The Miser's Dream

by John Gaspard

  “Good to see you again, Eli,” Quinton said with a wide smile. “I hope you and Megan will be joining us for dinner,” he added, gesturing to the table.

  “Sure—” Megan began, but I cut her off.

  “Thanks, Quinton, but I promised Megan a dinner date tonight, and I can’t renege on that. Plus, I think you’ve got a quorum back here in the corner.” I took Megan’s arm and began to pull her away from the group. “Have a lovely meal.”

  “But—” was all Megan could get out before I had steered us toward a table at the other end of the room.

  “You don’t want to spend the whole night listening to a bunch of stuffy old magicians going on and on, do you?” I asked rhetorically as we set our menus down.

  “That’s how we spend every night,” Megan replied.

  She had a point, but I chose to ignore it. Was it my imagination, or was she staring longingly at the table across the room?

  Before I could explore the idea further, my phone beeped, signaling the arrival of a text. I scanned it quickly.

  “That was quick,” I said as I put the phone away. “Deirdre just got the names of the suspects.”

  “What names? Who’s a suspect?”

  I outlined my meeting with the terrifying Mr. Lime and his subsequent offer to the DA’s office.

  “Is this dangerous, Eli?” she asked. “If it’s dangerous, I don’t want you to do it.”

  I shook my head. “Hardly. I’m just talking to some people and then reporting back to Mr. Lime. Although I’m not quite sure how,” I added, realizing not for the first time I had no actual method of contacting the scary old man.

  “I don’t know,” she began doubtfully, but I cut her off.

  “It’s a mystery, Megan. I’m a magician. We love creating mysteries, we love solving mysteries.”

  “I think you’ve already had enough experience with mysteries,” she said. “A couple of which, I’m sure you remember, were life-threatening. I don’t want to see you get hurt. Or worse,” she added, her eyes going a little wide at the thought.

  “This is nothing like those other times,” I said, rationalizing quickly. “I’m just going to talk to some people and gather some perceptions. It will be fun. Besides, unlike those past experiences, I had no personal connection to Tyler James. He’s well outside the danger zone.”

  “Danger zone?” Megan repeated skeptically.

  “That’s an actual term,” I said reassuringly. “Or maybe a song from Top Gun.”

  Before Megan could respond, there was a burst of raucous laughter from the back of the room. We both turned and looked, seeing Quinton Moon in full raconteur mode, standing by the table, putting the final tag on whatever story he had been telling.

  “Then Tamariz says something in Spanish, and suddenly I’m the one holding the jumbo Queen of Hearts and he has my wallet!” This produced another explosion of laugher from the Mystics. Quinton then punctuated the story by imitating some quick strokes on an imaginary violin, in typical Juan Tamariz style.

  I turned back to Megan, but she was still transfixed by the table in the back and, I assumed, the way too charming Mr. Moon. I frantically scanned the room before landing on a possible distraction in the form of a very tall redhead standing by the bar.

  “Hey, Tracy!” I said, my voice landing somewhere between normal and a shout. “How’s it going?”

  The theater manager was apparently picking up a to-go food order, along with a handful of pull-tabs. She turned at the sound of her name, finally spotting us at our table by the far wall. Tracy waved and I returned the wave, signaling she should head over.

  The appearance of the tall, athletic woman shifted Megan’s attention as I had hoped. “Who’s that?” she asked.

  “That’s Tracy,” I said. “You know, she’s the manager at the movie theater.”

  “Oh,” Megan said, watching her as she approached our table. “Wow, she’s pretty.”

  I made quick introductions all around.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Megan said genuinely. “How are you doing? Eli told me about the projectionist, what was his name?”

  Tracy nodded. “Tyler. I didn’t really know him, but it was quite a shock. I’m handling his duties as well as my own until we can find a replacement.” She turned her full attention on me. “I’m guessing this whole thing must have been pretty weird for you. I never got the full story. You looked out your window and saw…what? Tyler getting shot?”

  I shook my head. “No, I really only saw his body on the floor. I think whoever did it was gone by then, or on their way out.”

  “Weird. The whole thing is just ultra weird,” she said. “Plus, it looks like it will be dinner in the booth for me tonight and for the foreseeable future,” she added, holding up her to-go bag.

  “Now you have to be the manager and be the projectionist,” I said. “That’s a lot.”

  “As luck would have it, tonight’s movies are on Blu-ray, so it really just comes down to hitting a button, setting the volume, and checking in every few minutes to make sure it hasn’t locked up or anything.” She glanced at one of the television screens over the bar. “Are you guys watching the game tonight?”

  I had no idea which game she was referring to, but since there would not be any chance we would be watching any of them, I shook my head. “Nope, just here for dinner.”

  “The point spread is wild on Green Bay, isn’t it?”

  I nodded enthusiastically, signaling my complete agreement. In reality, I had no idea to what I was agreeing. I had a vague notion of where Green Bay was, but no understanding of what a point spread might be.

  “Hey,” I said, suddenly remembering a recent brainstorm. “I’ve got three more candidates for your double features.”

