than his marriage coming apart at the seams. He was in the middle of an underground struggle that nobody knew about, and his very knowledge of it meant that sooner or later somebody was going to try to kill him again and probably succeed.
Susan and Mark hadn’t left him at the worst of times; they had left him at the best of times. He should be damned glad that they had left when they did, that they were out of it and didn’t run the risk of ending up like Paschelke’s wife and kids.
“You’re in early, Artie—first time I can remember you ever paying any attention to something I said.” Connie hung her coat and umbrella on one of the back wall hooks, then glanced out at the newsroom. “I still think we ought to do our own morning show rather than pick up the feed from the network. We can do happy talk with the best of them—” She caught the haggard expression on his face. “Susan left you, didn’t she?”
“How’d you know?”
“That expression on a married man’s face goes with either death or separation. She walk out?”
Artie nodded. “She took half the money and split.”
“Only half? Merry Christmas, Artie, you got off cheap.” She suddenly looked apologetic. “Forgive the cynicism. I’m sorry, I really am. Anything I can do, just ask.”
He shook his head. “I’ll hear from her lawyer and we’ll go from there. In the meantime, we’ve still got the series, right?”
“Right.” Connie looked relieved. “I had the Grub pull some tape from the files and I wrote a preliminary script—give us an idea of where we’re going with it. We might as well call in Jerry and go over it.”
“Hirschfield’s not bitching because I haven’t been around?”
“I said you were out doing research.”
“I owe you.”
“Big-time, Banks.”
When Jerry squeezed into the cubicle, Connie passed around copies of the script. Artie studied his. Connie, as he suspected she would, had done a better than excellent job. On the right of the page were Connie’s narration and verbatims of the sound bites they would use; on the left were time codes and notes on the B-roll, the various pieces of field and file tape and stock footage they would use to “cover” the audio.
She had covered pretty much what he thought she would. Changing weather patterns, melting glaciers, rising sea levels … The Netherlands would catch it, so would Bangladesh and island nations like the Marshalls.
“You right about thirty thousand vanishing species, Connie?”
She nodded. “That’s per
year,
Artie—and it’s probably on the low side. Me, I’ll miss the tigers.”
After they had finished the script, Jerry shook his head. “Anybody who watches this is going to go out and slash their wrists. I don’t think you guys know what you’re doing.”
Connie pointed at the door. “Scat, Jerry.” After he had left, she said, “I figure we could interview some scientist on camera for an overview of what’s happening. It would be a long interview, but we could cover some parts with video. Be a change from staring at me most of the time.”
Adrienne had planted the seeds, and in Connie they were growing into a forest.
“You think Hirschfield is going to schedule that?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Because it’s the world’s worst downer, that’s why. Five minutes into that and you’ll be able to hear them changing channels all the way down to San Jose. We’re not the
New York Times
of the air, Connie—leave that to PBS. We’ll have to make it interesting and light with just enough real stuff to impress the FCC in case some citizens’ group challenges our license. That’s what the hell Hirschfield wants.” He shrugged. “Feel free to disagree. If you’re confident with it, show it to Hirschfield yourself.”
“I thought you of all people would back me up.”
“I will—after we lighten it up.”
She leaned back in her chair.
“I wanted to do another segment, but I didn’t think we could get away with it. Social meltdown, kids murdering kids. The kids over in England who stoned the four-year-old and placed the body on the railroad track and the six-year-old over here who almost beat a baby to death in his crib.”
“That’s not ecology.”
“I’m not so sure. You seen the studies on rat behavior when they get overcrowded?” She rubbed her forehead. “You still got coffee in that cup?”
“It’s probably cold.”
“Doesn’t matter—I can use the caffeine.” He shoved over the container and she sipped at it, looking drained and listless. Adrienne had pushed Connie over the edge.
“How much time you been putting in on it?” He hesitated, apologetic. “I know I haven’t been as much help as I should.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. The last few days I’ve been going at it for twelve, fourteen hours a day … .” She waved a hand helplessly at the printouts and magazine articles and books that covered the desktop. “There’s too much of it; there’s no end to it.”
“The trick in doing research is knowing when to stop,” Artie said. “You taught me that when I came here.”
Connie stood up and walked over to the window, glanced out at the newsroom, then turned around to lean against the glass. Artie felt embarrassed. He had never seen her look so vulnerable before.
“It’s an end-of-the-world story, Artie. We make a few gains here and there, but then they’re lost in the disasters.”
He managed a smile. “Hey, c’mon, you’re supposed to be the perky one.”
