It Happened One Knife

by JEFFREY COHEN

  Now that I’d had a little time to get past the sound of the ticking, the “bomb” episode was just a little embarrassing. I must have reddened, but again, the lack of a video component saved any further humiliation. “It wasn’t explosive, Sergeant. It was a Goofy alarm clock with a note on it that indicated it could have been a bomb if the sender had desired it to be.”

  “What was odd about the alarm clock?” Dunkowitz sounded perplexed.

  I thought maybe he hadn’t understood me. “It had this note . . .” I began.

  “I understand about the note. You said the alarm clock itself was ‘goofy.’ What did you mean by that?”

  “I meant it had a picture of Goofy on it.” There was no response. “You know, the dog that hangs out with Mickey Mouse?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of Goofy, Mr. Freed.” There’s a sentence you don’t hear often. But I didn’t have time to savor the moment. “Now, your police chief seems to think that you believe the clock package to be related to the alleged incident in Queens. Can you tell me why you think that might be the case?”

  I dunno; it seemed obvious to me. “I don’t get ticking packages all that often, Sergeant,” I said. “When I get one soon after being shot at, I tend to assume that the two incidents, alleged or not, have some relation to each other. Is that unreasonable?”

  “It wouldn’t be a district attorney’s favorite piece of evidence, ” Dunkowitz suggested.

  “The shoebox was for size 14EEE,” I offered. “What size does Wilson Townes wear? I don’t know anyone short of Yogi Bear who has feet that big.”

  Dunkowitz let some air out. “My first question in suspected bombing interrogations is not usually, ‘What size shoes do you wear?’ I didn’t ask,” he said.

  “Nonetheless. Did you ask the Towneses about the package?”

  “I mentioned it.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “They said it was just a joke.”

  “No. They denied any knowledge of it at all.”

  Dunkowitz promised he’d keep in touch—for what that was worth—and I hung up the phone. It wasn’t three seconds later that Anthony walked in, followed by a determined-looking Vic Testalone.

  This was turning out to be one of those days when it wasn’t fun to be a theatre owner.

  Where Anthony had been somewhat surly in our past conversations about Killin’ Time and its whereabouts, this time he was more mournful than anything else. He was a parent whose child had been kidnapped, and he was now bargaining with the fiends who had perpetrated the crime, still stunned by the pure evil being exhibited.

  He walked into the office with his head down, and Vic, behind him, watched in fascination.

  Anthony raised his eyes just enough to look into mine, and asked in an injured voice, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  For a horrible moment, I thought Anthony had discovered the film in the storage compartment under the projector console. But then I realized what he was asking. Clearly, Vic had made some inquiries about Anthony’s state of mind, and his willingness to talk to the people at Monitor Films. He had, to coin a phrase, hung me out to dry. I looked at Vic with fire in my eyes.

  “Glad to know I can trust you, Vic,” I said.

  “You asked me for a couple of weeks. It’s been a couple of weeks. Where did I let you down?” Vic tried his best to look genuinely puzzled, but the smugness was bleeding through. There must be other distributors who stocked old comedies.

  Anthony was still staring into my eyes. “Is that why you stole my film, Mr. Freed? To keep me from making a deal with a distributor and give me no choice but to stay in school?”

  “I’m going to say this for the last time, Anthony, so listen carefully: I did not steal your movie. You can assume, you can accuse, and you can even try to get me arrested if you think you’re right, but I’m hurt and disappointed that you think so little of me. I didn’t take your movie. I don’t know who did take your movie. I wish I did. I would give it back to you.” That part was technically true, but I’d had to be very careful in my phrasing.

  For the first time, Anthony appeared to be listening to me. His eyes widened at the idea that he’d done me wrong, and he started to stammer. “But . . . but . . . but . . .”

  “But nothing,” Vic said. “It’s been a couple of weeks. You asked me for that time. Now I want the movie back, Elliot.”

  “I thought we were friends, Vic.” It was a cliché, but the first thing that came to mind.

  “We are,” he answered. “But this is business. You’re keeping me from a lot of money.”

  Clearly, he and I had differing concepts of friendship.

  “Anthony,” I said, “I want to talk to you. Come with me to the auditorium. Vic, don’t even think of following us.” And before either of them could protest, I took Anthony by the arm and led him out of the office. Vic blinked a couple of times, but did nothing else.

