by Matt Witten
Actually, of course, I'd thrown his screenplay away, but there was no way I could tell him that. Maybe the next time he called, I'd simply pretend to have read it already. I could spew forth all the inanities that Hollywood producers spew when they're pretending to have read something, like: "Interesting work... A lot of good stuff in it… Reminds me of The Godfather..."
"So when do you think you'll read it?" Jeremy pressed.
I had to fight not to blow up at him. "Hey, cut me some slack. If you saw the TV news last night, then you know I've been kind of busy."
"I never watch TV. When you read my screenplay, you'll understand that I consider television an imperialist tool of the ruling classes."
What a turdball. My kids were wriggling around on the bed, impatient for me to get back to their book. "I have to get off the phone now. I'll read your screenplay as soon as I can—"
"Bullshit. You're not gonna read it."
"Sure, I will."
"No, you won't. I saw you throw it in the garbage in McCracken Hall."
Oh, God. "Listen, Jeremy, I'm—I'm sorry," I stuttered. "It's just I'm under a lot of pressure right now, and, um, look, why don't you give me another copy, I really do want to read it, okay?"
"Skip it. The truth is, I don't give a damn if you read my screenplay or not. I just want you to pass it along to your agent with a note saying how much you loved it."
"But I can't do that—unless I really do love it."
"Oh, yeah? Either you give me that note, or I tell Rosalyn all about you breaking into her office and stealing Susan Tamarack's portfolio."
Talk about stuttering. "How-how-how—"
His harsh laugh singed my ears. "How do I know? It wasn't rocket science. You were so obvious. First you stand outside Rosalyn's door palming a credit card, then you hide a manila folder under your jacket, and then when Rosalyn gives me the portfolios to look at, Susan Tamarack's is missing. So here's the deal, Burns. You're gonna fax me a letter addressed to your agent, signed by you, in which you inform him that my screenplay is the best thing since Fellini's Satyricon. That's spelled S-A-T-I-R-Y-C-O-N."
I was pretty sure he had the I and the Y mixed up, but now was no time to get technical. "Jeremy, this is preposterous—"
"I better get that fax by Monday morning, pal, or your wife's ass is grass. See, I won't just tell Rosalyn. I'll go to the department chairman, too."
"Look, please—"
But he hung up. I just sat there on the bed with the phone in my hands. Jeez Louise, people will stop at nothing to make it in Hollywood.
"Honey, what's wrong?" Andrea asked me worriedly.
"Uh, we better talk," I said. "Kids, why don't you go downstairs? Mommy and I need some private time."
"But I don't want to go downstairs," Bernie said, and his big brother added, "You're in the middle of the chapter!"
"You guys can go down and play on the computer."
"I don't want to play on the computer," Bernie said.
Now this was a first. "Sure, you do."
"No, I don't! What if someone shoots at us again?"
"Yeah!" Derek agreed. "They could kill us!"
"Sweethearts," Andrea said soothingly, "no one's going to shoot at the house again."
"How do you know?" Derek asked.
"And besides, they weren't really trying to kill us," I said, though I wasn't so sure that was true. "They were shooting above us, on purpose."
"How do you know?" Derek asked again.
Clearly this would not be easy.
Eventually we got the kids to go downstairs for some cereal. Then Andrea and I went back to bed, where I told her the whole sordid tale of my dastardly break-in at the English Department. As expected, Andrea was pissed. "First somebody shoots at us—"
"You mean above us—"
"—thanks to your investigation, and now you're endangering my job? What in God's name were you thinking?"
After several minutes of telling her I was sorry, I started getting pretty pissed myself. "Look, I screwed up. Now what the hell do you want me to do?"
"Why not just write that letter to your agent? Then call him up and tell him to ignore it."
I gave that some thought. But as Bernie would say, it was just too embarrassing. Andrew, my agent, already thought I was a few chromosomes short of a full mental deck. I didn't want to give him any more ammunition to use against me.
I explained this to Andrea, but she wasn't impressed. "Hey, I'd rather have you look bad to your agent than have me get involved in some scandal that might ruin my tenure chances."
