“Hey,” Sophie said. “Are you getting that on my seats?”
12
“I realize we agreed to date again,” Sharon said, “but I wasn’t planning on seeing your naked butt this soon.”
I lay facedown on what I call “the massage table,” the one with the hole in it for your face. It doesn’t stop you from talking—at least, it doesn’t stop me from talking— but it’s a weird sensation to be staring at the floor and having a conversation with a woman who is picking buckshot out of your ass.
“Wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, either,” I told her.
“You realize I’m required to report this,” she said. “It’s a gunshot wound.”
“You can’t fudge it? Say it was a really bad case of poison ivy or something?”
“No,” she said in a voice that left no room for argument.
“How bad is it, Doc?” I asked.
“Not so bad that you couldn’t sit through an hour’s drive back from Queens to see me, instead of going to an emergency room. Honestly, Elliot, what were you thinking?”
My face was starting to melt into that table. When I wanted to stand, would the table go with me? “I was thinking that it wasn’t bleeding very badly, and I wanted a friendly doctor to take a look at it, and not some hotshot intern on his first ER shift.” With women, flattery will get you everywhere.
“Did you really think that line was going to work?” Sharon asked. Okay, maybe not everywhere.
“I thought the ‘friendly doctor’ thing might,” I admitted.
“I’m a medical professional, and I’m here to tell you that if this had been bad, you could have bled to death on your way to the friendly doctor,” she said. “You probably scared poor Sophie half to death.”
“She was only worried about what her parents would think when they saw the holes in her Prius.”
“What did you tell her?” Sharon asked.
“That I’d pay for the work at Moe’s with no questions asked. Can I get up soon? All the blood is rushing to my face.”
“Not all of it,” she answered. “You’re almost done. You know, Moe’s going to have to report the gunshot holes in the car, too.”
“Moe’s been through it before,” I said. “You never answered my question: How bad is it back there?”
Sharon considered for a moment. “You’ll sit again,” she said.
13
MONDAY
MY behind was sore, but not very, and Sharon gave me an antibiotic to take for a week in case any of the buckshot Wilson had peppered into my butt was rusty. She’d then contacted Barry Dutton, who’d rolled his eyes (I’m imagining) and called the NYPD to report the shooting. The sergeant who called me sounded wildly uninterested, asked a few questions, and hung up. In New York City, a shooting is worrisome, but nothing to get upset about.
Dutton came by the theatre the next day to check on me, and found me in my office, sitting on a pillow and eating a turkey sandwich. “Didn’t I specifically urge you not to get involved in the Hollywood murder?” he asked, scanning the room for another place to sit, which didn’t exist.
“I already have a pain in the butt, Chief,” I told him. “You didn’t have to come by just for that.”
“That’s very amusing,” Dutton said. “I’ll have to try to remember that.” He leaned on my desk, in his efforts to appear casual. “I’m concerned that you went out to ask about this Hollywood case when I advised you not to, and got yourself shot.”
“Wasn’t my plan.”
“Funny how things often work out that way, though, isn’t it?” Dutton did his best to look serious, considering how I looked leaning on a bed pillow in sweatpants that must have shown quite the bulge from the gauze my ex-wife had used on my rear. “Elliot, you’re tearing at old scars. The cops in L.A. ruled it an accidental death fifty years ago. Why can’t you?”
“Something’s not right about it, Chief. If it was such an obvious accident, why did Townes pull out a shotgun the second I started asking about it? How come he was signed out at the studio when the fire started, when he was on the schedule for filming that afternoon? Why did an eyewitness see him hauling his belongings out of the house before the fire started?”
Dutton rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. I seem to inspire that particular move in a lot of people. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s sick of the insinuation and reacts violently. How can I say? It was fifty years ago and three thousand miles away. Most of the people involved then are dead now. What possible good can you do after all this time?”
“Maybe I can help Vivian Reynolds rest in a little more peace. Maybe there isn’t anyone else who’ll speak for her. Isn’t that a noble enough cause?” Okay, I was reaching, but detectives love to say stuff like that, and I thought it would resonate with Dutton.
“Give me a break,” he said. “She’ll be just as dead if you find out she was murdered as she is now from an accidental fire.” I clearly have resonation problems. Perhaps I need to take myself into the shop for some fine-tuning.
“All right, so it intrigues me. I’m a classic comedy film fanatic. This is as close as I’m going to get to being involved with the movies I spend my life watching.”
“Won’t it take the fun out of the movies if you find out one of your heroes killed her?”
I hadn’t thought of that. It stopped me dead in my tracks. I stared up at Dutton for a few seconds, trying to think of something to say.
He misunderstood, and said, “I guess I can’t dissuade you. But I do hope you’ll do the rest of your interrogations on the phone, where it’s harder to shoot at a person.”
Dutton stood up, and just so I wouldn’t have to respond to the question he’d asked me before, I said, “What’s going on with the search for Anthony’s movie?”
He nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I’d like to take another look at the projection booth, if you’ll give me the key,” Dutton said.
“I won’t give you the key, but I’ll take you up there, Chief,” I told him.
