The Man Who Cancelled Himself (37 page)

“Because you haven’t,” I pointed out.

“Because I can’t, dude,” he insisted. “Not if I want to keep it sane. Yo, even if I’m totally one-hundred-percent straight with them they’ll still go ahead and invent shit—shit that’s even more lurid and frightening than what really went down. That’s their job. My job is to contain it, just like I would a riot. I don’t confirm. I don’t deny. I tell ’em only what I
know.
Facts. They already know about the bombs. By tomorrow some unnamed staff source will have tipped them off to the chili deal.” Pete brought him his beer. Very drank some down, and added, “Let ’ em draw their own conclusions.”

“But you
know
Chad was murdered, Lieutenant.”

“I know shit,” he retorted. “I
think
he was murdered. I have concluded he was murdered. But I don’t know it. No one’s been charged. I got no suspects. There were no fingerprints at the scene. …”

“Wiped clean?”

“As a whistle. I got bubkes, dude. Just an ultrascared intended victim, Hudnut, presently tucked in for the night at the Essex House on Central Park South with the bodacious Katrina Tingle. I got me a man in the lobby and a man in the hall outside his room. I got me Hudnut among the living—for now. Otherwise, I got shit.” He removed a small notepad from his back pocket, glanced through it. “Yo, we finished questioning the office personnel about an hour ago. Breaks down like so: The custodian mops down the john at seven-thirty, and sees nobody around yet. Office lights are out. Now, dig, it’s
possible
our perp’s waiting there in the dark for the dude to leave so he can rush in and rig the urinal. If so, he’s been hiding there all night. And we’re semifucked. People don’t have to sign out downstairs when they leave, and Tyrone can’t be expected to remember every face that went by. Still, we can check out everyone’s whereabouts last night if we have to. And we may have to.” He shook his head, disgusted. “Okay, Tyrone arrives downstairs at the front desk at five after eight. He says nobody could have got in before he got there. Building’s locked, and
Uncle Chubby
folks don’t get front door keys, for security reasons. So we can forget that particular angle.”

“Unless someone made a key,” I pointed out.

“Don’t complicate this, dude. It’s already bad enough.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant.”

“According to my homey, Tyrone, the earliest arrival was Naomi, who got there about eight-fifteen, just like she said. Leo Crimp, the producer, got in next. She gets in every day at eight-thirty, he says. Then Bobby Ackerman got in at eight forty-five. He was the first writer to arrive.”

I tugged at my ear. “Hmm. That’s interesting.”

“Why’s that?” he asked, peering at me.

“And then who?”

He examined his notes. “Hudnut and Katrina. At ten before nine, like Naomi said. Katrina went into her office, Hudnut went into his. Annabelle Gamba, Marty Muck, and Tommy Meyer trickled in over the next few minutes. Marjorie Daw got there at nine sharp. Writers’ meeting commenced immediately in Muck and Meyer’s office, Hudnut and Katrina sitting in. His john and his office were vacant for the next twenty-three minutes until Chad Roe, schlemiel of the century, got waxed. Which would be your prime time to wire it, you’d think. …”

“But?”

“But nobody saw anyone go in the man’s office or his john that whole time.”

“Someone was in a position to?”

He nodded, brightening. “Leo. She was at her desk right outside that whole time doing paperwork. Dig, she even saw
Roe
go in there. Says he just winked at her and went right in. She immediately went and got herself some coffee. Claims she didn’t want to be around in case the meeting broke and Hudnut found the dude in there—she figured Hudnut would go ballistic at her for allowing it. So that’s why Naomi was the one who found the body. But, dig, Leo swears she saw nobody go in there until Roe did. Twisted, huh? I mean, how do you figure it?”

“One of two ways,” I replied. “Either she really didn’t see anyone go in, like she says, or she did and she’s not talking—either because she had something to do with it herself or because—”

“She’s protecting the guy who did it,” said Very grimly.

Our food arrived. The liver was tender and moist. I won’t order it anywhere but The Blue Mill. There’s nothing worse than overcooked liver, and there’s nothing easier to overcook.

“Why do you assume it’s a guy?” I asked, as I ate.

“Just do.” He frowned. “You don’t?”

“A number of the people who hate Lyle are women.”

“You mean like Leo?”

“I mean like Leo.”

“Say she’s being up front with us. Say nobody went in there during those twenty-three minutes. Who are we looking at, dude? Naomi?”

