The Man Who Cancelled Himself

by David Handler

  “And how do I do that, Lieutenant?”

  “Clog up the drain under the grid,” he replied. “Wad of paper towels will do it. Dump some water in on top of ’em. Your man’s standing there with his stream of pee hitting the live grid, and suddenly he realizes, whoa, the basin’s filling up too fast. Who knows why—maybe the last slob didn’t flush it. So he says to himself, hey, I better flush it right now or I’m gonna get my Bruno Maglis all wet. So he reaches over and grabs the handle and zap, you’ve got him. Handle’s metal—it’s grounded. Soon as he touches it the electricity shoots right up his stream of urine into his dick and through his body. One minute the man’s standing there with his life in his hands. Next minute he’s lit up like Trump’s Castle.”

  I felt my knees squeezing together involuntarily. I was not alone. Very and the coroner’s man were standing funny, too.

  “Normal building current is enough to kill someone?” I wondered.

  “Dude’s dead, isn’t he?” Very glanced down at him. “Fifty-five volts will kill you. Normal building current is a hundred and ten, hundred and twenty. Plenty.”

  I nodded. “Whoever did this—”

  “Whoever did this,” interrupted Very, “is a sick fuck.”

  “No argument there. Only, how did our sick fuck learn to do something like this?”

  “I take it you don’t read the mercenary magazines.”

  “Not lately.”

  “There’s all kinds of sleazy ads in the back—how-to pamphlets, booklets you can write away for. The soldier of fortune wanna-bes gobble them up.” He sighed in disgust. “You can learn about this trick anywhere, dude. This and a million others that would make your hair stand on end.”

  “It’s already standing on end. And how hard was all of this to rig up?”

  “There’s nothing here you can’t buy at any hardware store. Whole thing can be carried in your pocket and hooked up in two, three minutes. Especially because they took a lot of shortcuts.” He crouched by the basin, examining the murder weapon. “Check, they didn’t bother with an on-off switch, which you’d ordinarily need for purposes of selecting your subject. This was just flat-out on—first to use it loses it. They also didn’t bother to hide the extension cord. If we were talking about a professional hit on a high-security target, you’d have to take up these wall tiles and bury your wires underneath. I mean, Christ, no way a guy whose life is in danger is gonna pee into a bowl that has an extension cord sticking out of it. Surprises me that anybody would,” he added, frowning down at Chad. “I mean, you’d think he’d notice it and wonder.”

  “Who notices?” I countered. “You go in and you use it. Plus, he was an actor.”

  “What the hell’s that got to do with it?” Very demanded.

  “There’s a mirror over the urinal, Lieutenant. That’s where Chad’s eye’s were. That’s where any actor’s would be.”

  He nodded grudgingly. “Maybe so.”

  “Besides which,” I pointed out, “this is a construction site. The plumber’s been working in here.”

  Very glanced down at his notepad. “Name of Byrone Hendrix. No relation to Jimi, but a close relation to Tyrone Hendrix, the kid who works the front door. His older brother. Employed by the building as a super. Does a little bit of everything.”

  “He works fast,” I said. “This place was a total shambles yesterday afternoon.”

  “They keep a supply of sinks and urinals on hand at all times,” Very reported drily. “Hudnut’s known to be on the combustible side. This was the fourth time he’s wrecked this place in two years. Byrone was here half the night. Only thing he didn’t have was a mirror for over the sink. Was going to put that in this morning.”

  “Was the extension cord his?”

  “He says no. Custodian cleaned up in here this morning at seven-thirty. The extension cord wasn’t in place at that time.”

  “He’s sure?”

  “Positive. He used the urinal himself—and lived to talk about it.”

  The medical examiner was done with Chad, for now. The men from EMS were ready to move him.

  “Yo, getting a little close in here,” Very observed, popping his gum. “Stay with me, dude.”

  We went into Lyle’s dressing room. There the air was fresher, and Lyle was still sobbing and babbling. The others sat with him in stricken silence.

