Now advance word had it that, discontented again, she had insisted on playing against type in Glory Days, billed as an epic of the American frontier as filtered through the 1980s sensibilities of Kris Housenman, a hot young director whose “relevant” pictures had already made him, at the ripe age of thirty-two, a cult figure in campus film societies around the country.
Vivian Brooks preferred Los Angeles to New York, which greatly complicated her relationship with Arne Petersen. On a regular basis he was in Los Angeles each year only for the brief two weeks when NatBallet was there on tour. At other times he was always frantically juggling his schedule to be with the actress as often as possible.
Both Frosts, at Arne’s urging, had seen Brooks’s most recent movies and liked them. They had met her on several occasions and had enjoyed the experience each time, since she was an intelligent, down-to-earth all-American girl and not at all “actressy.” Both had encouraged Arne in his pursuit of her, but somehow the transcontinental romance had not yet blossomed into marriage.
Having heard advance descriptions of Vivian’s new movie, Cynthia was apprehensive as she approached the office building at Forty-sixth Street and Broadway where the screening of Glory Days was to take place. She understood that Vivian in the film played a tough woman cattle rancher who tangled successfully with her male competitors, the local authorities and a band of outlaws. It did not sound precisely right for the beautiful comedienne.
Cynthia tried not to convey her feelings to Petersen when she met him outside the screening room. She did not need to; he was quite nervous enough in his own right.
“Look, Cynthia,” he said, glancing at his watch, “this thing isn’t scheduled to start for another ten minutes. I need a drink badly.”
“Then let’s go have one,” she said. “You look terrible.”
“I always get this way when I go to Viv’s movies. I love to watch her, but it’s torture at the same time.”
The two went back down in the elevator and to the bar at the steak house next door. Petersen had a double vodka, Cynthia a Perrier.
“I seem to have been drinking all day,” she explained. “I really couldn’t have another.”
“This is my first, and I sure as hell need it,” Petersen said.
“What kind of screening is this?” Cynthia asked.
“I don’t know. But I think some of the critics will be there. It’s very small, the publicity woman told me.”
“Well, Arne, as we say at the ballet, merde.”
The two returned to the screening room, which was occupied by perhaps a dozen people, including critics whom Cynthia recognized from the Times and New York. She and Arne took seats on the aisle halfway back.
“This really is the way to see movies, isn’t it, Arne?” Cynthia said. “Comfortable seats and no waiting lines. And free, besides.”
Petersen was still too distracted to reply coherently. It was as if the large screen in front of them were about to expose new, and unwelcome, personal revelations about the woman he loved.
“Yes, yes, you’re right, Cynthia,” he said distractedly.
The small audience sat in silence until well after the announced starting time of six o’clock. Finally, the young woman press agent for the studio came to the front.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m terribly sorry about the delay,” she announced. “We are waiting for Arthur Mattison, who just left his office and should be here in a few minutes. I know you will understand our reluctance to start.”
The audience laughed appreciatively.
“While I’m up here,” the woman continued, “I should say that what you will be seeing is a complete print of Glory Days, except that the credits are not yet finished. The finished credits will be done over a panoramic shot of the Badlands. Please bear this in mind when you watch the film.”
The delay set Cynthia to thinking. Mattison could delay a screening, or a Broadway curtain, because of his power. Such was that power, she thought, that cultural events did not really seem to occur unless and until Mattison saw them with his own eyes. Oh, yes, the film unspooled or the actors said their lines, but until Mattison observed the event, the film or the play did not really exist. The Press’s critic was at the height of his powers. Mere movie reviewers or theatre critics, however intelligent or eminent, and no matter what the circulation and reputation of their publications, no longer mattered in New York. Mattison, the all-purpose critic, the cultural polymath, was the man to listen to. However threadbare or uninformed his criticism—or how larcenous—it was the commentary that sold tickets and got the public up from their videocassettes and into paid seats. Or at least, that was the folklore.
