The Bullet Catch

by John Gaspard

  “Here’s our offer,” she said. “Reduce your fee by one third, shave two days off the schedule, cut the helicopter shot and we’ve got a deal.”

  Walter took a deep intake of breath and his hand shot to his mouth at the mention of the helicopter shot. He stood very still for several seconds. Somewhere, I swear, I could hear a clock ticking. Finally he exhaled.

  “You’ve got a deal. And I’ve got my shot. Let’s put it on paper with blood.”

  The three headed toward the motor home that housed the production office, Walter talking excitedly. Jake exchanged a look with me and I nodded. Before I could comment, Walter turned and yelled back at me.

  “Oh, Magic Man, I forgot one, maybe the best one. When you’re talking about old movies, the most famous Francis is a real ass. He’s better known as Francis the Talking Mule.”

  Filming shut down for the day, in order for Walter and his team to put together the components of their big finale. Before I left, I promised him I’d come back with another method for The Bullet Catch. The moment I said it, I realized I’d have to do it without Harry’s help, as I had come to learn there was no greater enemy of The Bullet Catch than Harry Marks.

  As I made my way across the barren field that served as the Renaissance Festival parking lot, I pulled out my wallet, searching for a business card I hoped I’d saved. I wasn’t watching where I was going as I sorted through the various receipts and small-denomination bills that make up the desolate interior of my wallet. Consequently, I was taken aback when a foppish scarecrow suddenly lurched in front of me.

  “Eli,” the scarecrow hissed in a failed attempt at a stage whisper.

  I yelped and jumped back, jamming my foot in a rut and neatly twisting my ankle. After a sharp grunt of pain, I finally steadied myself and looked toward where he had just been standing. There was no one in sight.

  “Hello?” I asked tentatively.

  “Eli,” the voice hissed again. I followed the sound and turned to see the scarecrow cowering behind the Ford Fiesta was none other than Clive Albans. He was dressed in his typical potpourri fashion, a wild mix of stripes and checks and polka dots, with a madcap bouquet of colors sprinkled liberally throughout the ensemble. His eyes peered toward the main gate, and then back at me.

  “Is it safe?”

  I looked around, not seeing any threats on the horizon. “It appears to be safe,” I said slowly.

  “I must take precautions. I am persona non grata on these premises, I fear,” he said. “Apparently, there are some who took offense at my article.”

  “You mean the article that ruined the mystery the movie is based on?”

  “Yes, that’s the one,” he said, nodding and missing all the hints of sarcasm I had ladled onto my statement. “I was told in no uncertain terms to go and never darken their door again, so to speak.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  He rose up to his full lanky height and leaned one long arm against the hood of the car, concluding the move with a prolonged, dramatic sigh. “Oh, Eli, it’s show business. How can I resist?”

  He scanned the horizon again and, convinced the coast was clear, lunged forward and was suddenly in my face. “Is there any dirt?” he asked breathlessly. “Any juicy gossip?”

  “Clive, after what you’ve done, what makes you think I’d stand out here and dish dirt with you?”

  “Because you’re my brother,” he said emphatically, mercifully taking a full step back.

  “What?”

  “Metaphorically, at least. We’re in the brotherhood together, you and I.”

  “What brotherhood would that be?”

  “Show business, dear boy. The business of show.”

  I pushed past him and continued across the field toward my car, taking care to put as little weight as possible on my throbbing ankle. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  “Oh, don’t pout,” he yelled after me. “No one likes a pouter.”

  My answer took the form of me getting into my car, slamming the door, and spewing not nearly as much dirt and grass as I would have liked as I gunned the engine.

  “Give Harry a hug for me,” he said.

  Then he disappeared across the field.

  The search through my wallet had yielded the desired item: Roger Edison’s business card. I gave him a call and he said it would be fine to drop by the office anytime. I was quick to explain I wouldn’t be coming in to buy insurance, just to talk.

  “That’s okay,” he said, chuckling over the phone. “I once sold $500,000 in life insurance to a guy who just came in to get change for the bus. So we shall see.”

  Roger’s address put him in an office park near the Mall of America, so at the point where Highway 169 intersected Highway 494, I took the exit and headed east.

  The office park consisted of a handful of seemingly-identical two and three-story buildings just off the freeway. The small lot in front of Roger’s building was full, so I parked in front of a matching building across the street. As I walked back toward Roger’s office, I noticed two blue-shirted maintenance men were standing by the large flagpole which stood majestically in front of the building. They were looking up the pole and I followed their gaze, up and up, to where a flag drooped sadly. The flag had evidently become twisted and tangled, and their efforts of tugging on the rope that raised and lowered the flag appeared to be having little effect.

  “I bet I’m going to have to climb that damned pole again,” said a voice behind me. I turned to see another maintenance man, in a blue work shirt that matched the others, striding along. The name patch on his shirt read “Doug.”

  “Climb the pole?” I said.

  “Once it gets tangled up like it is now, that’s usually the only solution.”