  “If only he’d followed my rules!” Lyle cried. “The poor dumb son of a bitch. Fuck me, if only he’d listened! If only …” He trailed off, noticing me. “It was meant for me, Hoagy! It was meant for me!”

  The others looked up at me with undisguised hostility. I was not one of them. I was an outsider. Someone who had, somehow, brought all of this trouble with me. They had closed ranks against me. For now at least. All except for Marjorie. She gazed at me steadily, her back stiff, her lower lip clamped tightly between her teeth.

  “Why couldn’t he stay out of there?” moaned Lyle. “Why did he have to use my john? If he’d listened to me he’d still be alive!”

  “And you’d be the dead one, Lyle,” Katrina squeaked quietly.

  “I wish I was,” he claimed, his chest rising and falling. “I wish that was me on that floor.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said.

  “It was meant for me. It was supposed to be me. Me, all over again. Me!”

  This one Katrina didn’t dispute. No one did. It just hung there in the air.

  Tommy broke the silence. “Zowie, I’ve heard of dying with your pants down, but this is shocking.”

  “This is not a time for jokes, Tommy,” Katrina said fiercely. “Poor Chad is lying in there and you’re kidding around.”

  “Hey, I don’t hear the man complaining,” Tommy fired back.

  “You’re really sick, you know that?”

  “Stop it, you two!” ordered Fiona, shuddering. “Please!”

  “At least there was no blood,” said Marty. “Better this than, I don’t know … being attacked by a blunt instrument.”

  Tommy nodded. “Like his wit.”

  Katrina glared at him, but kept silent.

  Lyle sat up abruptly. “Jesus, what about his wife? Did somebody call Brenda?”

  “All taken care of,” said Very.

  “And what about the poor little Munchkins?” Lyle wailed. “Did Amber get ’em outta here?”

  “Twenty minutes ago, Lyle,” Leo said woodenly.

  Amber. The mention of her name jogged my memory.

  Lyle ran his hands through his hair. “The poor son of a bitch cared, y’know that? All he wanted was the same thing I want—a good show. An honest show. I was really starting to like him. I really, really was.”

  “He liked you, too, Lyle,” Katrina soothed.

  “I gotta talk to God,” Lyle said impulsively. “We gotta figure out what to do about Rob. Get me God on the phone.”

  Very was staring at him.

  “Don’t worry about that now, Lyle,” Marjorie said coolly. “It’ll all work out. Somehow.”

  Lyle ignored her. “Leo, get me God. Right now.”

  Very motioned for me to join him out in the main office. I did. Everyone was still sitting there. They watched us carefully.

  “I want to take a look at Roe’s dressing room,” he informed me quietly.

  I led him to it. Lulu joined us.

  As we walked Very said, “Check, does Hudnut actually think he can get hold of God on the fucking telephone?”

  “He can and does. He means Godfrey Daniels, head of the network.”

  “Oh. My apologies—I was thinking he was maybe loco.”

  “You can forget the maybe.”

  “Was he on target about being the intended victim?”

  “Very.”

  He glanced at me. “Yeah, Hoagy?”

  I sighed. “He was very serious. That’s his personal john. No one else uses it. At least no one’s supposed to—his cootie thing. It was meant for Lyle, no question about it.”

  “What did he mean when he s
aid, ‘Me, all over again’? Did somebody try to take him out before?”

  “Somebody tried to take out Uncle Chubby that day at the Deuce. To a performer that constitutes attempted murder.”

  Very stopped in the doorway to Chad’s dressing room, nodding to his own personal beat. “Yo, this is starting to get major strange.”

  “No, it isn’t, Lieutenant. It’s been major strange for quite some time.”

  A portable garment rack stood just inside the door. Chad’s leather knapsack and a tan windbreaker hung from it. There was his Joe Weider pressing bench, his twenty-pound dumbbells, his full-size three-way mirror. There was a love seat, a glass coffee table, a bathroom scale. There was a dressing table with four different hairbrushes neatly lined in a row, along with two combs, a tube of styling gel, hair spray, hair tonic, a hair dryer, a hand-held magnifying mirror, a tube of Retin A wrinkle cream, an electric razor, a battery-operated nose hair remover, tweezers, breath spray, dental floss, a travel toothbrush, and a tube of Rembrandt toothpaste, the kind that’s supposed to make your teeth look whiter.

