The Man Who Couldn't Miss

by David Handler

  “No, no. You can . . . wait, who is this?”

  “It’s Hoagy.”

  “Hoagy . . .” Marty’s voice filled with sadness. “Come on up, man. By all means.”

  Lulu and I took our time going up the steps to the third floor, which almost gave Millie, Marty’s sturdily built young waitress, enough time to get dressed and sneak out of his utter mess of a room, which reeked of sex, Southern Comfort and Marty’s own rich, personal aroma. Just not quite. She was still scrambling around on her hands and knees in search of her left sandal when Marty let me in. He wore a pair of boxer shorts and nothing else. She wore a Red Sox T-shirt, cutoffs and a pronounced hickey on her neck. Her hair was a mess. Her face was puffy. She looked hungover and hugely ill at ease.

  Lulu gave her an assist by nosing her sandal out from under the bed.

  She grabbed it and put it on, smiling uncertainly at Marty. “Will I see you later?”

  “Absolutely,” Marty said with such conviction that even I believed him.

  She hurried out, closing the door softly behind her.

  “She’s seventeen.” He flopped down on the four-poster bed, blubbery, unshaven and dissolute. “The age of consent in Connecticut is sixteen. And no, I’m not proud of myself.” He rubbed his sleep-heavy eyes and lit a Lucky Strike, dragging on it. “But I was depressed and lonely and that cop made me stay over.”

  “You don’t owe me an explanation, Marty.”

  “I know, but I owe myself one.”

  When I was fourteen I once drank an entire quart of Southern Comfort with my best friend, Cecil Nelson Widdifield—that’s right, U.S. Congressman Cecil Nelson Widdifield—and to this day even the faintest whiff of it makes me queasy. I went to the windows and opened them wide. Directly across the street on the town green a half-dozen photographers were snapping photos of the inn.

  Marty used the bedside phone to order a pot of coffee. “I may jump in the shower while I’m waiting for it,” he said to me after he’d hung up.

  “Don’t let me stop you. Please.”

  He went in the bathroom, closed the door and I heard the shower running. His third-floor room was smaller than the one they’d given Merilee one floor below but still loaded with Victorian charm. I threw the patterned quilt over the unmade bed so I wouldn’t have to look at or smell anything that I didn’t want to look at or smell. Marty was still in the shower when there was a knock at the door. I opened it. A different sturdily built young milkmaid bustled in toting a tray with a pot of coffee, cup and saucer, cream, sugar and a cute little basket of miniature muffins of some kind. My guess would be cranberry. She put it on the ornate writing table, smiled at me politely and let herself out.

  Marty emerged from the bathroom a moment later in a terry cloth bathrobe, poured himself some coffee and set it on the nightstand. Then he flopped down on the bed, propping himself up with several pillows, reached for his coffee and took a huge, grateful gulp.

  I sat in the ornate chair that went with the ornate writing table. Lulu stretched out at my feet.

  “Lieutenant Tedone wants to talk to me sometime today,” Marty said. “Strictly informally, he assured me. At least he’s not dragging me to headquarters in handcuffs.”

  “Why would he want to do that?”

  “Because I’m his prime suspect or main suspect or whatever the fuck they call it. That’s pretty damned obvious, isn’t it? I shared that dressing room with Greg. I should have been in there changing for act two when it happened. Except I wasn’t, I swear. I was in the john across the hall. Tedone knows that. He saw the evidence for himself. But he keeps giving me the feeling that he doesn’t believe me.”

  “He’s just doing his job. That’s how those guys operate. Don’t let him mess with your head. I believe you. Besides, why on earth would you want to beat Greg’s brains in with a brick?”

  “That part’s easy. Dini used to be my girlfriend. I still care about her.”

  “Still not getting the easy part.”

  “Because Greg gave her the AIDS virus. Dini’s HIV-positive.”

  I kept my face blank. “And you know this how?”

  “She told me last night just before we went onstage. Doctor Orr had just called to give her the news. She asked me not to tell anyone.”

