The Man Who Cancelled Himself (38 page)

Very’s jaw froze. “Katrina goes both ways?”

“She says not,” I replied, signaling Pete for a calvados. Very declined. “She claims she and Leo were just friends. I don’t know. I only know that Leo believes she was wronged. You also have Katrina herself to consider. She’s pissed at him for screwing Naomi Leight behind her back, although this would appear to be a fairly recent development.” Pete brought me my calvados. I sipped it. “That’s what you’re looking at, Lieutenant.”

Very was silent a moment, head nodding, jaw working his gum. “Can we shorten the list, dude? Cross anybody off?”

“Leo’s out of a job if Lyle’s gone,” I advised. “She likes that job. I doubt she’d tear up her meal ticket no matter how pissed she is.”

“Same with Katrina, right?” he ventured. “She needs the dude. Without him there, she’s history.”

“Not necessarily, Lieutenant.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

“Because Lyle told me Katrina is his sole beneficiary. He’s left everything to her in his will. True, she has no motive for rat-fucking the show, or easing Lyle out of it. But she has a huge one for killing him. If Lyle’s dead she
owns
it. She and Panorama, the studio that bankrolls it.”

“And what’s it worth?”

“About a hundred million dollars when it’s sold into syndication after this season. She’d clear a third of that after Panorama and the distributor take their cuts.”

He let out a low whistle. “You mean thirty mil?”

“Plus his beach house in East Hampton and whatever else he has socked away. All for her. Unless, of course, she has a partner.”

He frowned. “Like who?”

“Like Leo,” I suggested. “Possibly they only pretended to break up. Possibly they’ve planned this whole thing together, everything from Katrina seducing Lyle to Leo—the lone sentry outside Lyle’s bathroom—hot-wiring his urinal.”

“What, you mean like
Thelma and Louise
times twelve?”

“You have to consider all the possibilities.” Of course, that wouldn’t explain Katrina coming up to my apartment to tug on my belt. Unless that was to throw me off.

“Christ, the press would
cream
for that one.” Very thought it over a moment longer before he concluded, “You’re supremely twisted, dude.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“Yo, who do
you
like for it?” he wanted to know. “Which one of them?”

I sipped some more calvados. “Why does it have to be one of them?”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning what if they’re all in it together? It’s what makes the most sense, if you stop and think about it.”

“You mean some kind of palace coup?” he asked skeptically.

“Precisely,” I replied. “A planned operation designed to rid
Uncle Chubby
of its despised leader. Each one of them carrying out a different facet of the plan. You’ve got Tommy Meyer for the Deuce Theater setup. For Lillian Young, the voice on the phone, you’ve got Fiona, who’s a gifted mimic. She was also alone at the time of the bombing—easily could have tossed them without being seen. Likewise Amber Walloon, who is pals with Gwen, the costumer, and therefore good for stealing the Chubby sweater from its locked wardrobe cupboard. Bobby, who is handy, makes the bombs and hot-wires the urinal. Annabelle’s honey, Lorenzo, scores the ipecac. She slips it in the chili—”

“But most of them got sick on the chili,” he pointed out.

“So they got a little sick—big deal,” I countered. “It’s not as if they were swallowing poison. And what better way to throw off suspicion. They want the man gone, Lieutenant. They tried to bury him last spring, but he bounced back on them. So when production resumed, they tried to scare him with bombs and shutdowns. No use. The man won’t be budged. So they tried to kill him—only they killed their great white hope, Chad Roe, by mistake. An ironic twist of fate. It adds up, Lieutenant. They’re all in on it—except for Katrina and Naomi.”

“What about Leo?”

“They’d have to include her if they wanted to get away with hot-wiring the john.”

He thought about it. “Dunno, dude,” he said doubtfully. “It’s a reach.”

“It’s not, Lieutenant. Not if you know them. They’re all cowards. Not one of them even has the nerve to talk back to the man, let alone murder him. So they band together. It’s perfect.”

“It talks good,” he admitted. He shook his head. “But it doesn’t happen. Not in my experience. I mean, sure, the secretaries get together in the lunchroom all the time and plot some crazed Mongolian grudge-fuck for their boss. They fantasize about it. They dream about it. But they don’t
do
it. One person does it. Someone who is cold-blooded and mean and bent. We’re looking for one person. What about Marjorie Daw?”

“What about her?”