  “Jesus, look at all this shit,” marveled Very.

  “Tools of an insecure trade. What are you looking for, Lieutenant?”

  “Whatever,” he replied, searching through the pockets of Chad’s windbreaker. They were empty. “I don’t get it, dude. If Hudnut’s john was off limits, then what was the victim doing in there?”

  “Being a star. He strongly objected to having to share a bathroom with the crew. He wanted his own. Fiona has one. Katrina as well. Lyle refused to build him one, and refused to share his, so Chad was sneaking in and using it behind his back. Just a petty little show-biz spat. Damned stupid, really, when you consider that it cost the man his life.”

  “Hudnut didn’t keep it locked?”

  “Lyle doesn’t believe in locks, Lieutenant. None of the offices or dressing rooms have them.”

  Very began leafing absently through the scripts and papers heaped on the coffee table. “Who are we looking for, dude? Break it down for me. You know what goes on here. You know the people. I don’t.”

  I tugged at my ear. “All right. For starters, we’re looking for someone who has a rather wicked sense of humor.”

  “Humor?” Very’s eyes glinted at me. “I don’t see nothing funny going on around here.”

  “Nor do I, Lieutenant. But you must admit that Chad’s murderer is no bludgeoner. There was a definite flourish to this. A sense of theatricality, of publicity value—the papers will go crazy with it. Face it, that was a singular way to take out someone whom you really, really don’t like.” And so sexual, too. A woman, no? One of Lyle’s exes? There were certainly a number of those to choose from. “You’re checking the bathroom for fingerprints?”

  He nodded. “Guarantee you it’ll turn up clean. We’re talking one smart perp here. Yo, I’m with you so far, dude. So dish me this: Who really, really doesn’t like Hudnut?”

  “Everyone who knows him, pretty much. The man is an equal opportunity offender.”

  “That include his girlfriend, Katrina Tingle?” he asked, peering at me.

  “It does.”

  “He fucks around on her?”

  “He does.”

  “Who with?”

  There was a sound out in the hall. Somebody passing by, within earshot.

  “Who with?” Very persisted.

  “I’ll let you know, Lieutenant, if it becomes important.”

  Very shook his head at me with disgust. “Now you see, that’s just the kinda shit you’re always pulling that pisses me off. It’s not up to you to decide what is or isn’t important. It’s up to me. I’m the judge, not you. Got it?”

  “Let me explain something to you, Lieutenant. I’ll keep it short and sour. If people around here think that every little thing they tell me is going directly to you, then guess what? They won’t tell me every little thing. In fact, they won’t tell me anything at all.”

  “Maybe so,” he admitted, his knee quaking impatiently. “But I got a murder investigation to run.”

  “And I have a book to write, and feelings to specialize in. I also happen to work much better on my own—I’m a little shy that way. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to it.” I started for the door. Lulu didn’t budge from the love seat. She knew I wasn’t going anywhere. I stopped in the doorway. “Exactly what time did Chad get zapped, anyway?”

  “Nine-twenty-three,” Very replied, chin thrust at me defiantly.

  “And who was here?”

  “Everyone was here. Except for you.”

  “Including Marjorie Daw?”

  He nodded. “She got here at nine for the writers’ meeting. Yo, she’s some kind of long, tall cutie. Legs up to her neck.”

  “Bakes a mean pie, too.” And was she handy as well? Did they teach her how to hot-wire urinals and build homemade grenades back home in Rhinelander? Did they teach her how to kill? “Where was the writers’ meeting?”

  “In Muck and Meyer’s office. They were all in there when Chad got it.”

  “Who found him?”

  “One of the production assistants.”

  “Naomi Leight?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “She’s just one of those players who has a nose for the football.”

  “She the one boffing Hudnut?”

  I didn’t answer him.

  “Thought so.” Very grinned at me triumphantly. “She says she was sitting at her desk outside of Hudnut’s office. Heard a thud. Chad touching down. She knocked, and when no one answered she went in and found him there.”