  I almost added Harry’s “dopey” adjective, but thought better of it at the last second.

  “Your Parkway Double Plays,” I said, gesturing toward an empty chair.

  “Lay them on me,” Tracy said as she took a seat, her mood brightening at the change in topic.

  “Okay, the first one is The 39 Stepford Wives,” I began.

  Tracy smiled and nodded. “That works.”

  “Yeah, I liked it too,” I said. “The second one is a bit longer. One Flew Over the Sterile Cuckoo’s Nest.”

  This one actually made her laugh. “Oh, that would be a fun night. We’ll have to put the whole audience on suicide watch.”

  “And the third one is the longest one of all: Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore.”

  “Yikes,” Tracy said. “Let’s hold off on that one until I can hire a new projectionist. I’ve got to do the actual letter hanging on the marquee now, and that one might be the end of me. But it’s a good one.”

  Megan nodded along with us and added, “Oh, I have one. A Night in Casablanca.” She waited for our excited reactions, which did not materialize.

  “That’s just one movie, hon,” I said. “It’s supposed to be a double feature.”

  “It is,” she explained, her enthusiasm undampened. “It’s the Marx brothers’ movie, A Night in Casablanca. And it’s the Humphrey Bogart movie, Casablanca.”

  Another long pause. “How would people know that?” I asked.

  Megan considered the options for a moment. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I suppose you’d have to tell them when they buy their tickets.”

  “We could do that,” Tracy said, putting a positive face on the idea. “Good idea. Thanks, Megan. We’ll add it to the list,” she said as she stood up. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  “You too,” I replied.

  She got about five feet away and turned back, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Say, how well do you know the police detective who came to the theater?”

  “Which one? The tall one with no personality or the short one with no
personality?”

  She moved back toward us slowly. “The tall one. The reason I ask, it seemed like you knew him.”

  “That I do,” I said sagely. “He’s married to my ex-wife.”

  Tracy took a dramatic step backward. “Oops. Sorry,” she said. “Awkward.”

  “Not a problem,” I said, putting up a reassuring hand. “That’s old news.”

  “Okay,” she said, once again moving closer. “The reason I ask is he seemed to think it was weird I didn’t really know anything about Tyler. Like I was lying or something. I tried to explain I’ve only been in town about six months and that Tyler really kept to himself up there in the booth, but I got the impression he thought I was hedging and he wasn’t buying it.”

  I nodded.

  “Not buying it,” I explained, “is the go-to emotion for Homicide Detective Fred Hutton. Some people are convinced it’s his only emotion.”

  She smiled at my attempt at humor and then turned serious once again. “The thing is, I remembered today times when Tyler met up with a guy in the lobby and they went up to the booth. It was all so low-key it really didn’t stand out at the time. But I figure I should call the detective about it, right?”

  Her intonation suggested the best answer I could give her would be “no.”

  “Sadly, yes,” I said.

  “He’s going to think I’m an idiot.”

  “Yes, but he thinks everyone is an idiot. You can’t take it personally. Do you remember what the guy looked like?”

  Tracy scrunched up her face in thought. “I don’t know. Middle-aged. White guy. Well-dressed. Your standard, boring middle-aged white dude.” She set her to-go bag down on the table and leaned against the chair, shaking her head. “I’d just rather not go to the police if I don’t have to.”

  “He’s really not a bad guy,” I said quietly. “I mean, deep down he’s pretty okay.” I turned to Megan for support on this argument. “Didn’t you once say Fred has a caring aura?”

  Megan considered this for a moment. “I think I said it was on the warm side of cool,” she said, then quickly added, “but deep down, I think Fred’s a good guy.”

  “Okay,” Tracy said, not entirely convinced. “But if I do have to go talk to him, would you mind coming along? Moral support and all?”

  I turned to Megan, thinking she’d find a quick and reasonable excuse to keep me from spending any more time than absolutely necessary with this leggy beauty. But instead, Megan was nodding in agreement.

  “Sure, Eli would be happy to,” she said with complete sincerity.

  “That would be great,” Tracy said. She thought about it for a moment longer, then picked up her to-go bag. “Anyway, thanks. Have a nice night.”

  She moved toward the door, missing the wave Megan gave her as she walked away. I turned to Megan, who was back to studying the menu.

  “You’re okay with me shuttling her to the police station?”

  “She’s been through a lot. It would probably help,” Megan said without looking up from the menu.

  “A beautiful woman, emotionally vulnerable. New in town, no friends to speak of. None of that is an issue?”

  “What sort of issue?” Megan said, finally looking up from the menu. Her clear blue eyes and radiant complexion showed no indication of even a hint of jealousy.

  “Never mind,” I said. Even if I had wanted to pursue it further I couldn’t, as the waitress choose that moment to arrive at our table. We turned our attention to ordering what would ultimately be a fine if quiet dinner.

  When we finished eating, the Minneapolis Mystics and their special guest, Quinton Moon, were still in the throes of their own lively evening of wine, food and stories.

  I would have been fine just slipping out of the bar unnoticed, but Megan insisted we stop back and say goodnight to the group, who were in the midst of another loud round of laughter and drinks as we approached their table.