I shook my head. “Naomi has every reason to want Lyle alive right now.”

“Then who? And how the hell did they do it?”

I mulled it over as I ate. “Exactly how long was Bobby there before Lyle got in?”

Very checked his notes. “Five minutes.”

“Long enough to rig the urinal,” I suggested.

“I’m down to that,” he agreed. “And interesting you should bring up Bobby, on account of I like him for it—he got in early, he’s known to be good with his hands and …” Very rifled through his notes. “We got something else on him. One of your leads. Dig, y’know when the bombing went down yesterday morning? And Bobby was on his way back from his shrink in Boston?”

“What about it, Lieutenant?”

“He wasn’t. He doesn’t see Dr. Helfein on Tuesdays anymore. Hasn’t for almost a year. Bobby told him his schedule wouldn’t allow it. He only sees the good doctor on Saturdays and Mondays now.”

“So where was he yesterday morning?”

“Dunno yet. I only know he wasn’t on the Boston shuttle. According to Tyrone, Bobby didn’t show up at the studio until just before lunch. Still …”

“Perhaps he did and Tyrone missed him.”

“Right on. Although Tyrone swears he never left his desk. And there’s only the one way in.” Very finished his trout and pushed his plate away, smacking his lips. “Still, Bobby’s not being straight, and his whereabouts during the bombing are unknown. Interesting, huh?”

“Very.”

“Yeah, dude?”

I sighed. “It’s very interesting.”

“You want interesting,” he continued, leafing through his notebook, “try on Lorenzo Peritore, former
Uncle Chubby
cameraman and present significant other of Annabelle Gamba. Possessor of a pharmacology degree from Fairfield University. Current status: unemployed. I checked this particular dude out myself and, dig, he copped a major ’tude with me. He was hostile, rude, and ultrauptight. Hates Hudnut. Claims the dude really fucked him, career-wise, when he axed him. We’re talking major bitter here. Also major bum. Dude’s hanging out at home in the middle of the day drinking beer, watching Sports Channel. But he denies knowing anything about how that fluid essence of ipecac ended up in the chili. Says he hasn’t worked in a pharmacy in over four years. I ask him real polite if he’d mind showing me his tax returns for the past four years. Dude practically shits in his pants. Starts hollering get a warrant, get a subpoena, get a court order, but until you do, get out.”

“Are you planning to?”

“You got that right,” he confirmed. “Dude cops a ’tude with me, he’s hiding something.”

“Could be he just didn’t like you, Lieutenant.”

“Could be he helped his sweetie pie spike the chili and who knows what else,” Very countered. “Yo, I’m going back—Lorenzo’s a prospect. But you know who looks even better for it?”

“Do tell.”

Very smiled at me. “Tommy Meyer. He’s my main man. We’re talking one major strange dude here. I mean, we ran down some shit about his … lifestyle you won’t believe.”

“I’ll believe it.”

“During the week he lives right around the corner from the infamous Deuce Theater at a real shithole on West Forty-third, the Rutledge Hotel. We’re talking one small step up from a welfare hotel. Check it out, dude’s pulling down fifteen-twenty grand a week, has a nice house in the ’burbs, a wife, kids … What the fuck he’s doing at the Rutledge? He’s getting his jollies, is what he’s doing. Likes to bring hookers up to his room from the street. Black ones, the older the better. His fave is Dolly Mae Bramble, age thirty-six, which in hooker years is like a hundred and twelve for you and me. Pays Dolly Mae fifty bucks to let him dress up in her clothing. Then she spanks him while he gets off in her underwear. Which he keeps.”

“My, my.” I was sure glad Lulu wasn’t around to hear this.

“Dolly Mae thinks Tommy’s name is Floyd, and that he’s a sporting goods salesman. She described him as one of her regulars. He even gave her a Christmas present—silk lingerie, red. And dig this: She says he hangs at the Deuce all the time. She’s gone in there with him late at night to watch the flick and do him.”

I tugged at my ear. “Interesting.”

Very finished off this beer. “Wait, it gets better. I talked to one of the guys in Vice who made the Hudnut collar.”

Pete came by to clear our table. I ordered cheesecake and coffee. Very went for the lemon meringue pie.

“And what did he say, Lieutenant?” I asked.