"Come on, do you really want to let Jeremy blackmail us?"
"Of course not. He's the biggest ass in the known universe. But what choice do we have?"
"You know," I said, eyeing her thoughtfully, "I could always show you how to use your AAA card."
She wrinkled her forehead, puzzled. But when I told her my idea, she slowly started grinning. Andrea may be the cautious type, but luckily she's got a mischievous-kid streak, too. And even luckier, she absolutely couldn't stand Jeremy Wartheimer.
So we made our plan. Tomorrow was a Sunday. Sometime in the morning Andrea would drive to her campus and break into Jeremy's office. Then she'd slip Susan Tamarack's folder back into his pile of portfolios without him even knowing. That would get me off the hook. I had never actually confessed to stealing anything, so I could just tell Jeremy that he'd misunderstood our phone conversation, and he must have misplaced the portfolio himself.
Only one catch: what if the AAA card snapped in half or whatever, and Andrea couldn't break in? What would we do then?
Well . . . we'd cross that Rubicon when we came to it.
The phone started ringing again shortly thereafter—buzzards on the prowl—so we took the phone off the hook. I've found that taking the phone off the hook takes care of a surprisingly large number of life's problems.
At five of nine, freshly showered and breakfasted, I lit out for the widow's house. I figured, this early on a Saturday morning I was bound to catch her. Even politicians—and Susan Tamarack was now, I supposed, a politician—have to sleep sometimes.
But no one was home at her place. Either that or they were avoiding me, because I rang the bell twice and banged the door knocker three times to no purpose. Bummer. Leaning against one of the Corinthian columns, I was debating my next move when a post office van pulled up and the driver popped out. He reached in the passenger's seat for a large box, then came up the front walk toward me.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning," I replied. That box looked oddly familiar, and then it hit me: I'd seen Linda Medwick filling up this same box with the Hack's "personal stuff."
The mailman set the box down on the porch. "Could you sign for it, please?" he asked, holding out a clipboard and pen. Obviously he assumed I lived in the house.
I was tempted to sign the clipboard and abscond with the box. But I'd already gotten in enough trouble just for ripping off Jeremy Wartheimer. Imagine how much trouble I'd get into for ripping off the post office.
I mean, if there were two things I learned as a kid, they were: don't tear the tags off of mattresses, and don't mess with the U.S. mail. No way would I even consider fooling with the federales—
"Sir?" the mailman said impatiently, thrusting his clipboard and pen at me.
"Sorry, I . . . I . . ."
He eyed me questioningly.
"Never mind," I said, as I grabbed the clipboard and pen and signed, "Michael Jones."
"Thank you," the mailman said, and as soon as he drove out of sight, I grabbed the box, stuffed it in my car, and hauled ass to a secluded spot.
I know, I know, it was dumb. What can I say?
The secluded spot I chose was the far end of a Price Chopper parking lot, in the midst of a sea of abandoned shopping carts. I hopped in the backseat, tore the box open, and got down to work.
At the top of the box were loose odds and ends: key chains, wrapping paper, tea bags... al
l very innocuous, from what I could tell. It seemed funny that the Hack's mistress had been so conscientious about sending his stuff back to his wife.
Beneath these loose odds and ends, I found more loose odds and ends. And then more. I tossed them impatiently onto the seat. I found some long, official-looking documents—a sales tax analysis, an environmental study, and a report on HMOs—and leafed through them without finding anything of interest. Linda probably should have left them in the office for whoever took over the Hack's job, but I guess in her grief she just threw in a bunch of stuff without thinking.
Then I came across two items that looked promising: the Hack's personal appointment calendar and his address book. I examined them hopefully, searching for some magic notation like: "Sept. 6, 8:45 p.m.: go to WTRO to get whacked by Ducky Medwick." But no such luck. If there was a clue hidden away inside all of these names, dates, and numbers, it eluded me.
I worked my way down through the box, burrowing past a yo-yo and three bags of M & M's, until I came to a couple of framed 5X7 photographs. The first photo featured little Sean in a T-ball uniform. The other photo was the same one I'd seen on the Hack's campaign brochure. It showed Susan gazing up adoringly at her husband while he gazed adoringly at the camera.
