by Parnell Hall
“Who did you talk to?”
“Wendy or Janet.”
“You don’t know?”
Sam grinned. “No, and they don’t know either, and the cops don’t know, and they’re kinda pissed off about it.”
“Anyway, you took the assignment and said you’d do it?”
“Right. And Wendy/Janet said the client was waiting and to go right over. And you know a signup takes precedence over everything, so I hopped in the car and took off.”
“So what happened?”
“I got beeped again in the middle of the Triboro Bridge.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. By my agent.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. You know how the beepers got two tones, the regular beep and the steady tone?”
“Sure. My wife has the other tone.”
“Right. I gave out mine to my agent. So he beeps me on the Triboro Bridge. Which is a real pain in the ass, ’cause I figure it’s important, but I can’t call him till I get off the damn bridge, and there’s a traffic jam. Anyway, I get to Manhattan and I call, and it’s about an audition, and you know the rest.”
“Yeah, I sort of do,” I said. “What time was the audition?”
Sam had been answering my questions right along. For the first time, he looked at me funny. “Why?” he said.
I was embarrassed, but I figured the only thing to do was to go right for it.
“For an alibi, of course,” I said. “To prove conclusively that you couldn’t have done it.”
That didn’t throw him any. If anything, he looked reassured, as if he’d just thought of it. “Oh. Of course. Well, I’m afraid it won’t do it. The audition was for noon.”
“Oh?”
“Now, I know what your thinking,” Sam said. “If it wasn’t till noon, why couldn’t I just knock off the signup first? Well, I could have. But I had to change, you know. For the audition. It was the part of a young college kid. You know how it is. I couldn’t walk in looking like a plainclothes cop. So I had to get all the way downtown and change and then catch the subway uptown. As it was, I barely made it.”
“At noon?”
“Right. And then it was the usual bullshit. I sat around and they didn’t get to me till after three.”
“OK,” I said. “So much for Winston Bishop. What about Finklestein?”
Sam sat down on the couch and rubbed his head. “Let’s see, I had a meeting with my agent that morning.”
“Who’s your agent?”
“Manny Rothstein. You know him?”
Never having had a theatrical agent myself, my knowledge of them was sketchy at best. “Sorry. I don’t.”
“Yeah, well he’s supposed to be good. At least, he hustles. You know?”
“Yeah. What time was your meeting?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“Where?”
“His office. West 44th Street.”
“So what happened.”
“Well, I left word at the office that I had the meeting, and not to schedule me anything early, and I’d call in as soon as I was through. But they beeped me anyway, right in the middle of the meeting. So I called in from there and they gave me the Finklestein case—at least, asked if I could do it. But Manny’d just lined me up a commercial audition for that afternoon.”
Sam sighed, shook his head. “I wanted the signup—I needed the money—so I asked where it was. If it’d been close I’d have squeezed it in, but it was way the hell out in Queens, so I had to let it go.”
“And you went to the audition?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Two o’clock.
“Where?”
“Fillmore, Roston and Brown. On Madison Avenue.” Sam shook his head. “Which was a waste of time. I wasn’t right for it, and I knew it the minute I looked at the storyboard. I didn’t get a callback.”
“I see,” I said. “And the day of the Clarence White killing? You had an audition then, too.”
Sam looked at me in surprise. “I thought he was killed the night before.”
“He was. I’m talking about when the body was discovered.”
“Why?”
I didn’t want to say the real reason. Which was, of course, the phone call. “Because if you hadn’t had an audition, you’d have been the one who discovered him.”
Sam grinned. “That’s right, isn’t it? Say, you must have really felt put-upon.”
“It was not a great week,” I told him. “At any rate, you had an audition.”
“Yeah. A callback. Kept me there all day.”
“Till when?”
“I don’t know. Four o’clock, maybe.”
I smiled and nodded, but that wasn’t what I’d wanted to hear. Four o’clock was cutting it close, but Sam still could have got uptown in time to make the phone call. If only he’d said five.
Sam reached for his shoes and socks and started pulling them on. “Anything else you need to know?”
I wished there was. But I couldn’t think of anything. Other than that I’d been wasting my time.
“Not really,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. Well, listen. Let me ask you something.”
“What’s that?”
“Is it true about IBs?
IB stood for “Incentive Bonus” or “Initiative Bonus”—no one was ever really sure which. But in any case, what it meant was that Richard would pay a bonus to anyone who found a new case, which he accepted. I’d stopped chasing IB’s long ago, having found them distasteful. But they still existed.
“Is what true?”
“Richard really pays a hundred and fifty bucks if you bring him a new case?”
“So they say.”
He looked at me. “You never had one?”
“Actually I did. But not for a long while. But you do?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“So sign it up and turn it in.”
“And I’ll get a hundred and fifty bucks?”
“Well, that depends.”
Sam looked alarmed. “On what?”
