The Ticket Out (29 page)

I couldn't do anything about it. My knees gave way suddenly; I sat down in the street. I was shaking and panting. I was dripping with sweat. I dropped the sap and slumped against the car.

It took me a good long while to recover. The shaking slowed down and stopped, and I got my breath back. I checked around to see if anybody had heard us: the street was dead quiet. Reaching for the door handle, I hauled myself up. I looked in the driver's window. Denney was lying on his side, cupping his nose in his free hand. His eyes were closed and he was breathing through his mouth. Blood bubbled from his nostrils.

I circled the car and opened the passenger door. Denney didn't move. I didn't trust that—I kept my eyes on him. I got a rag and a water bottle off the backseat, and wiped my arms and face. I dumped my jacket; it was ripped and spattered with blood. My jeans and shirt were bloody, too. Wetting the rag, I rubbed at the stains. They came out—but I soaked my clothes to do it.

The car phone was sitting beside Denney's head. I reached in, grabbed it quick, and pulled the cord as long as it would go. Denney still didn't move. I'd dialed Lockwood's pager before I realized it wasn't practical: I didn't want to wait there for a return call. So I canceled the page and left an urgent message at the station. I told Lockwood where Denney could be found. I also told him to bring the paramedics.

I unplugged the phone, grabbed my bag, and threw everything in the trunk. I realized that I felt happy. That's all I could think: I was
happy.
Nobody called me a cunt and
nobody
laid violent hands on me. Dale Denney and I were even now.

I crossed the street and walked up Lynnda-Ellen's driveway. There had to be a back way into her house. I couldn't waltz into a party looking the way I looked.

A side porch was locked. But the side yard led to the backyard, which had a door leading to the garage. Inside the garage another door led to a utility room.

I tiptoed across the utility room and cracked a second door. I was looking down a long carpeted hallway with more doors. I listened for party noise; I couldn't hear any. If I had my bearings right, the living room was at the other end of the house. This end was silent.

I walked down the hall, opening and closing doors as I went. It was funny—I didn't feel a bit nervous about trespassing. My adrenaline must have been all used up.

Behind one door I found a room crammed with costumes and props. Painted scenery flats were stacked upright against the walls.

I found a large room filled with tables and mirrors. It looked like a backstage dressing area. A sign beside the light switch said, “You have
15 mins.
between shows. Be quiet. Be quick. Be neat. NO SMOKING.” Makeup and accessories cluttered the tabletops; the mirrors were bordered by spherical bulbs. A portable shower stood in one corner, with a curtained changing room attached. Street clothes hung from the hooks that lined one wall.

I began to suspect that Lynnda-Ellen was a special kind of hostess.

The next door had a plaque reading
MAXIMUS IN LOVE.
I stuck my head into the room. It was dark. I slid inside, shut the door, and waited for my vision to adjust.

The air was warm and close; I was standing in a tight space. The wall facing me had a sort of glass porthole at eye level. I stepped up to the porthole and looked through.

I almost whistled.

It was a stage set—a facsimile of the field tents in
Gladiator.
Silk draperies hung on the walls; animal skins covered the floor and divan. Classical busts and candelabra stood around on pedestals. A couple in Roman costume lay on the divan. She was made up to look like the emperor's sister; he was beefy and tan like Russell Crowe. They were feeding each other grapes from a gold plate.

Someone sneezed. The sound came from my right.

The floor was inlaid with track lights. I followed them around a corner into a second room. I was walking soft. My eyes had adjusted and I could tell that someone had divided up a bedroom to create this arrangement.

In the second room I found a row of individual viewing booths. A wall separated the booths from the stage; tufted screens divided the booths from each other. The booths were backless, so I could see into them. Each booth contained an upholstered chair and each chair contained a spectator. The spectators were all men. They were watching the
Gladiator
scene through individual glass portholes. They wore miniheadsets to hear the dialogue.

I didn't know what to think. The whole deal looked like pornography, but it didn't
feel
like pornography. There wasn't that atmosphere I associated with triple-X theaters or the back of porn stores. The management did not provide towels; the floor had nice carpet. And the men sat with their legs crossed and their hands folded—like they were viewing dailies, not getting their rocks off.