He looked smug, arrogant, and Republican. I stared into his eyes, trying to see if those were the eyes of a vicious wife beater.
Susan, for her part, looked waifish, obsequious, and a bit too much like a sweet little wife, if you know what I mean. But was she also an abused woman who lashed out at last and killed her abuser?
One thing was certain: no matter what this photograph seemed to show, Susan Tamarack wasn't just a sweet little wife. Her seizing opportunity by the horns and running for Congress proved that.
I sat in my Toyota studying the photo and scratching my head, trying to reconcile all the contradictory aspects of this person. Then suddenly I noticed something. There was a second photo under the Plexiglas, hidden right behind this one. I could see one edge of the bottom photo barely sticking out.
I slid the Hack-Susan picture out of the way, and here's what greeted my puzzled eyes: a photo of some well-dressed man I didn't recognize handing a white envelope to Robert Pierce, of all people.
What the heck was this about?
Pierce was seated behind a desk. It looked like he was in his office, presumably at the State Assembly. The photo had been shot through the office window and looked grainy, like it had been enlarged. The two men seemed very serious and businesslike, but not antagonistic.
I couldn't see what was in that envelope. But I had a strong suspicion.
I mean, hey, a secret hidden photograph of a politician taking an envelope from someone . . . that thing had to have money inside. And not just cab money, either.
What was the Hack doing with this photograph? And where did he get it from?
I learned the answer to my second question easily enough, when I turned the picture over and saw the words "Zzypowski Investigations" stamped on the back. Then I took out the Hack's address book and found an address and phone number for somebody named "Zzyp." Maybe Chief Walsh was right, and I'm not the world's smartest sleuth, but at least I'm savvy enough to guess that Zzyp is short for Zzypowski.
I headed into Price Chopper for the pay phone. Would Zzyp be in his office on a Saturday morning? I dialed the number.
"Zzypowski Investigations," a sniffly voice answered.
"Is Mr. Zzypowski there?"
"That's me," he said, and then sneezed. "May I help you?"
"I hope so," I said, and hung up. Then I got in my car and made a beeline for his office.
I was excited about seeing what a real live P.I.'s office looked like. Ever since I fell into this sleuthing thing, I'd had fantasies about going professional and doing the whole Raymond Chandler number to the hilt. Renting a seedy old office somewhere, complete with battered Underwood typewriter, art deco ashtray, plus maybe a spittoon or two. With a fifth of bourbon and a gun in the bottom desk drawer. I'd sit by the window on cold, dreary January afternoons and play the saxophone.
So when I got to Zzypowski Investigations, it was a shock to my system. His office was located in a mall, for God's sake. A private dick in a mall? Further proof of the decline of civilization.
And Saratoga Mall was even more depressing than most malls. It was almost empty, since the majority of the mall's business had been preempted by another, newer mall right across the street. The wing of Saratoga Mall where Zzyp kept his office was especially dead, because Montgomery Ward, the main anchor store there, pulled out last spring and no one had come along to replace it.
I walked past the abandoned Montgomery Ward to the alcove in the far corner where Zzyp kept his office. There were no spittoons, ashtrays, or Underwoods, battered or otherwise. Just a Gateway computer bathed in bright fluorescent light. Forget the sax; mall Muzak wandered in through the door with me as I entered Zzyp's office.
Zzyp looked up from his computer screen. "May I help you?" he said. His standard refrain, I guess. He had a red, stuffy nose, rheumy eyes, and thin forgettable hair. From what I could see of him behind the computer, his body wasn't too impressive, either. He could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty; he had the kind of dull, characterless face and physique that make it impossible to tell. Chandler must be turning over in his grave.
Not wanting to spend any more time in this place than I had to, I came straight to the point. "I'm wondering what you can tell me about this photograph," I said, and plopped it on the desk next to his computer.
Zzyp looked down at the photo, then up at me. Then he sneezed. "Where'd you get this?" he asked.
I was distracted by a strand of wet snot hanging from his nose, so I didn't answer right away.