As she thought about this, Mattison appeared, huffing and puffing, and settled his ample girth into an aisle seat toward the front. He offered scattered “Hallos” to those he recognized—including Cynthia—but no apologies. He carried with him a delicatessen bag containing a paper cup of iced coffee and a sandwich, which he began eating as soon as he was seated.
Cynthia could not help reflecting on the man’s plagiarism. His career would be over if his journalistic peccadilloes became known. She could not get out of her mind the logical theorem: Holt knew. Mattison knew he knew. Therefore, Mattison had to destroy Holt. Too simple? Perhaps. But Mattison’s entire life had become the role-playing one of being the City’s unquestioned cultural arbiter, a role he manifestly enjoyed. Perhaps murder was not too large a price to pay to keep it.
The lights went down, and Cynthia reached over and squeezed Arne’s hand as the unfinished credits appeared. He was already mesmerized and did not take his eyes off the screen.
The movie was a disaster. All the critics, including Mattison, shifted about in their seats, though they did not laugh aloud. Others in the audience—presumably friends of the film company, at that—did so, guffawing loudly at each new clumsiness. Cynthia, out of respect for Arne, did not join in. He watched in stunned silence as his beloved took a bullwhip to a recalcitrant ranch hand, shot through her front window at a band of rustlers—and curled up nude in her bed with a deputy sheriff.
The nude scene agitated Petersen greatly. Finally, as the covers were pulled over the courageous ranch owner and the lawman, and the bed on screen began thumping violently, he averted his eyes and put his head in his hands. There was nothing Cynthia could do but tough it out—no laughing, no sighing, just (pretended) absorption in the hanky-panky on the screen.
Finally—after almost three hours—the movie was over. The crowd filed out without a word. The publicist and the studio representative accompanying her had disappeared, sparing the audience the problem of either saying something deeply hypocritical or avoiding them.
Cynthia recalled the various all-purpose lines for such occasions: “My, that was a movie,” and “How did you do it?”—but did not have to use them.
She and her escort left in silence. Petersen’s distress was apparent.
“How about some dinner, Arne?” Cynthia asked, once they were out on Broadway.
“I’m afraid I’m not hungry after that,” he replied. “But you probably are. Can we get something quick?”
“That’s fine with me.”
“How about a hamburger?”
“Oh, dear, I had one for lunch.”
“Oh.”
“Look, I can fix something at home for myself. But why don’t we walk a little ways?” Cynthia did not want to leave him without a few consoling words.
“Let’s do. I want to stop at Doubleday’s on Fifty-seventh, so I’ll walk that far with you.”
“Well, dear, Vivian was the best thing in it,” Cynthia said as they strolled toward Fifth Avenue. “But who wrote that screenplay? Someone who didn’t have the faintest idea either about the Wild West or how women—then or now—behave.”
“I know,” Petersen said. “Poor Viv, she gets sucked into these things. She wanted to do something other than comedy—desperately. So she demanded other parts, and when this came along, she fel
t she had to take it. It’s too sad—that beautiful creature up there crawling through the mud.”
“Or writhing around in bed.”
“Or writhing around in bed. Jesus! That was awful!”
“The more I see of movies lately, the more I’m convinced ‘R’ stands for raunchy.”
“Imagine,” Petersen exploded, gesturing widely with both arms as he walked. “Imagine going to bed with that goon, that television pretty-boy who played the deputy sheriff.”
“It’s only a movie, Arne,” Cynthia said. “And besides, it was about as unbelievable a love scene as I’ve ever seen. It must have been designed for the pimply kids who sneak into the ‘R’ movies.”
“I suppose. But, dammit, Viv deserves better. She’s a good actress, Cynthia.”
“I know she is.”
“This never would have happened except for Clifton Holt,” Petersen said.
“Why on earth do you say that?”