I tiptoed out of “Maximus in Love.” The plaque across the hall read
AG'S PLAY ROOM.
I could hear the party now.

I opened the door to “AG's Play Room.” The setup was the same: a glass porthole in the wall in front of me. I looked through the porthole. I looked ... then I stared.

Hannah Silverman's video down to the last corny detail.
The brick cellar. The window in the back wall. The iron cot and ratty curtain.

The fake-platinum blond was wearing her Gestapo uniform and waving her prop pistol. The young guy was sobbing and hugging her leather boots. I didn't need headphones to hear the dialogue. I knew it already and I could read her lips: “It muss be ffery larch to mekk pleashure to Helga.”

This time I didn't laugh about dilettante perverts. I was too busy putting things together.

I ran out to the hall. The party had gotten louder—I heard voices and saw a slice of living room through an archway. I didn't care if somebody saw me. There was one last door, and that door nailed it. The plaque read
SPIELBERG PRESENTS.
I got so excited I almost forgot to be quiet.

I ran in and pressed my face to the porthole.

A kid's dinosaur bedroom. Spielberg movie posters covering the walls. Toys all over the floor; a toy battle pitting miniature soldiers against towering toy dinosaurs. A brunet in a nightgown spanking an actor in dinosaur pajamas. It was the
same
brunet as Greta's picture. The actor lay across her lap in the
same
Jules Silverman position. The brunet's mouth was moving. She repeated something over and over as she spanked her colleague. I figured out what it was. She was saying, “Bad boy! Bad boy!”

I tore myself away and tiptoed around to the viewing booths. There were only five, and I didn't recognize any of the spectators. I tiptoed out to the hall and checked my watch. Almost 10
P.M.

I ran back to the dressing room. It was still empty. I ran across and squeezed into the space between the portable shower and the wall. From there I could see the door and most of the room.

This was it,
I thought. This was how Lockwood identified Dale Denney. Lockwood once worked Vice in Hollywood. He would have drawn a straight line between Greta's photograph, Lynnda-Ellen's parties, and Dale Denney. Denney
had
to be a Lynnda-Ellen associate. I knew he was—not just from the glossy portrait of Shelly/Helga in his apartment. “To Dale, my biggest fan! XXXXXOOOOO Shelly!” I knew it because he couldn't have tailed me all day and night. He found me at Lynnda-Ellen's because he was already
at
Lynnda-Ellen's.

And Dale Denney had a record of burglary and knifing.

And Jules Silverman was a Lynnda-Ellen client. Arnold Tolback would have told the cops that—if the cops weren't already familiar with Lynnda-Ellen's client list.

And Jules Silverman had a secret.

Two secrets, if you counted the spanking gig. But that was minor compared to Georgette—

The door of the dressing room opened. I squeezed back and watched the actors pile in. They were all in their early twenties and had the look of recent MFA grads: buff and earnest.

They grabbed their clothes and headed for the sink or the makeup tables. They seemed too tired, or too embarrassed, to talk. The “Maximus in Love” guy recombed his centurion do. The other people stripped off their costumes, threw on their street clothes, and left with their makeup still on.

Shelly came in and collapsed on a chair. The spanking brunet walked in last. She looked mad. She sat down beside Shelly, pulled her nightgown over her head, and chucked it across the room. Her hair was done up in a maternal bun. She started jerking the pins and ribbons out.

Her hair fell to her shoulders and I got a jolt. With her hair down, the brunet looked like Georgette Bauerdorf.

Something hit me:

The brunet wasn't wearing a frumpy nightgown in Greta's Jules Silverman picture. She was wearing pink satin pajamas.

Shelly got up and shut the hall door. She whispered to the brunet, “I don't understand why she fired you, Debbie. Everyone loves your work.”

Debbie shrugged and spread cold cream on her face. Shelly took off her Gestapo tunic and cold-creamed herself in the mirror. She said, “Lynnda's been acting strangely since Greta died, have you noticed?”

Debbie shrugged again. Shelly whispered, “Dale says she knows something about Greta's death.”