  Anthony said nothing until we were behind the closed auditorium doors. “Mr. Testalone said you had talked to him about Monitor Films the night of the screening,” he said. “He said you didn’t want me to have the meeting. Why are you trying to stop me from starting my career?”

  “You really have an inflated idea of my involvement in your life, Anthony,” I told him. “I’m just the guy you work for. I care about you, because you’re a nice guy, but I’m not your dad. It’s your father’s job to worry about your staying in school. You should talk to him; he makes sense.”

  Anthony snorted. “Well, if you didn’t steal the film, I’ll bet he did. He just keeps telling me over and over that I don’t have any sense, and I’m chasing a ridiculous dream.”

  I sat down; row U, seat 101. “I don’t think the dream is ridiculous, and I’ll bet he doesn’t really, either,” I said. “He’s just scared that you’re going to do something that will ultimately make you unhappy.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “How could getting the film distributed make me unhappy?”

  “Okay. Suppose you drop out of school and your movie gets distributed to some art house theatres; that’s what Monitor is good at. Suppose it doesn’t do well—they don’t have a huge advertising budget, and your movie isn’t going to be at the top of their priority list. What if it’s not a hit? What if they don’t make back their investment? Do you think you’ll be able to raise financing for another movie?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not,” Anthony said. The truth was starting to hit him between the eyes, and as in most cases, it wasn’t being gentle.

  “So if you’ve dropped out of school at that point, what are your options?” I asked in what I hoped was a friendly voice.

  “I guess not great,” he admitted.

  “And that might make you unhappy, no?”

  Anthony hung his head a little. The poor kid had cold, hard reality dropping down on his head, but it was necessary. “I guess that’s what everybody’s been trying to tell me,” he mumbled.

  “Who besides me and your dad?” I asked.

  “Oh, a couple of people. Carla, a little, but she won’t really say anything she thinks will get me mad. Danton. Even your ex-wife was trying to talk me out of dropping school the night of the screening.”

  That was a surprise. “Sharon?” I asked.

  “Yeah. She cornered me when you were in the office talking to Mr. Testalone. Told me an education was the foundation for any career, even in movies. Or something like that. I was surprised she cared that much.” Anthony looked a little overwhelmed, like he was trying to walk through a downpour with a paper napkin held over his head for shelter.

  “That’s Sharon,” I told him. “If she thinks she can help, she’ll do pretty much any . . .”

  “What?”

  Dutton had suggested I talk to Sharon. He’d gone out of his way to say he didn’t think she’d taken the film, which might have been his way of saying he did think she’d taken the film. He’d played with my head before. Sharon knew where I kept the key to the projection booth. She was in the theatre the nig
ht the film disappeared, and she would, given the circumstances, think she was doing good.

  Could my ex-wife have stolen Anthony’s movie? Would she have stolen Anthony’s movie?

  You don’t really know that much about a woman you’ve been out with only once, after all.

  I walked Anthony out of the auditorium and toward my office. He still seemed a bit dazed, but I believed I’d talked a little sense into him, and felt better for it.

  When we arrived at the office door, we found Vic Testalone sitting in my dilapidated chair, feet up on my dilapidated desk, cigar in his mouth, unlit match in his hand.

  “Put that down or face the consequences,” I said, and Vic, startled, put the match down without striking it. He looked at me like I was his mother, and had found him with the Playboy magazines he kept under his bed.

  “Jesus, will you make a noise before you show up in the doorway?” he exclaimed. One doesn’t often get a chance to hear a man with a cigar in his mouth exclaim. It’s overrated.

  “Pardon me for walking into my own office,” I said. “Now get out of my chair and take your cigar out of here.”

  Vic stood, flattening his lips in an expression of dismay. “You didn’t talk my friend here out of selling his film, did you?” he asked.

  “I’m not trying to talk him out of that,” I said. “If he can sell his film, I hope he does extremely well. But I do think—and it’s only my opinion—that he should stay in school either way.” I inched my way around Vic (the man really did resemble a beach ball with a cigar in its mouth) and managed to ease myself into the chair without wincing.

  “Thank you, Mr. Civics Teacher,” Vic said. “I’d rather he was working on his next movie, maybe make a deal for that.” He turned toward Anthony, slowly. “When you make your millions, you can donate a building to the college.” He saw the look on Anthony’s face and stopped walking. “You’re not listening to him, are you?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Anthony said. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. The film is still missing, and I can’t afford . . .”

  “If I have to, I’ll pay for a new print out of my own pocket,” Vic said. “Call it an advance. Did you shoot it in high-def?”