“Think she’s involved?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Very grinned at me. “You want yourself some of that, don’t you, dude?”

“What makes you say that, Lieutenant?”

“Yo, I’m a detective, remember? I notice things.”

“What things?”

“Like how something happens to you when her name comes up. You get this dopey look on your face.”

“Oh, that. It comes from working on a sitcom. I’ve noticed it myself in the mirror when I shave.”

He was still grinning at me. “They say there’s no better way to help you forget.”

“Who’s
they?”

He shrugged. “I dunno.
They.”

“Well, I’m not interested in her.”

“Whatever you say, dude.” He shifted in the booth. “Me, I’ve had trouble getting interested in women period since my surgery. It’s not the equipment. Hell, no. I can get vertical. It’s more like … why bother, y’know? Dig, when I got the news I was gonna have to get cut open, I fainted dead away—right there in the doctor’s office. You ever faint?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“Well, not me. Not ever. I mean, I’m a guy who’s stared down the barrel of a loaded handgun and lived to tell about it. And there I am, out cold on the floor, being revived by a seventy-year-old internist named Bert Greenbaum. It was fucking humiliating. And, Christ, the shit that was running through my head. I could tell you stories—”

“Now wouldn’t be a good time.”

“Sure, sure.” He signaled for the check. “My treat, dude. You’ve brought a real dose of fresh.”

“I am something of a vinegar-and-water douche.”

Pete brought the tab. Very gave him his Visa card. He went off with it.

“I also intend to live up to my end of the bargain,” the lieutenant added. “The one where you help me and I help you.”

“With what?”

“With who the da-da is.”

“I told you I didn’t want to know, Lieutenant,” I growled.

Pete returned. Very signed the check and we went outside. It was quiet on Commerce. The Cherry Lane Theater next door still hadn’t let out. The air was freshening a bit. It was almost breathable.

Very inhaled it deeply. “Dude?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Don’t shit me, okay? Shit somebody else—other people, your readers, anybody you like. But don’t shit me. Now I got the identity of Miss Nash’s Lamaze partner for you. This one the press doesn’t have. I had to pull some strings to get it. Do you want his name or don’t you?”

My heart was beating faster as I stood there. Very was staring at my hands. I glanced down at them. My fists were clenched.

“Well, do you?” he demanded, his knee jiggling impatiently.

“Give it to me,” I said, between clenched teeth.

“Whew.” He made an elaborate show of wiping his forehead. “Welcome to the human race. You better chill, though, on account of—”

“I’m perfectly chill.”

“You can’t take him. Dude’s got a neck as big around as your chest. His name’s Vic Early.”

I felt my body uncoil. “Vic’s her bodyguard.”

“Yo, Princess Stephanie and
her
bodyguard went and had—”

“Vic’s just helping out—in lieu of the biological father.”

Very frowned. “You sure?”

“Positive. But it was a good try, Lieutenant.” I patted him on the back. Solid muscle. “I appreciate it.”

Very knelt and tightened the laces of his hiking boots. “It’s not like I’m done yet. I got other avenues. Plenty of ’em. You’ll see.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“I’ll find out.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“Later, dude.”

“Good night, Lieutenant.”

We went our separate ways. Very headed east, street-hiking across Manhattan for home. Home being Brooklyn Heights. Me, I moseyed a hundred yards over to Hudson to hail a cab. While I waited for one, I had this strange feeling somebody was watching me. I looked around but saw no one. In fact, the street was rather deserted for ten o’clock. But I couldn’t shake off the feeling. Possibly my nerves were on edge.

The apartment felt empty and smaller without Lulu. It felt dead. Not that she’s the ideal roommate. She’s messy, moody, stubborn. She has deplorable eating habits. She snores. She drools. She smells like a hound. She’s allergic to twenty-seven different forms of airborne plant and tree effluvia. Did I mention she snores? But she’s also alive. Now nothing in the place was, unless you count me. And me I’m not so sure about. I flicked on the air conditioner and checked my phone machine. Three messages, all from Lyle. Demanding to know where I was and why I wasn’t home writing like I’d said I’d be. I washed out Lulu’s bowls and dried them and put them in the cupboard with her mackerel tins. I swept up the kitchen floor. I took off my shirt and tie and put on some old Lightnin’ Hopkins. I thought about getting out my mukluks, but I didn’t feel much like writing that night. When I was younger I worked whether I felt like it or not. That’s what it meant to be a professional, I told myself. I don’t think I know what a professional is anymore. I don’t think anyone else does either. And I’m positive they don’t care.