Dutton looked positively offended. “Do you think I’m going to steal something?” he asked.
“No, but I’ve seen you up there before. You like to push buttons, and you think you’re C. Francis Jenkins. I’ll stand in the corner and watch you.”
“Who the heck is C. Francis Jenkins?” I don’t know if I’ve ever heard Dutton swear. He’s the only cop I’ve ever met who would say “who the heck.”
“When you can answer that question,” I said, “maybe I’ll let you go up to the projection booth by yourself.”
I got the key and led the way upstairs, despite my somewhat barky backside. Walking wasn’t that bad, but the stairs were not my best friend. Until you get shot in it, you don’t realize how much you use your butt. His amusement badly concealed, Dutton stayed behind me. I let him into the booth, and stood in the corner, as promised.
“I don’t understand what you expect to find here now,” I told Dutton. “Anthony and I have both been up here dozens of times since the film was taken, and the place was even cleaned once.”
Dutton looked up from under the control console. “Once?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I have a service that comes in once a week.”
“It’s been more than a week.”
“They don’t always come up here.”
Dutton nodded, then stopped in his motion. “Could the cleaning crew . . . ?”
I shook my head. “They weren’t up here the night of the screening. In fact, they had been through here the day before, but not on that day. And no, they don’t have a spare key.”
Chief Dutton’s mouth curled in disappointment, and then he went back to his examination. “Not that I have to explain myself to you, but I’m just testing a very unlikely theory,” he said.
“What’s the theory?”
Dutton knocked on the floor under the console. “What’s under here?” he asked. “It sounds hollow.” He pointed to a wooden panel with four screws attaching it to
the floor.
“It is hollow,” I answered. “That’s where we store the tools that I hope I never have to use on the projector.”
Dutton reached into his pocket for a Swiss Army knife, which he opened to the screwdriver attachment. He started undoing the screws that held the panel down.
“Chief, nobody could have gotten into the booth through there; it’s much too small,” I said.
Dutton continued with the screws, but had some trouble using his knife attachment. I reached over to the table and picked up a Phillips head screwdriver, which I handed down to him.
“This’ll be faster,” I said, filling the silence. Dutton was intent on what he was doing, and didn’t even thank me for the screwdriver. “No, no,” I said. “It was nothing. Really.”
The screwdriver did work faster, and in less than a minute, he could lift the piece of plywood up off the floor. The space underneath, maybe five feet by five feet, was dark, and there was no light under the console. Before he could ask, I handed Dutton a flashlight. Again, there was no response.
“Stop it. You’re too kind.”
He lay down on the floor to get a better angle, and shone the flashlight into the storage space, moving it from side to side. After a few seconds, he stopped.
“Uh-oh,” Dutton said.
“What-oh?” I asked.
He reached into his pocket and took out a plastic bag, which he put over his hand. Then the chief of police from my little town stuck his hand into my storage space, and pulled out a large plastic case containing reels of film. Then another.
They were very clearly marked, KILLIN’ TIME.
"Maybe my theory wasn’t so unlikely after all,” Dutton said.
14
I stared for what felt like a long time. Dutton stood up and put the cans on a table next to the control console. He opened them, still with the plastic bag on his hand.
Sure enough, there were reels of film inside.
“Is there a way you can tell without touching them whether this is the right film?” Dutton asked me.
Slowly regaining the power of speech, I said, “Not really. I could check the first reel to see if it’s Anthony’s film, but I’d have to touch it.”
“Do you have any plastic bags?”
I reached into a cabinet on the wall and came out with a pair of Playtex rubber gloves. “Will these work?” I asked.
Dutton shook his head. “The kind you use in a kitchen leave marks. Just put some bags over your hands. That’s the best we can do under the circumstances.”
“You’re not calling in more cops?” I asked.
“Not yet. Please, just check the film.”
I had a box of sandwich bags (Ziplock) in the snack bar area, so after I hobbled downstairs, got them, and then hobbled back up, I slipped two over my hands and took the first reel (they’re numbered) from the film can on the table. I didn’t want to put it on the projector, so I picked up a thick marker from the counter, ran it through the center hole on the reel, and unspooled the first several feet of film, until an image showed on the print.
It was a title—white on black, of course—that read, “A Film by Anthony Pagliarulo.”
“That’s it,” I told Dutton. “It’s Anthony’s movie. How did you know it was down there?”
“I didn’t,” Dutton told me. “I thought it was . . .”
“Unlikely.”
“Yeah. But it struck me that something this size couldn’t be carried out of here in a crowd, even one that was dwindling, without somebody seeing it. It’s not the kind of thing you stick in a backpack and sneak out.” Dutton sat down on one of the stools.
“So if it hadn’t been carried out, it had to still be here somewhere. But why would someone want to hide Anthony’s film?” I would have sat down, too, but the stools didn’t have nice soft pillows on them.
“For the same reason they’d want to steal Anthony’s film,” Dutton said. “So Anthony couldn’t have it.”
“None of it makes any sense,” I told him. “The only people who have keys to this booth are Anthony and me. I know I didn’t stash the film in there, and there’s no reason under the sun why Anthony would deprive himself of his baby.”