Debbie wiped her face with a Kleenex. Shelly reached into the shower and turned on the hot water full blast. It sprayed over the top and scalded me. I jerked sideways; the shower stall went
thunk.

Shelly stuck her head around the corner of the stall. When she saw me, she made a squeak noise. I shushed her. I said, “Shut off the water—I want to talk to you.”

Shelly just stood there blank. Debbie turned, saw me, and stared. They looked like a couple of airheads.

I squeezed out of my hiding place and shut off the water myself. I said, “Does Lynnda ever come back here?”

Debbie blinked. “Are you after Lynnda?”

I nodded.

Debbie said, “Good.” She turned back to the mirror, smiling. Shelly saw the smile and said, “Don't, Deb. You better not get involved.”

Debbie tossed her Kleenex and picked up an eyeliner. She said, “Lynnda won't come—she's busy with the customers.”

“Debbie!”

Shelly ran and cracked the hall door, checked outside, then shut the door and locked it. She leaned against it for insurance.

I sat down in Shelly's chair. Debbie was lining her eyes. I watched her in the mirror, and said, “I think you were fired because you did your ‘Bad boy!' routine with an old man, and Greta Stenholm took pictures.”

Shelly whispered, “Don't talk to her, Deb,
please.”
She checked the clock on the wall.

I said, “How did Greta and Lynnda get along?”

Debbie said, “None of us like Lynnda, but Greta especially didn't like her. She turned Lynnda's shows into a joke on purpose. One of the new shows is ‘AG's Play Room.'”

I said, “I saw it.”

Debbie threw down the eyeliner. “AG stands for Amon Goeth, the Nazi sadist in
Schindler's List.”

I covered my mouth; it was breathtakingly sassy.

Debbie said, “Lynnda doesn't know, neither do the customers.” Shelly whispered, “Ralph Fiennes played the role. It was his breakthrough part.”

Debbie said, “Greta turned ‘Mother's Little Man' into ‘Spielberg Presents.' Lynnda wouldn't let her call it ‘Saving Private Ryan from the Dinosaurs.' The actors thought the new script was sick, but Lynnda loved the changes.”

Another connection clicked. The two trips to see
Jurassic Park III
at the Vine. She was probably researching another level of satire.

Shelly whispered, “It's the most popular show now.”

Debbie had worn her own clothes under the nightgown. She rolled down her pants. Shelly realized she still wore her jodhpurs and boots; she ran to the hooks and grabbed her clothes.

Debbie started tossing makeup into a bag. She said, “Mommy comes in and catches little Steven playing movie director when he's supposed to be in bed asleep. I don't know why people don't see it's a joke.”

I said, “And a comment on Lynnda's clientele?”

Debbie nodded. “Greta was out there. There was something strange about her.”

She stood up, packed and ready to go. Shelly was arranging her Gestapo costume on a hanger. Debbie said to me, “Lynnda wants the artists out in fifteen.”

I said, “What do you care what Lynnda wants?”

Shelly looked around and didn't whisper.
“I
care.”

Debbie said, “Lynnda tells everyone we're being seen by important people, we'll get acting jobs out of this, but it never happens.” Shelly whispered, “That you
know
of, Debbie. And it's less work than nonunion theater, and Lynnda pays better.” Shelly headed for the hall door with her coat.

I checked the clock. “Two more minutes. When did Greta start work here?”

Shelly stopped. “Oh, Debbie, that's enough!”

Debbie dropped her bag and sat back down. She said, “She started in March, but she didn't live here until a couple of months ago. We could never figure that out. Lynnda's a bitch.”

Greta had lived
here.
She must have moved in after she lost her apartment. I said, “What exactly did Greta do? She changed the shows and what else?”

Debbie said, “The shows were always changing. Greta rehearsed the actors, and rewrote dialogue all the time. She always wanted to make the shows better. She should have been a director. We've worked with a lot worse, and we thought she was good.”

I said, “What about the old man?”

Debbie shrugged. “He's just some old guy who came for private sessions. I never knew who he was because of this disguise he wore. If Greta took pictures, I didn't know. I don't know how she found out about him because Lynnda made me promise not to tell.”