  “And yet she told you.”

  “We share a history together. We’re still close.”

  “Did she know that Greg was cheating on her?”

  Marty eyed me over the rim of his cup. “She didn’t say. And I haven’t heard any rumors. I’ve been in Vancouver for the past two months shooting the new Bruce Willis, and before that I was in London doing my twelve-week run of Salesman. Besides, maybe he wasn’t. Cheating on her, that is.”

  “Meaning . . . ?”

  “Maybe she’s seeing someone else and she gave it to Greg.”

  “You don’t believe that for one second.”

  “You’re right, I don’t.” Marty let out a gloomy sigh. “It was damned stupid of him, that’s all I know. You’ve got to be so careful these days. I always wear a condom. Look in that wastebasket over there if you don’t believe me.”

  “Not necessary,” I assured him. Lulu echoed the sentiment by making a low, unhappy noise at my feet.

  “I always liked the guy, Hoagy. He was a decent person. This whole thing’s a shame. A damned shame.” Marty drained his coffee cup, got up and poured himself some more. “What about that lowlife shithead Romero?”

  “What about him?”

  “He couldn’t stand Greg. He shows up in town and, wham, Greg is suddenly facedown dead in six inches of water. Kind of fits together, doesn’t it?”

  “It does, except Romero has an alibi of sorts. Three different smack freaks saw him shooting up at an abandoned farmhouse on the outskirts of town at the time of the murder.”

  He shook his head at me. “That’s an alibi?”

  “Of sorts, like I said.”

  He sat back down heavily on the edge of the bed and lit another Lucky Strike, sighing gloomily once again. “Know what, Hoagy? This totally sucks.”

  “You’re right, Marty. It totally does.”

  I FOUND SABRINA seated on a tree-shaded bench in the inn’s showy rose garden writing a postcard to someone. Two of the gardeners were ogling her from twenty feet away as they trimmed a boxwood hedge. Sabrina was ignoring them. She was accustomed to being ogled. She wore a sleeveless linen summer dress that was artfully unbuttoned so as to show off her long, bare legs. Sabrina had great legs. Great everything. Flawless skin. Slanted, smoldering eyes. Those gorgeous, cascading ringlets of golden hair. She had talent, too, according to Merilee. Emotionally fragile, yes, but that’s hardly uncommon among performers. In fact, it’s pretty much the norm.

  She looked up at me as I approached her. “I’m sending a postcard to my mom,” she confessed, smiling faintly. “She likes it when I send her postcards. Plasters them all over her refrigerator with Snoopy magnets.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Hackensack. Just like in the Billy Joel song.”

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  “Yup.”

  “Are you a fan of the Piano Man?”

  Sabrina eyed me with suspicion. “Why?”

  “Because it would mean the end of our relationship before it’s even had a chance to start.”

  “Can’t stand him. My taste tends more toward Erroll Garner. I get goose bumps whenever I hear him play ‘Misty.’”

  “Meyer, have you been reading up on me?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean that my fondness for the Little Elf is somewhat legendary. Esquire once wrote an entire article about it.”

  “Is that right? I had no idea. Seriously.”

  “May I join you for a few minutes?”

  “Please do. I’m bored out of my skull. Did you know that there’s absolutely nothing to do in Sherbourne?”

  I sat on the bench. Lulu climbed up onto it and sque
ezed herself in between us. Subtle, Lulu is not. She knows a threat to her happy home when she sees one.

  Sabrina patted her on the head. “But I’m stuck here because Lieutenant Tedone wants to talk to me again, which is a total bummer because I was supposed to read for a part in Sydney Pollack’s new film today. It’s just a bit role, but it’s Sydney Pollack.”

  “Maybe they’ll let you read for it tomorrow.”

  “No chance. They won’t hold it open for me. I’m a nobody.” She shifted around on the bench, recrossing her legs. “I start to get jittery if I sit around and think too much, and for me it’s just a quick bunny hop from jittery to the panic express. My world can turn into a really dark place so fast. You have no idea.”