Dutton nodded. “I know. I’m not any closer to figuring out who did this, but now I know where the film is.”
“I’m starting to think you did it,” I told him.
“Nah. I’m more likely to steal The Sound of Music.” He gave me a look that dared me to make fun of him, so of course I didn’t. I’m a coward, but an honest coward. “Anyway, there’s only one thing to do now.” He put the reel back in the film can, still wearing the bag on his hand, and then closed the case, making sure it was securely fastened. “You don’t have rats in there, do you?” he asked, pointing to the storage space.
“If I do, I’d rather not know about it. Why?”
Dutton did the last thing I’d have predicted: he took the film cans, got down on the floor, and put them back into the storage space. Then he went about replacing the screws that held the plywood panel in place.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I can’t be sure, but I think I’m putting the cover back on your storage area,” Dutton said. “It’s possible I’m making a pastrami sandwich, but I’ve never seen one that looked like this before.”
My mouth opened and closed a few times. “Why?” I managed to croak out.
“Ah! A much more pertinent question,” Dutton chuckled. Large men chuckling can be an interesting sound. In this case, it was less ominous than annoying. “The one advantage I have right now, assuming that you didn’t stash the film when you were in a delusional state, is that I know where the film is, and the person who put it there doesn’t know I’m aware of it.”
“He doesn’t know that you know.”
“Right,” Dutton agreed, finishing the last screw. “So if I remove the film now and whoever stole it comes back to check, I’ll lose that advantage.”
“He’ll know that you know.”
“Uh-huh,” Dutton nodded. “And then he—or she— would have an advantage on me.”
“You wouldn’t know that he knew you knew.”
Dutton’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, you want to stop doing that? Yes. In an investigation, it’s always best to exploit any advantage you have. So I’m not going to concede the upper hand if I don’t have to.”
“Well, is it even a crime now that you know the film wasn’t stolen?”
The chief thought about that. “Let’s say for a moment that Anthony hid this himself.”
I sputtered. “Why . . . ?”
Dutton held up a hand. “If there really is insurance, but he’s saying there isn’t, he could be trying to hold the company up for the cost of the film. If Anthony didn’t hide the film, someone else could be blackmailing him to return it. Until I know, I have to assume it’s a crime, and I can’t let the information out.”
It took me a while to digest that, and I grudgingly nodded. “But aren’t you going to get the film cans dusted for fingerprints? Wouldn’t that tell you who took the film?”
“Suppose the only prints on there are yours and Anthony’s, ” Dutton said. “What will that tell me? Besides, I can get them dusted here, when I’m sure no one is around, rather than have to take them away. You’ll cooperate with me on that, won’t you?”
It took a second, but I nodded. “Sure.”
“Then I’ll still have my advantage.” He stood, handed me the screwdriver and flashlight, and brushed himself off. “Better that way.”
“You’re putting an awful lot of time and effort into a simple break-in, Chief,” I said.
He shrugged. “I have strange interests.”
“I appreciate it. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Chief Dutton looked me directly in the eye with great purpose and said, “Yes. Run a movie theatre and don’t get shot. Leave the investigation to us.”
That was certainly my plan. Except for that last part.
/>
15
“WHAT the hell happened to this thing?” Moe Baxter assessed the perforated passenger door of Sophie’s Toyota Prius with a twisted grin. “It looks like somebody shot it with a bird gun.”
“Don’t be melodramatic, Moe,” I told him. “Just tell me how long it’ll take to fix, and how much it’s going to cost.”
Moe, a mechanic and auto body repairman of considerable repute, dropped his eyebrows and thought, examining the door and the destroyed side mirror with a more professional attitude. “Sorry, Elliot,” he said. “What happened to it?”
“Somebody shot it with a bird gun,” I said.
He gave me a look that was eloquent and long-winded. I made a “so what” face and gestured back toward the car door. Moe decided to shorten the banter and return to business. Especially since I, in an unusual turn of events, was paying.
“I can do it in a week,” he said. “Look good as new.”
“A week!” I lamented. “The kid told her parents she ran into a freak hailstorm.”
“And they bought that?” Moe was stunned.
“You should meet these parents,” I said. “But I can’t keep Sophie out of her car for a week. Come on, Moe. This is for me.”
“For you, ten days.”
“You can do it in two, and you know it,” I countered.
Moe’s eyes rounded to perfect circles. “Two days! I’m lucky if I get the replacement panel for the inside of the door in two days!”
“Three,” I offered.
“Six,” Moe said.
“Three.”
“Five.”
“Three,” I said.
“Four.”
“Three.”
“Okay, three,” Moe sighed. “But I’m gonna clip you on the price.”
“Fair enough. Now. What have you got for me?” Moe and I have an arrangement—okay, I have an arrangement, and Moe wishes I would forget about it, but it works: when I really need a car for a day or so, I test-drive some of his trickier completed repairs and make sure they’ve been done to his exacting standards. I’ve never run into one that hasn’t, because Moe and his troops do amazing work, but it serves a purpose. Mostly, it serves the purpose of getting me a car for the day without having to pay for it.
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