I got all of my shoes out of the closet. Lined them up there in front of the sofa and went to work on them. I always polish my shoes when I get the blues. I don’t know why. Maybe because I have something to show for my effort when I’m done. I so seldom do otherwise. I never let anyone else touch my shoes. Because they don’t know what they’re doing, and because I get the blues pretty often. I brushed off the loose dirt first, and saddle-soaped the shoes that needed it. Most of them did. New York is hard and dirty on shoes. While the saddle soap dried, and Lightnin’ sang “Sometime She Will,” I did my suede balmorals and moccasins. I never use a suede brush—much too stiff. I use an old Oral B ultrasoft toothbrush, and a pencil eraser on grease smudges. When the saddle soap was dry I wiped it all off and applied a thin layer of Meltonian shoe cream, neutral, to each pair. Then I went to work on them with a horsehair brush until they glowed. It was past eleven by the time I was done. I undressed and got into bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling. I was dead tired but I couldn’t sleep. I missed Lulu too much. I tried putting a pillow over my face, but it didn’t smell like dead fish and it didn’t suffer from any upper respiratory problems. So I just lay there a while, feeling totally alone in the world. Before I finally turned on the light and picked up the phone and dialed it.

She answered on the first ring.

“About Harry Connick, Jr.,” I said. “I can sometimes be—’

“I know exactly what you’re going to say, Hoagy.” As always, Marjorie Daw sounded crisp, calm, and prepared. “You don’t think it would be such a good idea for us to see each other socially. It’s not that you don’t like me. You do. You think I’m really nice, bright, attractive … But you’re absolutely, positively
not
looking to get involved right now. And, besides, you—”

“I hate Harry Connick, Jr.”

“You hate Harry Connick, Jr. It’s perfectly okay, Hoagy. I understand. Really, I do.”

“What a relief,” I said. “Marjorie?”

“Yes, Hoagy?”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“It wasn’t?” A tiny hint of eagerness crept into her voice. “What were you … ?”

“I was going to say that I can sometimes be found at the Café Carlyle after midnight when Bobby Short is in town, and when I’m not in the greatest of spirits.” I paused. “Sometimes.”

She was silent a moment, sorting through this. “Is he in town?” she asked, very carefully.

“It happens he is.”

“Are you in the greatest of spirits?”

“It happens I’m not.”

She waited for me to say something more. Something a bit more definite. Something. Anything. When I didn’t she said, “Well, okay, Hoagy. Thank you for … for letting me know this.”

“You’re welcome, Marjorie. Good-bye.”

I put down the phone and stared at it a moment. Then I went and showered. I stropped grandfather’s razor and shaved, doused myself in Floris, put a dab of something greasy in what was left of my hair. I dressed in my double-breasted ivory dinner jacket and pleated black evening trousers, my starched white broadcloth tuxedo shirt with the tenpleat bib front and wing collar, my black silk bow tie, and grandfather’s pearl cuff links and studs. Then I caught a cab across town to the Carlyle Hotel.

I don’t exactly know what it is about the Café Carlyle, that living pastel monument to Manhattan’s elegant yesteryear, that last bastion of high-stepping sophistication. Maybe it’s the sharp brine of the caviar and the tart, cold, crispness of the Dom Pérignon. Maybe it’s Bobby, so refined and ageless there at his piano playing Porter and Gershwin like no one else can. Maybe I just like to get all dressed up. I don’t know. All I know is that when all else fails me, the Carlyle cures me. Bobby was singing “Just One of Those Things” when she came in, looking impossibly tall and slim and cool. She had on a strapless minidress of peach-colored silk with a paisley scarf thrown over one bare shoulder, white stockings, mules, a bit of lipstick, no jewelry. Heads turned as she made her way across the room toward me like a serene swan, her chin held high. She slid into the banquette beside me without so much as looking at me. Her scarf made an electric noise against her skin as she slipped it off of her uncommonly slim shoulder. I poured her some Dom Pérignon.

She reached for it, gently stroking the champagne flute’s stem with her long, slender fingers. “I have to tell you something,” she said, leveling her gaze at me. “That was the strangest invitation I’ve ever gotten from a man.”