“Well, you know—or maybe you don’t know—that every time I ever planned to go to L.A. to see Viv, or every time I had to go to see her, Clifton always managed to keep me in New York, or wherever we were on the road. Always a plausible reason, and being the agreeable guy that I am, I always gave in. Was he jealous, or just being a prick? I’ll never know, but whenever he found out I was taking off for California for a couple of days he would do anything to screw it up.”
“This is all news to me, Arne,” Cynthia said quietly.
“He also made it more expensive. I never could plan ahead for a cheap fare. It was always full freight, because Clifton kept me on the hook until the last possible minute. I haven’t saved a dime, Cynthia, in two years, with all the air fares—expensive air fares—to L.A.”
“I’m sorry to hear this,” Cynthia said sympathetically.
“Let me give you a good example,” Petersen said, halting on the street as he talked. “A year ago, Viv called and said she’d been given a script to read. Just the sort of new departure she was looking for. But she had doubts about it. I told her to send it on, I’d read it. She said there wasn’t time, she had to give an answer immediately. I asked if it couldn’t wait ’till I got there. She said yes if I came right away. I told Clifton it was an emergency, but he found a reason to keep me around for a week. You know what that reason was?”
“No, what?”
“He wanted to put Roberta Shaw in Summer Sonata.”
“You’ve got to be kidding! That’s a role for a young girl, and Roberta’s forty-five if she’s a day.”
“I know, Cynthia, I know. It was crazy. Roberta hasn’t the stamina for the part—let alone the looks. She’s retired, for Christ’s sake! But Clifton insisted. Said I had to teach her the part—he was too busy. So I did. Clifton saw the result and decided not to go ahead with it. So it wasn’t performed until Hailey Coles learned the part this season.”
“I never heard this before. It’s about the craziest thing I’ve ever heard about Clifton,” Cynthia said as they resumed walking.
“You’re telling me. But it meant I didn’t get to California and Viv signed up for that piece of crap you saw tonight.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It never, never would have happened if I’d been there to advise her. She listens to me. Most of the time, anyway. But that bastard made it impossible. They should dedicate Glory Days to Clifton, God rest his soul,” Petersen went on, then lapsed into silence.
“Don’t worry,” Cynthia said. “Vivian will survive this movie.”
“I know she will. It’s just too damn bad she made it, that’s all.”
“It will be different now, anyway,” Cynthia said. “You’re more your own man now. And your higher salary will help a little bit on those air fares.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve got to get Viv to move to New York, though. Bicoastal romance is rotten.”
“How are things going, by the way?” Cynthia asked. “Still overwhelmed by the job?”
“It’s better. But I’m really busy. Probably won’t get to California for weeks.”
“And how are all your problem children? How is Andrea?”
“You know, Cynthia, I’m not sure she’s as bad as people say. I think she’s tried to give me a break lately. At least, she hasn’t been as imperious and demanding as she was before. If you smile at her a little bit—something Clifton never did—she can be all right.”
Cynthia was appalled by what Petersen was saying. Had Andrea changed—could she change? She didn’t believe it. No, Arne was becoming an unwitting pawn in her mad campaign to become co-Artistic Director. She was sure Petersen did not know about that, and this was neither the time nor the place to tell him. Instead, now that they had reached Doubleday’s and Petersen was relatively calm, it was time to go home.
Arne Petersen put Cynthia in a taxi in front of the bookstore. There was little traffic, and she arrived home in no time. She paid the driver and walked to the front door, fumbling for the keys in her purse. As she did so, she had the feeling she was being watched. She looked around and was sure she saw a young man duck into the service entrance of the apartment building down the street after she had seen him. Fortunately, the cabdriver was one of those decent souls who waits until his fare is inside the building. Even so, Cynthia hurriedly grabbed her key, opened the door and locked it as fast as she could. She had never, ever, seen anyone lurking around the Frost house like that before. She was both frightened and relieved as she threw the double lock.