I shrugged. “The case itself. Where it came from. Some things disqualify it. Like if it arose out of another signup. Say you sign some guy who was in an automobile accident. He tells you there was another passenger in the car who was injured. That person didn’t call in, but signing them wouldn’t get you a bonus, because the source is really the client who called in in the first place.”
“But if you find it yourself it’s all right?”
“Usually. Why don’t you tell me what the case is?”
“It’s my uncle,” Sam said. Then added, apprehensively, “Is that all right? If it’s a relative, I mean?”
“Relatives are fine.”
“Well, it’s a relative. My only relative, actually. The guy brought me up.”
“None of which disqualifies him. What’s the case?”
“Simple. Slip and fall. Tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and broke his leg.”
“Fine. You sign him up yet?”
“No.”
“Does he want to sign?”
“Yeah. I talked him into it.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Well, I just want to be sure. Let me tell you what happened. The accident was about two weeks ago. Marvin—that’s my uncle, Marvin Gravston—told me about it over the phone, and I talked him into letting me sign him up. Only thing was, I couldn’t do it ’cause he was leaving town. He’s out in Texas now. The guy’s got oil wells out there. He’s stinking rich.” Sam couldn’t help a glance around his loft. “Tight as hell, but stinking rich. Anyway, I didn’t want to take a chance on him changing his mind, so I had him make an appointment.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have an appointment with him this Tuesday to sign him up.”
I frowned. “What do you mean, appointment? He’s your uncle. You see him by appointment?”
Sam shook his head. “No. I wanted to tie him down, you k
now, so it wouldn’t get away. So I had him make the appointment.”
“What do you mean?”
“Before he left for Texas. I had him call Rosenberg and Stone and make an official appointment to see me.”
I frowned. “Oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
I didn’t want to panic him. “Well,” I said. “It’s all right, but you shouldn’t have done that.”
I panicked him. “Done what?”
“Had him call in. See, if you just sign him up and bring in the retainers and Richard takes the case, that’s it, you get the bonus. But if he called in and asked for an appointment, it’s not automatic. ’Cause it’s just like a regular callin and signup.”
“So I don’t get the bonus?”
“No. You do. You just have to be careful. Make sure Richard knows it’s your referral and not a call-in. What you do is, when you sign him up, have him write, “Referred by Sam Gravston” on the retainers. And you write it on the fact sheet. And star it and circle it and write a big “IB” on the top of the sheet. You do that and it’ll be OK.”
“You sure?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
His relief was boundless.
So was mine.
I know it makes no sense at all, but as far as I was concerned, Sam Gravston’s uncle clinched the case. In my book, this poor schmuck, who wasn’t concerned at all about what he was doing at the time three people were murdered, but who was desperately concerned about whether he’d get his hundred and fifty bucks, could not have killed those people.
32.
MONDAY WAS A HODGEPODGE. I started off by dropping Tommie off at the East Side Day School and rushing back to West 74th Street to stake out David Cooper’s apartment. It was eight twenty-five when I got there, and I was really afraid the son of a bitch had gotten up and left for work. By twenty-of-nine I’d just about convinced myself I’d blown it when out he came, dressed in suit and tie.
He set off down the street, unfortunately not in the direction traffic was going. I left my car double-parked and set off after him. I wondered if Richard would pay for it if I got a parking ticket. I realized that was idle speculation.
He walked over to Broadway, and up two blocks to a bank. He banged on the front door and a guard with keys came, unlocked it, let him in and then relocked the door. It wasn’t nine o’clock yet, so I figured that had to mean he worked there.
I rushed back to my car, drove around, found a meter and sat there until it ticked off till nine o’clock. Then I got out, fed a quarter in and walked back to the bank.
I went inside and looked around. Sure enough, David Cooper was the third teller from the left.
I didn’t go up and talk to him, however. Instead I detoured over to the other side, where the bank officers were. It was early, and there was no line at the counter yet. A smartly dressed young woman of about thirty-five left her desk, came up to the counter and smiled at me.
“May I help you?” she said.
“I certainly hope so,” I said. “Could I talk to whomever’s in charge of personnel?”
She frowned slightly. “Is this with regard to a job application?” she asked.
“No, no,” I said. “Nothing like that.” I flashed my ID at her briefly and put it back in my pocket. “I’ve been sent out by the main office to conduct a random survey on worker turnout. In other words, how often is the bank operating at full capacity, and how often is it understaffed due to sick leave, vacation time or what have you.”
She looked at me. “I beg your pardon?”
“You see what I’m getting at, of course,” I said. I thought that was a good ploy—to imply that the person you were talking to was astute enough to comprehend your absurdity.
Unfortunately, she didn’t.
“No, I don’t see what you mean. Could you be more explicit?”
“Certainly,” I said. “Let’s take last week, for example. Talking specifically about the tellers now. How many days last week were you at maximum capacity? Did you have all tellers working full-time?”
I don’t know what it was that I did or said that tipped her off. All I know is, one way or another, I blew it.
Because she frowned, cocked her head at me and said, “Could I see your ID again, please?”
No, she couldn’t.