  “Did she see him go in?”

  “She saw nobody go in there. Says she was at her desk by eight-fifteen, first to arrive, but she allowed as how she does a lot of running around. Starts the coffee, works the copier, shit like that. So she wouldn’t necessarily have seen him. Or our perp, for that matter. Me, I figure our perp rigged it before she even got here—right after the janitor finished. But that’s strictly theory at this point. I still need to shake Tyrone loose—he’s the one who’ll know if anyone else was around.” Very paused, scratching his head. “Of course, there’s also an inside door that connects the john to Hudnut’s dressing room. Another means of access. But Naomi swears she saw nobody go in or out of the man’s dressing room either—until he got in at ten minutes til nine. At nine sharp, he went to the meeting. She saw nobody else go in there between nine and when Chad got waxed.”

  “Is it possible that someone else saw something?”

  “No one’s come forward yet, but I’ll know more in a few hours.”

  Chad’s copy of the script lay open on the coffee table, notes and questions scrawled in the margins. There was a manila envelope filled with eight-by-ten publicity photos of Chad working the dimp. There was a fat black leather address book. There was a lined yellow legal pad on which he’d scribbed a list of eight things to do on this day:

  1. Don’t nosh—Rob cares about nutrition

  2. Listen for the laugh

  3. See the camera

  4. “Be the terrific guy you are”

  5. Positive, positive, positive!

  6. Each day I get a little bit better

  7. Smile, smile, smile!

  8. Clear the air with Hoagy—friends don’t tell each other lies

  Very stabbed at the last item with an index finger. “You two were pals?”

  “I guess he thought we were.” I suddenly felt a tremendous sadness wash over me.

  “What’s this lie he’s talking about?”

  “Yesterday, I asked him where he was when the bombs went off. He said he was in here running lines with Amber Walloon.”

  “And?”

  “She told me they weren’t. In fact, she told me she wasn’t in here at all.”

  Very grimaced. “Why didn’t you tell me this last night, dude?”

  “ Because both of them got sick from the chili,” I replied. “And because I thought she was the one who lied to me.
I figured she just didn’t want Lyle to know she’d been giving Chad direction behind his back. He’s very into control.”

  “I see,” Very said skeptically.

  “But, clearly, it was Chad who lied to me, not her.” I tugged at my ear. “Which means either that he was the one who bombed the set—highly doubtful, considering his current status among the nonliving—or that he was doing something else that he didn’t want anyone to know about.”

  Very considered this. “Could be the two of them were fucking in here.”

  “Could be,” I acknowledged, glancing down at the love seat.

  Lulu, keen huntress, was suddenly showing an uncommon interest in the love seat herself. Something tucked under one of the cushions. She burrowed under there nose-first, snarfling and snorting with reckless abandon. I picked up the cushion. There was a spray can under there.

  “What is that?” asked Very.

  “It’s our answer, Lieutenant,” I replied, reaching for it. “Hair dye. You spray it on your head to cover over your bald patches. Chad had one, and he was extremely self-conscious about it. That’s what he was doing in here when the bombs went off. He was painting his head. Didn’t want me or anyone to know. The poor fucker.”

  “Yo, why didn’t he just get a toupee?”

  “Because he didn’t want to walk around with a dead animal on his head. Believe me, it’ll make perfect sense to you in another ten or twelve years.”

  “They say you get smarter as you get older,” Very ventured.

  “No, you don’t. You just get older.”

  “I’m down to that,” he agreed. “Dig, when the doctor told me I had to get cut open I—”

  “Don’t start telling me about your damned hernia operation again. I’m not in the mood.”

  He stared at me. “You cool with this?”

  “As can be.” I bent down and scratched Lulu’s ears. “Well, that’s one mystery solved. Good girl, Lulu.”

  She beamed at me happily. Then started barking.

  “Why’s she doing that?” Very wondered.

  “She still wants to be deputized.”

  Very looked around at Chad Roe’s dressing room. “Y’know, dude, it’s not too late.”