  Quinton stood—of course he did—and kissed Megan’s hand before giving me a firm and manly handshake.

  “I hope to see you again quite soon,” he said to Megan, and then turned his steely eyes on me. “Both of you, I mean.”

  “Oh, I hope we do,” Megan said a little too quickly and emphatically for my liking.

  “Until then, I bid you goodnight.” It might have been my imagination, but it seemed like he clicked his heels together at the end of his statement. For my part, I wanted to put as much distance between him and Megan as I could.

  “Yeah, catch you later,” I said, taking Megan’s arm and steering her toward the front door.

  The cold night was made even chillier by my mood as we crossed the street, walking up the hill to Megan’s duplex.

  “There’s something about that guy I don’t like,” I finally muttered, half aloud and half under my breath.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said, recognizing the more I complained about him, the less attractive it would make me. And the more attractive it would make him. A classic no-win situation.

  “We should find time to have dinner with Quinton while he’s in town,” Megan said. “Just the three of us. I think you two have a lot in common.”

  I bit my lip for a second, sorting through possible responses.

  “Sure,” I finally said. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with me helping Tracy.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it will,” she said with a smile. “Aren’t you coming in?”

  I thought about it for a moment, seething a bit at her interest in Quinton and her complete lack of interest in the threat posed by the attractive theater manager. Not that there was an actual threat, of course. But the fact that Megan saw no risk with Tracy—when all I saw were warning bells and sirens with Quinton—was making me a little insane.

  “No,” I said, scrambling for some plausible deniability. “It’s late, I’m tired, I have to get up early, I told Harry I’d help him with inventory.”

  I would have continued with several more items in the list, but I seemed to have satisfied her. She gave me a warm kiss and touched my cheek.

  “Okay, we’ll talk tomorrow. Be safe walking home,” she added as she unlocked the door.

  “It’s just across the street and down the block,” I said.

  “I know that. Be careful,” she said as the door swung open. “And I’ll email Quinton about getting together for dinner,” she added as the door swung shut.

  “No problem,” I said to the closed door. “Want me to invite Tracy?”

  Of course there was no response, which was just as well. I turned on my heels and attempted to storm away, but the slippery conditions sucked the intended drama right out of my unseen exit.

  I wasn’t really giving the outside world my full attention as I stepped out into the street through a gap in the mounds of shoveled snow that lined the sidewalk. As I cautiously negotiated the icy patches in the pavement, I turned to see headlights barreling toward me on the slick and slippery street.

  The car was making no attempt to slow down on the slick road. In fact, I got the distinct impression it was speeding up as it raced toward me. I scrambled to get out of the way, but the frozen, polished street didn’t afford much traction. I considered turning back, but that option didn’t look like it would provide any stronger footing. I made a last-ditch attempt to dive out of the careening car’s path, and thought I’d been successful until I felt its side view mirror slam into my hip and rocket me to the icy pavement.

  I hit the ground hard as the car torpedoed past me, my shoulder slamming into the roadway. I rolled over in time to see the car burn through the stoplight at 48th Street, no brake lights in evidence, before it disappeared into the snowy darkness of Chicago Avenue.

  Chapter 6

  “You must have the police on speed dial by now.”

  “Sadly, you’re not the first person to mak
e that suggestion. However, in this rare instance, I was not the one placing the call.”

  Harry looked up from his position behind the counter. Given the events of the previous night, I had chosen to sleep in and skipped our traditional breakfast. He’d eaten without me, unlocked the shop, and was ready to face the day. I had wandered down the stairs moments before and was still in a bit of a sleepy daze.

  “Who placed the call? An alert citizen?” He put a spin on the last two words which bordered on sarcastic.

  “Someone in one of the apartments happened to be looking out and saw the accident. From their perspective, it really looked like the car hit me, so they called 911.”

  “But you were unscathed?”

  I shrugged. “I’m a little scathed. I’ve got a black and blue mark in the shape of Peru on my hip, and my shoulder is pretty sore, but I seem to be otherwise unharmed.” I touched a hand tenderly to my hip and quickly pulled it away. “Relatively unharmed.”

  “And the culprit? Was he duly apprehended?” Harry made some minute adjustments to a row of thumb tips, and then began to sort and re-box some playing cards left over from a demonstration the previous afternoon.

  I shook my head. “The cop I talked to said they found the car, crashed into a light pole about a quarter of a mile away. It had been stolen and abandoned.”

  “Stolen and abandoned,” Harry repeated softly, raising one eyebrow. “Remarkable.”

  “He said it had one of those auto-starters which turns the car on when the temperature drops below a certain point. It was parked about a block away and the owner hadn’t locked the car.”

  “Foolish.”

  “A crime of opportunity is what he called it.”

  “And there you were, standing in the way of opportunity.”

  “I guess so,” I said as I sat on one of the stools. I sighed deeply and looked around the shop.

  “Other than that, how was your evening, Mrs. Lincoln?” This was a favorite expression of Harry’s and it never failed to produce at least a smile, which it successfully achieved on this particular morning.