  “Yes, I do. I happen to be a resident of the same world.”

  Her eyes studied my face searchingly. “Smack?”

  “Coke.”

  “For real?”

  “Do you think I’d make something like that up?”

  She lowered her gaze. “I’ve been clean for fifteen months.”

  “And you’re going to stay clean. And I wouldn’t fret about missing that audition. Your career is about to take off like a Titan missile. You’ll be getting a huge amount of attention because of Greg’s death. The casting agents will know who you are. Everyone will know who you are. In fact, you’ll look back on this someday and realize that Greg Farber’s murder was your big break.”

  Sabrina looked at me in horror. “You make it sound like I killed him to boost my career.”

  “Did you?”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re genuinely asking me that.”

  “Actually, I’m trying to prep you for the scene that you’ll be playing later today with Lieutenant Tedone.”

  “Meaning you think he’s going to talk to me like that?”

  “Meaning I know he’s going to talk to you like that.”

  She shook her blond ringlets at me, dumbfounded. “Why on earth would I want to kill Greg?”

  “You tell me. Were you two romantically involved?”

  “I hardly knew him. Or any of these people. I just met them two weeks ago after Merilee took me on as a favor to the drama school. They’ve been super nice to me, but it’s not as if we hung out together or anything. Marty did try to hit on me . . .”

  “Now there’s a surprise.”

  “And he’s a genius but he’s, I mean, totally gross. Ugh.”

  “You were seated in the wings during act one last night, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right. I wanted to get a feel for the energy, like I told you.”

  “Since you were already in full costume and makeup you had no reason to go down to the dressing rooms during the act break. What did you do?”

  “Stayed right where I was and watched the stagehands rushing around setting up for act two while the rain was pouring down on them. It was total mayhem, like watching a Buster Keaton movie. Do you like Keaton?”

  “Love Keaton.”

  She smiled. “For real?”

  “Absolutely. I never kid around about Buster Keaton. You saw your fellow cast members go downstairs to change, I’m guessing.”

  She nodded those golden ringlets. “Sure.”

  “But, just to be clear, you didn’t go down there yourself, correct?”

  Sabrina hesitated. “Actually, I did try to, sort of. Mimi had asked me to keep an eye on Cheyenne and Durango for a minute while she went down there, remember? And while I was sitting there with them I suddenly got it into my head that Louise would look even frumpier wearing a garish smear of bright red lipstick. So I went down the spiral staircase to ask Merilee what she thought but it was so flooded down there and so many other people were crowding the ladies’ dressing room—you, Glenda, Mimi—that I just skipped the idea and went back upstairs.”

  “So you didn’t go in the dressing room?”

  “No.”

  “Who watched the twins while you were down there?”

  “Nobody. They’re not babies. I told them to stay put. They stayed put. Besides, I was only gone for a second.”

  “While you were down there did you see anyone go in or out of Greg and Marty’s dressing room? Anyone or anything that you weren’t expecting to see?”

  Sabrina’s eyes flickered, her gaze suddenly avoiding mine. “No, nothing.”

  I studied her, positive she was holding out on me. “Sure about that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Okay. And then what happened?”

  “I went back upstairs, like I said. Glenda and Mimi came back up not long after I did and then—”

  “Which one of them came up first?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Which one of them came back upstairs first?”

  “Mimi, then Glenda maybe a minute later. And then I heard Marty holler out your name. I guess that’s when he’d found Greg. After that all hell broke loose.”

  We fell silent for a moment, seated there in that too-perfect rose garden, the air heavy with the scent of fresh flowers and the not-so-fresh scent of 9Lives canned mackerel courtesy of Lulu, who remained parked between us, mouth-breathing in the summer warmth.

  “Is this the sort of stuff that the lieutenant will be asking me?”

  I nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “Thanks for the prep.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Sabrina glanced at me uneasily. “Do you mind if I ask you a nosy question?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What’s it like? Merilee’s life, I mean.”