“That they were responding to a complaint,” he revealed. “Superspecific one, too. I got a look at the paper on it—call came in at twelve-thirty
P.M.
from a woman who identified herself as Lillian Young, assistant manager of the Deuce. She said that these two guys had showed up the day before on their lunch hour with a pair of hookers and started getting it on with them in their seats—moaning, carrying on, disturbing the other customers. The manager asked them to either get a hotel room or show a little bit more consideration. One of the men got superabusive. Threatened to beat the shit out of the manager if he didn’t get lost. Really scary dude, she said. A large, heavyset man in his forties with curly red hair. The second man, also in his forties, she described as slender, and gray-haired, with a sickly complexion and—get this—a tuft of white in his hair.”

“Tommy Meyer.”

Very nodded. “Anyway, she said they left without incident but now they were back again, making a racket with a new pair of hookers, and would someone please come over and handle it. So they take a ride. When they get there they discover no assistant manager named Lillian Young and no slender man in his forties with a white tuft of hair. But they do discover a large, heavyset dude with curly red hair sitting by himself in the back row watching
Of Human Blondage
and quietly doing a yankel on his frankel. Since he matches the description, they ask him, politely, if they can have a word with him outside. He immediately starts cursing them and carrying on.”

“That’s our boy.”

“So they reel him in. Soon as they get him out to the lobby they realize who they’ve got. But check this out—the press is already out there waiting, and they
already know
that our beater is Hudnut.”

“Meaning someone did tip them off in advance, like Lyle says.”

“Had to,” Very confirmed. “And that someone wasn’t Vice, because it was in motion before they knew what hit them.”

I tugged at my ear. “Meaning someone must have followed Lyle to the theater, then phoned the police pretending to be this Lillian Young, and then phoned the press to alert them about what was coming down.”

“That plays,” he acknowledged. “And our man Tommy folds into it real neat. Reads Meyer all the way to me. Especially when you trip on what our Caller I.D. turned up—call originated from the
Uncle Chubby
production offices.”

“Whose office?”

“Yours,” he replied. “Which, according to Leo Crimp, was vacant at that time.”

I dug into my cheesecake. I wasn’t disappointed. “Didn’t your friend in Vice find any of this just the tiniest bit weird?”

“Didn’t give a shit. The thing is,” he explained, sampling his pie, “they got what they came for.”

“So to speak. About this Lillian Young. What did she sound like?”

“An older woman, Caucasian.”

“Was any such woman employed at the Deuce?”

He checked his notes. “There were no women employed there. None.”

“And what about Dolly Mae Bramble?”

“What about her, dude?”

“Is she acquainted with Lyle?”

“Knows him from the tube. But she says she’s never had a date with him. And doesn’t know of any girl on the street who has.”

I sipped my coffee. “There’s one thing I don’t get, Lieutenant. If Tommy Meyer
did
set Lyle up, then why did he go out of his way to ID himself as the second man? That makes no sense.”

“Agreed,” grunted Very. “No sense.”

I sat back in the booth. “Still, you’re making definite progress, Lieutenant.”

Very unwrapped a stick of sugarless gum and stuck it in his mouth. “The fuck I am. When I’m making progress, things start to get clearer. That ain’t what’s happening here. Gimme some relief, dude. I can’t even figure out what I’m looking at anymore.”

“You’re looking at a loose cannon, Lieutenant,” I said. “Lyle Hudnut is controversial, he’s volatile, and he’s probably insane. The network would like to see him gone. That’s why they brought in Chad. A number of the man’s loyal followers would like to see him gone, too. For suspects, you’re looking at the network’s envoy, Marjorie Daw. She’s desperate to keep
Uncle Chubby
on the air. She also happens to despise Lyle. They were lovers, and the man broke her heart. Speaking of broken hearts there’s also Amber Walloon, who wants to take over as director, and Fiona Shrike, who used to be married to him and still hasn’t gotten over him, in my opinion. You’re looking at The Boys, Muck and Meyer, who would love to run this new, Chubbyless show, and who hate Lyle for stealing the Chubby character from them years ago. He also stole Fiona from Marty back when the three of them were struggling young actors.” I broke off. I’d jogged my own memory—Marty had been an actor. I kept forgetting that. “You’re looking at Annabelle Gamba, who hates Lyle for firing her boyfriend, Lorenzo. And at Bobby Ackerman, your basic soul in torment, who blames Lyle for much of that torment. You’re also looking at Leo Crimp, who doesn’t necessarily want Lyle gone but who definitely hates his guts. It seems the man stole Katrina from her.”