Magic Hour

by Susan Isaacs

  I got up and walked out of the room. I remember nothing about what I thought or felt. I do remember rinsing the breakfast dishes and sticking them in the dishwasher and pouring what was left of the milk into the container. Then I went back in. Bonnie was the same; maybe even more remote.

  If she had been in a movie, they'd have had some lens that would make her look as if she was moving back, farther and farther. Eventually she would be­come just a point of light. And then she'd vanish.

  "Tell me who had a real motive to kill Sy," she said.

  "You."

  "Who else?"

  "Lindsay."

  "You know what I think of that theory."

  "I don't give a flying fuck what you think," I said. "She's on the list."

  "Anyone else?"

  "Some guy who invested in Starry Night, a guy from Sy's days in the meat industry."

  "Who?"

  "Mikey LoTriglio."

  "Fat Mikey?" Bonnie's face got all pink and glowy; just hearing his name seemed to make her happy. She forgot to be remote. "I love Fat Mikey!"

  "You love him? He's a bad guy. Mafia."

  "I know. But for a bad guy, he was so wonderful. Well, wonderful to me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He knew I was a writer, so he was convinced I didn't have the foggiest notion about how the real world worked. He became very protective. Asking, 'Sy treatin' you good?' I was always taking these ten-mile-long hikes through the city, and he didn't like it. Not one bit. He told Sy a husband shouldn't let a wife do things like that. But when he decided Sy couldn't stop me, he bought me a map. He marked all the neighborhoods he thought were dangerous in red. Oh, he called me Bonita. For some reason, he'd de­cided I was a classy dame, and he couldn't accept that I didn't have a more dignified name. When he heard we were splitting, that I wasn't asking for ali­mony, he called me up and gave me advice. I was so surprised to hear from him."

  "What did he say?"

  "He told me he admired what I was doing but that this wasn't a movie. It was real life, 'and in real life, Bonita, ladies whose husbands take a walk got to get lawyers.' See, Mikey was Sy's friend. His loyalty should have been to Sy. That's the way people in his world operate. But he went out on a limb for me, tried to get me to go to a matrimonial lawyer he recommended. And the reason he did it was because he liked me a lot. And I liked him. I mean, he was a man. The men I met in New York, Sy's friends ... they could get destroyed by a four-foot-two maitre d' with bad breath and nose hair who sat them at a wrong table. Not Mikey. He was bad, but he was real."

  "Have you seen him or spoken to him since the divorce?"

  "No." "Did Sy tell you he'd invested in Starry Night?"

  "Yup." Casual, relaxed, as if I'd asked if she wanted ketchup on her hamburger.

  Except I'd asked her about Sy's investors before, and she'd given me some crap about his being edgy about "the boys." But she'd denied any knowledge of who they were. I blew up. "I asked you about Sy's meat buddies before, goddamn it, and you told me—"

  "Stop yelling."

  "I'm not yelling!" I banged my fist on the dresser. I hit my loose-change dish, and a dime jumped onto the floor. "I'm talking loud." I stopped, until I could regulate my voice. "Tell me, Bonita, is there anything you don't lie about?"

  "I didn't tell you about Mikey because he'd had a lot of trouble with the police in the past."

  "Do you think there may have been a reason for the trouble?"

  "Oh, stuff it. Of course there was a reason for the trouble. He's a criminal. Just because he wears zoot suits and sounds like Sheldon Leonard in Guys and Dolls doesn't mean I don't know what he is. He's morally reprehensible—but he's not guilty of Sy's murder. If I'd told you about his investment it could have meant big trouble for him, and I know he didn't kill Sy."

  "Why? Because you did?"

  "Yup."

  "Listen, honey, why don't you do Mikey a favor? Confess. Say: 'Sy made me get rid of my baby, cheated on me, gave me the clap, burned out my tubes...' " No reaction. I could have been reciting my multiplication tables. " '...and dropped me like a hot potato. Then he came back into my life and turned it upside down. He didn't love me, never has. He just used me. Over and over. And here I am: not getting any younger, lonely, broke. So I got out my .22 I brought back East from Daddy's store and shot the bastard.' That would give Mikey a real alibi."