  As we walked, I looked up at the pole, which was probably close to three stories high. Even before my panic attacks I wouldn’t have relished the thought of climbing it, but now the very thought of it tightened my stomach. And I wasn’t comforted by the fact that my very out-of-shape thirty-something body was probably physically incapable of getting more than ten feet off the ground.

  The guys at the base of the pole tugged ineffectually at the ropes and Doug, probably sensing they were making things worse, broke into a trot.

  “Wish me luck,” he yelled over his shoulder as he headed toward the pole. I gave him a weak wave and then headed up the sidewalk to Roger’s building.

  Of course, it wasn’t really Roger’s building. His was just one of the many businesses listed on the directory in the foyer. An indoor waterfall filled one wall of the lobby and I had the option of using the sweeping staircase or the elevator to go up the one floor to his office. Given my recent history with heights and railings, I opted for the elevator.

  “Can I get you coffee or a soft drink?” his smiling receptionist asked once I had explained why I was there. I thanked her, said I was fine and went to grab a seat, but before I could pick a magazine to peruse, Roger bounded out of his office with an outstretched hand.

  “Eli, twice in two weeks. We’ll have to stop meeting like this.”

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “What other kind is there nowadays? Hold all my calls,” he said over his shoulder as he ushered me into his office.

  “Yeah, whatever,” the receptionist said and from my new vantage point I could see she was deeply involved in checking her Facebook page.

  “My niece is filling in as my receptionist this summer before heading off to college,” he explained as he pulled a chair up to the small table at one end of his office. “She’s great in client-facing situations, but she seems to harbor a built-in resentment for management.”

  “Workers of the world unite,” I said as I sat down.

  “First talk of unionizing and she’s back to babysitting. So, what brings you in today?” He held up his r
ight hand. “No selling, I promise.”

  “It’s about Dylan Lasalle,” I said, and Roger’s face shifted effortlessly from light and jovial to serious and concerned.

  “A terrible tragedy,” Roger said. “No one ever expects crime to hit so close to home.”

  I nodded. “I don’t know how much you’re allowed to talk about this,” I continued, “but Trish was surprised Dylan had taken out such a large life insurance policy. I mean, without telling her. But, again,” I added, “I don’t want you to get in trouble talking about this.”

  “Eli,” Roger said, patting me paternally on the arm, “This isn’t like attorney-client privilege. I sold the guy some insurance, it’s not a state secret. I mean, I’ve already talked to the police about it, so what’s the harm in talking to you?”

  “They’ve already questioned you?”

  “One of their guys came by yesterday.”

  “Was it Homicide Detective Fred Hutton, by any chance?”

  Roger turned his chair and consulted a business card on his desk. “It sure was,” he said, holding the card up for me to see. “And what’s the deal with him anyway? It’s like Joe Friday, without the sense of humor.”

  “Homicide Detective Fred Hutton had a charm-ectomy.”

  Roger smiled at the image. “Well, surgery was successful. Looks like they got it all.”

  “So they asked you about the policy? And the double indemnity clause?”

  Roger nodded. “They were all over it. I pulled my files and walked them through the whole thing. It was a very traditional policy, nothing special. Dylan did ask if it had a double indemnity clause, but he also asked a lot of other questions, so it didn’t seem out of place at the time.”

  “Did anything seem out of place?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact it did, but I didn’t remember it until after the cops left and then I figured there might have been nothing to it.”

  I spread my hands, waiting for him to continue.

  “When I was filling out the paperwork,” he said, “I was asking him all the traditional questions—date of birth, social security, address, all that. And when I got to the part where I fill in the name of the beneficiary, I asked him if I should put in Trish’s name. And he said the oddest thing. He said, ‘Sure, why not. For now.’”

  “For now?”

  Roger nodded. “Anyway, he signed everything, passed the physical and the policy went into effect. I got my commission and didn’t give it another thought.”

  I sat back in my chair, not quite sure what to do with this information. Always the professional conversationalist, Roger kept things rolling.

  “So, pretty weird about Howard Washburn, huh?”

  “You knew Howard?” For a moment I wasn’t making the connection.

  “Sure, we all did. We went to high school together.”

  I shook my head. “I know, I just can’t place him.”

  “Well, to be fair, Howard didn’t really stand out. I only remember him because he was one of my first customers.”

  “You sold him insurance too?”

  Roger leaned in. “Eli, I sold him a ton of insurance. Way more than he needed. I still feel sort of bad about it.”

  I asked the obvious question. “Then why’d you do it?”

  Roger shrugged. “I was brand new to the insurance business and wet behind the ears. I was making cold calls to everyone and his brother, trying to make some sales. I started paging through the yearbook and saw some likely candidates. Howard was the first person to give me any sort of positive response on the phone, so I arranged a meeting with him to talk about insurance.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “Man, I still remember it, even though it was years ago. I guess you always remember your first.” He gave a slightly risqué laugh, then continued. “We met for lunch at Liquor Lyle’s. I’d never had much to do with Howard in school, but I was immediately struck with his need to, I don’t know, fit in. Be part of the in-crowd. There was nothing I put on the table that day he wasn’t interested in buying. And I was happy to sell it.”