  “Success doesn’t make your problems go away, if that’s what you’re wondering. In fact, it can make them a lot worse because you’re still you except now everyone in the world thinks they know you. And own you.”

  Sabrina swallowed, her face darkening. “Did she tell you that I had to check myself into McLean last year?”

  “She did.”

  “My older brother turned me on to smack. He was totally into it.”

  “Is he still?”

  “No, he’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. He was a messed-up person who wrecked the lives of everyone around him.”

  “Merilee also told me you’ve got it together now. She thinks you’re the total package, you know.”

  “Are you just saying that to cheer me up?”

  “Do you need cheering up?”

  “No, I’m good. Really, I am. Just antsy to get back to the city, that’s all. I’d give anything to have what Merilee has. A career that allows her to pick and choose her projects. And a man like you who’s smart, talented and kind to share my life with.”

  “I’m not exactly sharing her life. She’s just letting me work on my new book in her guest cottage because it’s currently a hundred and seventeen degrees in my apartment.”

  She eyed me curiously. “You mean you two aren’t together?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Which prompted Lulu to let out a low, unhappy grumble.

  Sabrina looked at me with those slanted dark eyes. “So you’re available?”

  “By most people’s definition of the term. But I’m not unattached.”

  “Are you saying you still love her?”

  “That pretty much covers it.”

  She sighed regretfully. “Me, I can’t seem to meet anyone who’s worth knowing. I love spending time with writers. You’re such interesting people to talk to.”

  “Really? That hasn’t been my experience.”

  “You’re toying with me. Please don’t. I’m being serious here.” She found a scrap of paper in her shoulder bag, scribbled her phone number on it and handed it to me. “Call me when you get back to the city, okay? We can meet for coffee or go to a museum or something, can’t we?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Call me,” she repeated. “I mean it.”

  POINT O’WOODS WAS one of those ritzy old-money private beach colonies like Fenwick in Old Saybro
ok, the one where Katharine Hepburn lived. To get there I first had to navigate my way around the Guilfoyle town green, then dip under the Amtrak railroad bridge and drive out onto a promontory that jutted out into Long Island Sound—although very, very few people ever made it that far because as soon as you dipped under the railroad bridge you ran smack dab into a kiosk manned by a full-time guard who wouldn’t permit you to proceed any farther unless you were (a) a Point O’Woods resident, (b) on his official guest list or (c) there to repair someone’s washer-dryer.

  The colony consisted of about three-dozen mammoth natural-shingle turn-of-the-century bungalows with turrets, sleeping porches and wraparound balconies. All of them shared access to a private beach, tennis court and nine-hole pitch and putt golf course. Most of the bungalows had been in the same families for generations. They rarely became available for sale on the open market. Mimi had come into hers strictly because her divorce lawyer had been a world-class shark. Her next-door neighbors, who were currently vacationing in France, had been nice enough to let Greg, Dini, the twins and Glenda use their house while they were rehearsing Private Lives. Their only stipulation had been that the golden retrievers, Steve and Eydie, had to stay behind in New York City.

  Dozens of paparazzi, to my total lack of surprise, were crowded just outside the dip under the railroad bridge waiting for a money shot of Dini when she emerged from seclusion. Two Guilfoyle police cars were there to keep them from blocking the road. I pulled the Jag up at the kiosk, gave the guard my name and told him that I was expected. He phoned the house and spoke very deferentially with someone there, rather like a white-gloved doorman on Fifth Avenue does when he’s phoning the penthouse. After he’d hung up he nodded his head at me and told me to head for the last house on the right.

  A dirt road took me past one giant bungalow after another. Some had privet hedges around them. Others simply had open acres of lawn. I saw no people anywhere. When I arrived at the last house on the right I spotted Merilee’s Woody parked outside a four-car garage. I also saw Glenda getting out of a rental Ford Taurus with a couple of shopping bags. Evidently she’d arrived just a moment before I had. I pulled up next to her and waved.