"Where'd you get it?" he repeated.
I didn't want to explain about defrauding the post office, so I countered, "Why'd you give this photo to Jack Tamarack?"
He finally wiped his nose. Meanwhile he observed me craftily, and I realized that if it weren't for the head cold clouding his moist eyes, he might come across as a lot sharper than he did right now.
"How much is this little piece of knowledge worth to you?" he asked.
"Not much," I told him.
"Then I'm afraid I can't help you," he said, folding his arms and favoring me with a shiteating grin. Even his teeth looked rheumy.
I clicked into hard-ass mode. "Listen, bud, I know most of it already." I waved the photo at his face and unloaded all my best guesses on him. "You were helping Tamarack blackmail Pierce. This is a picture of Pierce taking a payoff from someone. All I'm asking you is, who's the other guy in the photo? You don't tell me, I'll find out somewhere else."
Zzyp hesitated, then said, "Go right ahead."
"Okay, suit yourself."
I started for the door, hoping I'd read his hesitation right and he'd call me back. Sure enough, he said, "Wait."
I turned. Zzyp sneezed twice, leaving a new, even wider rope of snot hanging down. I tried not to stare at it.
"Five hundred bucks," he said.
"I'll give you what's in my pocket. Hundred ten."
He gave an annoyed grunt, but said, "All right, all right, hand it over."
I handed it over.
"The guy in your photo is Dennis Sarafian." I blinked in confusion. "You know who he is?"
As a matter of fact, I did. I was surprised I hadn't recognized him in the first place. But then again, the photo was pretty fuzzy. And the one time I'd met Sarafian—or sort of met him—I'd only seen him in profile.
The sort-of meeting happened two years ago, just before I hit the Hollywood jackpot. I was so discouraged by my impecuniousness, I'd decided to bite the bullet and apply for a full-time job. One of the places I sent my resume was Sarafian Communications, a P.R. firm up in Queensbury, outside Glens Falls.
Sarafian's secretary called and asked me in for an interview, so I studied up on the company. Sarafian Communications handled a hodgepodge of c
orporate accounts, some as far away as Pennsylvania. But their numero uno client by far was Global Electronics, which is the biggest employer (after the government) in the Albany area. Global El, as it's nicknamed locally, manufactures everything from computer parts to microwave ovens to those tiny plastic outlet covers you put on when you're baby-proofing your house.
Another thing Global El manufactures is pollution, big time. Four years ago, some government agency discovered that the sludge at the bottom of the Hudson River down below Albany is absolutely loaded with PCBs. It turned out most of the PCBs came from Global El.
So now the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency and the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation were trying to decide what to do about all of that evil gook. Should several highly contaminated miles of the river be dredged to get rid of the PCBs, as the region's environmentalists were demanding? Or should the PCBs be left alone in the sludge, as Global El was pushing for, on the theory that stirring them up could do even more damage to the river?
The issue was highly controversial and getting more so every year, with outraged newspaper editorials and TV sound bytes galore. Global El was making not-so-veiled threats that if they were forced to pay for dredging, they would move their operations—and their jobs—out of upstate New York. Given our tenuous local economy, these threats were not taken lightly.
Actually, it wasn't Global El making the threats; it was their spokesman, Dennis Sarafian. The Global El honchos had farmed out their entire P.R. operation in upstate New York to Sarafian's company, putting him in charge of saving their collective corporate derrieres.
When I realized how married Sarafian was to Global El, I thought about skipping that job interview. Did I really want to be a corporate, pro-pollution lackey?
But Sarafian Communications had good clients too, like hospitals and colleges. So I bit the bullet and tried for the job after all. I put on my one suit, drove the half hour to Queensbury, and waited in the reception area for Sarafian to get off the phone and interview me.
I could see Sarafian's profile through the gauzy curtain that separated me from his office. I could hear his voice, too. He was explaining to some newspaper reporter that PCBs really aren't so bad, and a lot of them didn't even come from Global El in the first place, and they don't cause all that much cancer anyway, just a little. The real problem was that a bunch of radical environmental extremists are out to destroy our American way of life.