18
DETOUR: II
Luis Bautista met with his colleagues Thursday morning to review developments in the Holt case. There had been one breakthrough: the $12,000 found in Jimmy Wilson’s apartment had been traced, through serial numbers, to the branch of First Fiduciary Bank at Second Avenue and Sixty-ninth Street. Unfortunately, the money trail appeared to end there. The bank manager had refused to produce his file of recent forms 4789 to the detective working on the money angle, although he had finally agreed, reluctantly, to check the list of names supplied by the detective against his files. The result was negative. And none of the people on the police list had an account at the branch.
Nor did the Upper East Side location logically point to any of the suspects; none lived in the immediate vicinity. The only possible hope seemed to be to get photographs—easy enough to do, given the prominence of those involved—from the Nat-Ballet publicity office and the morgue of either the Press or the Times and see if the memory of any of the tellers at the Fiduciary branch could be jogged. The group meeting with Bautista was not optimistic that this painstaking step would produce results.
Efforts to tie Jimmy Wilson to one of the suspects through his list of customers were going forward, but again without results so far. The tedious process of interviewing his customers—most of them respectable yuppies shocked at being questioned by the police—had not uncovered any link that seemed to have any significance.
Bautista himself had been in touch with the Syracuse Police Department and had talked on the telephone with a seemingly agreeable man named McNeilly, who was chief of detectives in the upstate city. Bautista had told him he was interested in information about Andrea Turnbull and her late husband, Emery. McNeilly did not automatically say that he had never heard of her, and had no information, but told Bautista that he would be happy to see him if he wanted to come up.
Thus encouraged, Bautista was driven to LaGuardia to take the eleven-fifty-nine Piedmont flight to Syracuse. He barely made the plane at the airport. The cabin in the Fokker “Fellowship” aircraft was both crowded and cramped; he was glad the flight would be only an hour. He squeezed his well-developed body into a seat next to an attractive young girl who turned out to be a Syracuse University coed.
Why was he always on cramped and crowded flights? Bautista asked himself. As a boy, he had gone frequently with his parents to Puerto Rico. These trips meant months of advance saving by his father and mother and were always done at the lowest fare available, with seats so crowded toget
her the planes made the Eastern shuttle to Washington seem luxurious by comparison.
Then, recently, he and Francisca had taken a couple of weekend trips together—once to Puerto Rico, once to Florida. At least the planes they took had a normal seat configuration, though the reality was that Bautista was simply too big to sit comfortably in economy.
The one time he had traveled first class was as a rookie detective, assigned to bringing a prisoner back from San Diego. The circumstances had not been exactly right for enjoying the amenities provided, but he still remembered the relative spaciousness of the first-class cabin. Once he became a lawyer, he resolved, that would sure be the way to go.
The trip to Syracuse was short, austere and uneventful. He declined to buy a drink, but did take the proffered apple juice, reflecting, as he did so, why the beverage was so prominently featured. Having heard others in the Department refer to upstaters as “apple knockers,” he assumed it represented the airline’s attempt to help business in its service area.
Drinking his apple juice, he realized that this trip would—once again—keep him away from his night law-school classes. The work of the N.Y.P.D. without question came first, he realized that, but he still hated disruptions like this that made his law-school work that much more difficult. He would be missing the commercial-law class; maybe Reuben could help him. Article Nine of the Uniform Commercial Code—secured transactions. Would Reuben know about that? He would have to ask him.
Just before landing, Bautista speculated on what kind of reception he would get at the Syracuse Police Department. Had the locals ever seen a Puerto Rican? He was sure they had, but guessed—correctly—that the Hispanic population of Syracuse was minute. Menial employees mostly, he assumed sadly. Would they be ready for a Puerto Rican homicide detective from the Big City? Well, he would be polite and hope for the best. And after the verbal racist assaults he had endured as a patrolman in New York, how bad could it be?
Murder Takes a Partner Page 18