  "Stop babbling," she ordered. "Start thinking. Does Sy's murder sound like any kind of Mafia hit you've ever heard of?" It didn't, but all I did was shrug. "It couldn't have been Mikey LoTriglio. There was no way Sy would have let things get to the point of offending Il Tubbo; he was afraid of him."

  "I thought he and Mikey were friends."

  "They were. Sort of. See, part of Sy, the cosmopoli­tan part, loved knowing someone who was con­nected, who could tell stories about how Jimmy the Nunz put Tony Tomato and his Lincoln Continental in the East River to see if they would float. And the ruthless part of Sy ... well, having a boyhood friend like Fat Mikey was a potential business asset. But Sy's New York nervous-Nellie part was afraid of being with a man who carried a gun, someone who could order men hurt or killed. Sy was as afraid of potential violence as of real violence. He was the ulti­mate urban neurotic; he couldn't distinguish be­tween a threat and an act. So no matter what it was, Sy always deferred to Mikey. I mean, we'd go out to dinner with Mikey and his wife or Mikey and his girl­friend, and Sy, who was the world's biggest, pickiest pain in a restaurant, would let Mikey order for him. He'd wind up eating what must have been fried gold­fish or lard in marinara sauce because Mikey said, 'You'll love this, Sy.' So trust me on this one: If Mikey was upset that his investment was going sour, Sy would have taken out his wallet and paid Mikey back right then and there. Double."

  "We're talking a million-buck investment."

  "That wouldn't be a problem for Sy. He was proba­bly worth ten or fifteen million."

  I shook my head. "Forty-five big ones." Bonnie looked astonished. "You could have had a nice chunk."

  But she didn't seem interested in history. "Who inherits his money?" she asked. "His parents both died."

  "No one. He has some sort of charitable founda­tion set up. For the arts."

  Bonnie got up off the bed and lay facedown on the floor. She started doing push-ups, counting softly to herself. "I don't like your list of suspects," she said after forty-five. She wasn't at all winded.

  "Why should you? You're on it."

  Maybe she and I were doing business, but I still wanted to keep my business private. Plus she'd passed sixty push-ups, which was more than I could do, and showed no signs of stopping; I figured I didn't have to be around to watch her hit a hundred.

  I went into the kitchen and called Thighs, told him to track down Mikey; I had a couple more questions.

  Then I woke up Germy on Beekman Place

  and asked him to get me the names of the cast and crew of Lindsay's rifle-toting African movie, Transvaal, ASAP. He told me I sounded better. I told him I was. He said he was driving out to Bridgehampton around noon, and to drop by over the weekend if I could. Bring my girl. I said I'd try. He'd just gotten a copy of a beautifully edited video about DiMaggio that hadn't been released yet. He'd bring it out.

  I called Robby. According to Freckled Cleavage, he'd left for work hours ago. Which probably meant he'd just lifted the garage door. I called back Thighs; he said he'd been in since six-thirty and hadn't seen or heard from Robby.

  Then I called Lindsay's agent, Eddie Pomerantz, who had a house in East Hampton. I told him I'd be over in an hour. He said, Today isn't good, and in fact my whole weekend is booked solid, and I said, Have your attorney call me within the next ten minutes and he said, Awright, see you in an hour.

  I called Lynne. She said she'd been thinking about me, and I said I'd been thinking about her. She was going to be home most of the day, going over the psychological evaluations of her kids for next year. I said I'd try and drop over, but not to hold her breath un
til I got there. She said she wouldn't, but it would be lovely if I could find a few minutes.

  I thought, I'll have a wife and kids. I'll be happy. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life longing for what Bonnie gave me.

  When I went back into the bedroom, Bonnie was sitting on the bed again, cross-legged, seemingly com­muning with her feet. She didn't look up. "Listen," I said, "about before. I'm sorry when I was ribbing you about killing Sy that I brought up..."

  "My sterility."

  "Yeah. You know I go for the jugular. It was in bad taste."

  "Actually, it was beyond bad taste. It was cruel."

  "I apologize."

  "Fine," she said to her nicely arched soles. "Okay, let's get back to work. Any other theories? Random thoughts?"