“Yeah, right. Boy, was that a long time ago.”
His phone rang and Artie picked up. At first he couldn’t make out the voice, a slurred combination of lisp and grunt as if the caller had a serious speech impediment or a throat wound. “Say again?” This time he got it: a desperate Dave Chandler who needed to see somebody. He sounded in pain, and an alarmed Artie suggested an ambulance. Chandler said no, he’d just come from the hospital, he needed somebody to talk to.
Sure, Artie said slowly, he’d get there as soon as possible. Yeah, he knew he was a prince.
He hung up and dialed Mitch. No way was he going over alone—he needed backup. Mitch came on the line and they agreed to meet outside Chandler’s apart ment in the Marina. And yes, it might be smart to be armed.
Connie had been watching him and when he hung up said, “You’re off again, right? Something about Mark?”
“Not this time. A friend—needs help apparently. Couldn’t talk straight. I’ve no idea what’s wrong. Sorry, Connie.”
Artie was almost out the door when Connie suddenly said, “I’ve had this strange feeling lately, Artie. Like all of us are at the tail end of the third act and pretty soon the curtain’s going to fall and the play will be over. And I’ve no idea at all what’s going to happen to us next. I even read the cards about it.”
“And?”
“All the cards were bad.”
She was feeling the same way he’d felt for a month, Artie thought. But he didn’t need anybody else’s troubles to add to his own. Chandler was spinning a web and he was about to walk into it.
Or maybe, once again, he was just being paranoid.
 
It was late in
the afternoon and the sun was already starting to dip behind the hills of the Presidio. It was hell finding a parking place, and when he finally found one and got to the whitewashed stucco building where Chandler lived, Mitch was waiting for him.
“I didn’t buzz—thought I’d wait until you showed.”
“Lousy parking.”
Mitch pressed the buzzer, waited a minute, then pressed it again.
“Who is it?”
It was a strange voice, as if its owner had difficulty talking. It didn’t sound like Chandler at all. The few times Artie had been over, Dave usually answered with some clever line from a play or a movie—“I’m Dave Chandler and I coulda been a contendah! Who are you?”
Mitch leaned closer to the intercom.
“Artie and Mitch, Dave.”
The buzzer sounded and they pushed the door open. It was dark inside, no hall light. A voice at the top of the stairs mumbled, “Come on up,” in the same combination of lisp and grunt. Artie looked at Mitch and muttered, “Think it’s a setup?”
Mitch shrugged. “We’ll never know down here.”
Artie felt for the automatic nestled in his pocket and started up the stairs. At the top, a voice said, “I’m in the office, in back.” Mitch found a wall switch and turned on the hall light and the voice became almost hysterical. “Turn it down! It’s on a dimmer.”
The long hallway was lined with framed theater posters and the occasional signed photograph:
To Dave, with love
—
Sharon
or
For Dave, I’ll never forget you
—
Brad.
At least Chandler was nondenominational, Artie thought.
The office in back was large and equipped like a small theater with a row of upholstered fold-up seats facing a fifty-inch rear-projection TV flanked by large, floor-standing speakers. Chandler had had the room soundproofed years ago so he could show films late at night without the neighbors complaining. An old-time popcorn machine was in one corner, while in the other was a small desk and filing cabinet and an easy chair with an ottoman. The windows had been covered with black drapes, and the only light in the room came from a small red bulb above the door.
Chandler’s party room, nbt as cool as it must have been fifteen years ago. Artie wondered how many hours Chandler spent watching old movies in the dark.
The figure in the easy chair moved and mumbled, “Thanks for coming,” and Artie almost yanked out his gun. It sounded like Chandler but it didn’t sound like Chandler, and it didn’t look much like him. Just a dark shape in the oversized chair.
There was the sound of a small tug on a pull chain and the floor lamp by Chandler’s chair came on. Artie caught his breath. It was Chandler all right, but he recognized him more by his standard uniform of chinos, loafers, and light blue woolen sweater than by his face.
He couldn’t make out Chandler’s features at all; some kind of white ointment covered his face like a mask with small holes for his eyes.
Artie said, “What the hell happened, Dave?”
Chandler leaned forward in his chair, taking a moment to catch his breath. It obviously hurt to talk. “The other night at the theater—Theater DuPre—I was in the dressing room putting on a makeup base and five minutes after I got it on, it started to burn. I wiped it off and then I guess I went nuts. The cast called an ambulance”—he tried to grimace but it was clearly agony—“a little late.”

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