  “What was he like?”

  Roger thought about this for a long moment. “The key thing I remember about him was he wasn’t memorable, if that makes any sense.”

  I nodded. “That’s exactly how I remember him.”

  “It was sort of, I don’t know, sad,” Roger said. “But there was another quality I noticed at the time. I couldn’t really put it into words, but he seemed like a guy who could easily tip.”

  “What do you mean, like more than twenty percent?”

  Roger smiled and shook his head. “No, tip. Like, to one side or the other. I don’t want to use dramatic terms, like go over to The Dark Side, but in his desperate need to please, I think it would have been very easy to screw with his moral compass. To tip him in whatever direction you wanted him to go.”

  Roger sat up and his big smile returned to his face. “Enough of the armchair psychology,” he said. “Eli, is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Yes, one more question,” I said as I stood up, sensing I had taken up enough of his time. “Who benefitted from all the insurance you sold Howard?”

  “I haven’t looked at the policies in a while, but I’m guessing it would be his wife, Sylvia.” I was about to ask a question, but he shook his head and answered it before I could get it out. “No, she didn’t go to school with us. Howard stumbled into that blonde bramble bush in college, God help him. You want her number?”

  Given his description of her, I wasn’t so sure I did, but I nodded and thanked him. Roger went three rounds with his niece and then finally got her to print out the contact information.

  Upon leaving Roger’s building, I was surprised to see an ambulance was parked by the flagpole, the lights on its roof flashing red and blue. From where I stood, I could see two EMTs were just loading someone into the back. He turned to look at me and I recognized Doug, the cheerful maintenance guy. His right arm had a seriously long and ugly gash in it, which one of the EMTs was hastily wrapping with what appeared to be yards and yards of gauze.

  I looked up at the pole. The flag was straightened out and flapping freely in the breeze. I followed the rope down the pole, picturing how Doug had finished his work and probably slid down, perhaps gaining speed as he did. And then I saw the vertical cleat that was used to wrap the spare rope. One of the remaining maintenance guys was wiping blood off of it and I realized Doug’s arm and the cleat must have intersected at great speed and proved to be a hindrance to his journey. A small adjustment to his right and it might have gone through one leg or the other or everything in between.

  As the ambulance roared away, its siren blaring, I was reminded of our short conversation and was struck by a persistent, nagging thought: I probably should have wished him luck when I had the chance.

  Chapter 17

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said. “I just spent fifteen minutes knocking at what I thought was the front door to your house. Turns out it was your garage.” I gave a half laugh and Sylvia Washburn gave me a sour look.

  I’d called her right after leaving Roger’s office and although she was by no means enthusiastic, she said it would be permissible to stop by and talk to her for a moment. If I made it quick. Her tone struck me as odd. She sounded annoyed. Gruff. Impatient.

  What she didn’t sound like was a grieving widow.

  The house, once I found it, was stunning. Buried deep in a swank neighborhood called Deep Haven, it was situated on the tony shores of Lake Minnetonka. The house—okay, let’s call it a mansion—sat on a hill high above the lake and wasn’t visible from the curvy road I’d used to get there. That may have explained my mistake with the garage, but trust me, the garage looked amazing. And the mansion even more so.

  “I have people coming in thirty minutes, so we’ll have to make this quick,�
�� she said, turning and walking into the house, not waiting to see if I would follow. She was tall and thin and blonde and coiffed within an inch of her life. Every hair was lacquered into place, her lipstick looked like it had been applied surgically, and her blood-red nails could have been painted with actual blood. Not since my fourth-grade teacher Sister Naomi had threatened me with a ruler had I met a more frightening woman.

  “Our new maid of two weeks, Carmelita, quit suddenly yesterday and I could strangle her,” she said over her shoulder as she made a sharp left out of the grand foyer through which we were trekking. I followed her, made the turn and found myself in a mammoth dining room, with a table set for at least sixteen with room to spare. A chandelier worthy of the Phantom of the Opera hung above the center of the table, around which two harried Hispanic women were furiously putting the final touches on the place settings. A quick count of the forks and spoons suggested at least a seven-course meal was planned. For what it was worth, my dinner plans were likely to consist of eating a bowl of Cheerios over my kitchen sink. Everyone defines haute cuisine in their own way, I guess.

  Sylvia Washburn barked some words in Spanish to the two women. My high school Spanish was once again tested. She spoke with such speed and venom all I really picked up were the words for “faster” and “idiots.” It was surprising Carmelita had lasted as long as she had.

  “Twenty-eight minutes, Mr. Marks,” Sylvia said as she made imperceptible adjustments to the women’s work. She turned and gave me a glare that made me actually squint. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  For a moment my mind went blank and I would have been hard-pressed to provide my own name and address. Then, mercifully, conscious thought returned.

  “Well, first, my condolences on your loss,” I said.

  She flicked something invisible off her sleeve. “Thank you,” she said with no warmth. “Once again, Howard demonstrated his terrible timing. We’d had this dinner planned for weeks. He knew that.”