  "Like what?"

  "I've been thinking about Sy. I know I told you he didn't seem worried, upset, anything like that. But on the other hand: he wasn't a hundred percent him­self." She paused. "I feel uncomfortable talking about sex, but the last time we did it ... he wasn't there. I mean, he was okay in the performance department, although that in itself doesn't mean a lot; Sy's equip­ment wasn't wired to his brain. But he wasn't con­centrating on me. And that was such a critical thing for him, tuning in on precisely what a woman wanted and fulfilling that want. It was much more important than the physical act itself. But all of a sudden, it was strictly mechanical. Like he had some extra time be­cause he'd changed his plane reservation, so he called and had me come over. But when I got there, he was an actor walking through a part that didn't interest him. He did what he had to do, but his mind was someplace else."

  "He was never preoccupied like that before?"

  She shook her head. "No. But see, it's nothing con­crete. It's just a sense that a wife—or an ex-wife—gets about a man. That he wasn't really with me."

  "I don't want to hurt your feelings, but could he have been cooling down on you?"

  "No, because then he wouldn't have had me come over. If he'd just wanted sex and gorgeousness, he could have spent some time with Lindsay in her trailer. Or found someone else. Don't forget; Sy was an unmarried heterosexual multimillionaire movie producer. With a hundred forty IQ and a thirty-two-inch waist. Women tend to find that attractive. But he wanted me that afternoon."

  "What for? I'm not being a shit now. I know why I would want you. Why would he want you?"

  "Comfort. He could be himself with me. Well, as close to himself as Sy could ever get. I can't say he wanted me for fun, because he took himself too seri­ously to really let loose and laugh. But he seemed to have a good time bird-watching, walking with me; it was such a change from the rest of his life. And he loved sitting out in back—he called it his ex-yard—drinking lemonade and gossiping. And the sex was good." I waited for her to say, Not anything ap­proaching the way it was with you, Stephen. Ah, Ste­phen: what a beautiful name. She said: "Sy and I knew how to please each other."

  "It's nice that you had that." Tramp, I thought. I was so steamed. I went to my closet and picked out a tie, one that Easton had gotten me four or five Christmases earlier. Naturally, it was tasteful: red and blue and pale-yellow stripes.

  Bonnie didn't seem to notice. "I know you have to get going, but just think for a minute. From your pro­fessional point of view: Did anyone say anything that would back up the feeling I got of Sy's being preoccu­pied? Was there any kind of a change in him?"

  I sat on the edge of the bed and started doing my collar buttons. She did not lean over to help. "That's not an easy call to make," I explained. "Sy had a talent—a genius—for being what people wanted him to be. Not just what you've told me about, in the sack. He could be tough with a Mikey, be intellectual with a film critic, be Mr. Chicken Soup with an old Jewish reporter. He didn't seem to have any center. You knew him better than anyone. Who was the real Sy Spencer?"

  "I don't know if there was one."

  "Right. So it's almost impossible for me to find out if Sy wasn't himself, because no one can tell me who 'himself' is. Except that he always kept the lid on; I mean, his normal behavior was not screaming and kicking the crap out of production assistants and spit­ting on actors. And there was nothing in his behavior before his murder to show anything different. He was acting like a reasonable, rational man. No sudden blowups, no fits of melancholy."

  "So you don't see anything."

  "Shut up and let me finish."

  "Don't tell me to shut up. Ask me to please be quiet."

  "Please be quiet and go fuck yourself."

  "That's better."

  "Good. Now, two things strike me, but they're so petty they may not mean anything. But like you have a wife's sense, I have a cop's sense."

  "What are they?" She caught me staring at the in­ner part of her thighs again. Taut, no baggy skin. Paler than the tanned tops of her legs. She pushed herself back, so she was leaning against the head­board, stretched her legs straight out and clasped her hands over that indefinite region south of her vulva and north of her thighs. "Come on," she urged. "You said two things struck you. Tell me. Function."

  "I am functioning. Okay, Sy could definitely in­dulge himself with material things, indulge women if he was in the mood. But basically he was a real cheapo. Always trying to get a better deal, always afraid that people were trying to cheat him. And you told me one of the reasons you didn't ask for alimony is that you wanted to stay in his good graces, and you knew he had a bug up his ass about women wanting him for his money. Am I right?"