I turned on my heel and walked out of the bank as fast as I could. And felt, as I often do, like a total asshole.
Which sort of set the tone for the day.
I had three signups, all easy, all in the Bronx. When I say all easy, it shows you where my head was at. One of them was actually in a pretty hairy building, and under normal circumstances I would have been terrified out of my mind. But as it was, I was so obsessed with my job for Richard, I couldn’t really concentrate on it. Couldn’t focus in on the terror, if you know what I mean.
In between those signups, I made other stabs at my Rosenberg and Stone investigation. All of them were about as fruitful as my escapade in David Cooper’s bank.
I drove down to the packing plant where Janet’s boyfriend worked. I went in and wandered around until I spotted him working in the shipping room. Thank god he didn’t spot me. The poor guy wouldn’t have known what to make of that. I wondered what clever ruse I could come up with to find out if the guy had actually been working on the two days in question. I couldn’t think of a damn thing. And after my adventure in the bank, I was too nervous to even try. That hadn’t exactly been a real confidence booster.
I called the Sanitation Department and tried to ascertain if they had a Frank Burke working for them. That was a joke. If you want to aggravate yourself some time, try calling the Sanitation Department. It took me a half hour to get anyone on the phone. After that I got transferred three times and cut off. I tried again with much better results. It took me only ten minutes to get someone on the phone, and I got transferred two times and cut off.
Third time’s the charm. That time I managed to get transferred to the proper person, who not only had the information but also had the authority to be able to inform me that he was unable to give it out.
That was enough for me. I wasn’t sure what confirming that Frank Burke really had a job with the Sanitation Department was going to do for me anyway. It was just confirming his story. But would the fact that he told me the truth about that be any indication that he hadn’t strangled three people? Not really. But I wanted to check out Frank Burke, and I couldn’t think of anything else to check.
And I checked out Sam Gravston. Again, to the best of my ability.
I called his agent. I represented myself as an independent movie producer and told him I wanted to check Sam Gravston’s availability.
Now, I know this is a no-no. Actors are fragile enough things to begin with, and you shouldn’t fuck with their emotions by misrepresenting the possibility of work. But this was murder, and I had to know.
Not that I found out. I gleaned the information that Sam Gravston was currently up for a TV series, and I learned the name of it, “Shake the Tree,” but that was it. I couldn’t really ask the agent what specific auditions Sam had been to in the last week. The question just didn’t make any sense.
Nor did it make any sense when I considered asking it of the woman who answered the phone at Telvue Productions, which was casting the sitcom. To her I represented myself as an agent representing a young actor whom I thought would be perfect for the show. That turned out to be a good opening tack, for it got me the information that the show had been auditioning all last week, that they were already well into callbacks, and that the cast was close to being set.
But that was it. I didn’t know what to ask next. I mean, I knew what I wanted to ask next, which was which auditions had Sam Gravston been at. But there was no way to ask the question without sounding like a total moron, which wouldn’t have bothered me if I’d thought there was any chance of the woman answering it. But there wasn’t. And on top of that, it occurred to me that by inquiring specifically a
bout Sam Gravston, I would lead her to believe that I was in some way lobbying either for or against Sam, which might result in costing him the part. For which, I realized, there was no way I would ever be able to forgive myself.
So, as I said, it was a draggy day, and not one that really boosted my morale as a demon investigator. It was a big relief to me when I finally finished giving Alice a blow by blow description of my misadventures, and was able to tumble mercifully into bed.
33.
BLACK TUESDAY.
I’d had Blue Monday, so it was only natural that I would have Black Tuesday. But I didn’t think of it at the time. Never even suspected. Which gives you a good idea of how perceptive I am.
It started off routinely enough. I dropped Tommie off at his school and immediately got beeped. I couldn’t call in right away because I didn’t have Walker in the car with me, so I had to drive out of the area to where I could park. I sped up to 125th and Madison, which turned out to be a shrewd move, because when I called in Wendy/Janet had a signup in the Bronx. I went on up Madison Avenue, over the bridge and to the address on Webster Avenue.
Which was where things started going wrong. I couldn’t find the address. I’d called the client to verify it, and the building number he’d given me was the same one Wendy/Janet had given me. But it wasn’t there. No such building. No such number.
I hunted up another pay phone and called the client again. He was indignant. Of course that was the right address—where the hell was I?
I was at a pay phone in the Bronx feeling stupid and getting pissed off.
It only took me a good five minutes on the phone to eventually ask the right question, which was, of course, “Is that Webster Avenue in the Bronx?” And, of course, it wasn’t. It was Webster Avenue in Mt. Vernon.
I wondered how Wendy/Janet could have made that mistake. Mt. Vernon does not sound like the Bronx to me. But there was no sense arguing with the client. He had every right to live in Mt. Vernon if he wanted, and it was my job to go see him.
I did, and it was a disaster. When I got there the guy turned out to be a crotchety old fart who had decided since talking to me that he was so irritated by my inefficiency and my hassling him about his address that he wasn’t going to sign.