  "Yup."

  "Okay, so knowing all that, how come he paid Lindsay Keefe a half-million bucks more than her con­tract called for?" Bonnie looked astounded. "Does that sound like him?"

  "No. Not at all. It sounds like a schnook who never made a movie before."

  "Right. Some guy who's letting a movie star lead him around by the dick. I mean, so thrilled she's let­ting him in her pants, so scared she'll change her mind, that he throws in another five hundred thou."

  Bonnie brought up her clasped hands and rested her chin on them. She was intrigued. "You're on to something. I don't know what. But Sy wouldn't let go of a nickel without a reason."

  "So what was the reason? Is it possible he made an off-the-books deal with her agent?"

  She began to gnaw her knuckles while she consid­ered the question. "I doubt it," she said finally. "Lind­say and Nick were getting a million each. Normally, they're in the two-to-three-million range, but they were getting it on the back end."

  "A percentage of the profits?"

  "Yup. The first-dollar gross. And Lindsay's agent ... Why would he go for an off-the-books deal? He's not going to trust an actress. He, his agency, is going to want the protection of a written contract to col­lect his ten percent."

  "So if a deal was struck, it would have been a pri­vate one between Sy and Lindsay."

  "It would have been. I just can't see him doing it. Except..."

  "Except what?"

  "Except she was living with him, had been for months. Sy took women out, had sex with them, maybe had an occasional sleep-over in Southampton for a weekend. But nobody besides me and Lindsay ever kept a toothbrush in his house; he didn't operate that way. So maybe he had fallen in love with her. Maybe he was going to marry her."

  "But it went sour."

  "Well, you have to ask whose fault that was. If it was hers, she was in trouble. Sy was vengeful."

  "How would he get his vengeance?"

  "Just for starters, he'd stop having sex with her—but not tell her why. And he did that."

  "You don't know that for a fact."

  "I do know that's what he told me: He'd stopped sleeping with her. And I know him well enough sexu­ally to know that you could stand on your head and whistle 'Dixie' stark naked, and he still wouldn't—couldn't, probably—do it more than once a day. God, I hate getting clinical."

  "Get clinical."

  "Well, he could keep going for what seemed like forever, but once he ... you know..." She got all flustered.
/>   "Bonnie, you're forty-five years old."

  "Thank you. Well, once he came, that was it. And so if he was keeping company with me every single day, he would have had to put on a splint to do any­thing for her."

  "He saw you every day?"

  "Every day. And he was so angry at her. He always got hostile during production, that quiet, nasty seeth­ing; I mean, if a fly would land on a wall, he'd want five grips with bazookas to go after it. But with Lind­say it was more. He was venomous. He called her terrible things, and that was so out of character for him."

  "Like what?"

  "Well, maybe you won't think it's so terrible, be­cause you have a filthy mouth. But Sy liked to think of himself as the epitome of refinement. And also as a clearheaded man of enlightenment. That meant buying politically correct ice cream and being pro-environment, anti-fur and ultra-pro-feminist. All of a sud­den, though, he was calling her 'cunt.' You have no idea how out of character that was for him. Sure, he could be a miserable, heartless, vindictive rat, but al­ways a genteel rat. He'd eat your face and tell you how profoundly he valued your friendship. So my guess is, Sy did love her. But then he turned on her. And just from his language, I'd say he'd lost control. In his mind, she'd betrayed him in some fundamental way."

  "Well, she'd betrayed him by screwing up her act­ing," I suggested.

  "Right. But for the first week or so, that didn't seem to stop his attraction. I mean, dailies were horri­ble, but you said people saw him around her on the set with steam coming out of his ears."

  "Okay. So what do we have? He was upset with her, angry with her, but he was still hot for her de­spite her lousy performance. But then she seeks out Santana as an ally—and Lindsay's way of forming an alliance is to fuck somebody. Then, within a day or two, Sy is looking to replace her. With other actresses for Starry Night. And with you for sex. So I'm asking: What's your gut? Doesn't it look like Sy knew?"