  Anthony shook his head. “I didn’t use video,” he said. “I like the warmth of film.”

  Vic’s beach ball deflated. “You used film? This whole thing isn’t on a hard drive someplace waiting to be turned into a movie because you wanted warmth?”

  Anthony stood up a little taller. “Kurosawa never used video,” he said.

  “He would if it had been invented! Okay, so maybe I won’t buy a new print.” Vic picked up his catalogue case and started to usher Anthony out of the office. But he wasn’t entirely engrossed in his “humanitarian” activity. He turned back to me. “You all set for the next four weeks?” he asked.

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Okay.” He started out with Anthony again, and then remembered something. “Elliot,” Vic said, “Harry Lillis left a message on your machine.” I must have looked surprised, because he nodded. “Something about Les Townes trying to kill him.” He chuckled, shook his head, and ambled toward the door. “Those guys,” Vic marveled. “They never quit.”

  I reached for the phone.

  21

  “HE didn’t try to kill me,” Harry Lillis said.

  “You said he threatened to kill you,” I answered. “What does that mean?”

  I had listened to the message on my answering machine by now, and knew that Vic had been just a little off in relating the message.

  “Which word didn’t you understand?” Lillis asked.

  “No wisecracks, Harry. This is serious.”

  Lillis sighed. What was the point of talking if you couldn’t make wisecracks? “Okay,” he allowed. “Les came up to rehearse for this grand pageant they’re throwing here, and we started doing our old barbershop routine from You’re Making It Up. Never did it in a movie, but it seemed appropriate. It’s this scene where Les is a barber, and I’m a guy who comes in for a shave and a haircut, but . . .”

  “Harry,” I said. “He threatened your life. Remember?”

  “I remember,” Lillis groused. “You know, there was a time that interrupting the world’s most beloved raconteur would have gotten your kneecaps broken. I had friends whose businesses weren’t always legit.”

  “Luckily, that time has passed,” I said. “When did Les threaten you?”

  “I told you, last night. We’re doing the barbershop sketch, and we get to the part where he’s going to start shaving me. So Les picks up the razor and gives me a funny look. I say, ‘What’s the matter?’ and he says, ‘Is this a real razor?’ I say, ‘Hell yes, it’s a real razor. Where would I get a fake one living in a nursing home?’

  “And then Les looks at me like he’s Colonel Sanders and I’m Foghorn Leghorn, and he says, ‘You know, I could cut your throat with this thing if I wanted to.’” Lillis’s voice was as calm and steady as if he were giving me a grocery list. “I thought he was kidding, so I said, ‘Real nice, cutting the throat of an old man in a wheelchair.’ And Les keeps staring that Boris Karloff stare and says, ‘You keep telling your lies to that movie theatre guy, and you’ll see how funny it is.’ ”

  I was breathing a little heavily. “He mentioned me?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Lillis answered. “But just for a minute, could this be about my life being in danger, if you don’t mind?”

  “Sorry,” I said. But I thought it was still a little about me.

  “He tells me you came out there and so much as accused him of killing Viv, and that the only way you could have found out about that was if I told you,” Lillis continued. “Said the cops had already been to his house, and if they came back with questions, the next one who’d end up dead would be me.”

  “Jesus, Harry!” Not exactly original, but it fit the moment.

  “Yeah. Look, I’m seventy-nine years old, and I don’t expect to live to be a hundred, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna become the next victim of the Comedic Killer.” I knew he couldn’t resist, so I didn’t comment. That was Lillis, and there was no changing him.

  “I won’t say another word, Harry, I promise,” I told him. “I’ll forget about it this minute.”

  “No,” Lillis replied, his voice full of conviction now. “You keep pressing. I’m pissed off now, and I have a plan.”

  My throat was suddenly dry. “A plan?” I croaked. “What kind of a plan?”

  “A secret plan,” he said. “And since I now know you to be a blabbermouth, it’s gonna stay that way.”

  “Harry . . .”

  “I know what I’m doing, Elliot,” he said. “You keep poking around. Ask about the insurance records. Call Les again and taunt him with what you know.”

  “That’s fine for you, Harry, but I’ve already gotten one fake bomb that could have been real, and I’m not seventy-nine years old. I’d like to be around a few more decades.” I looked down and noticed that I’d absentmindedly straightened out seven paper clips, which were now sitting on my desk looking annoyed.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Lillis said. “The man’s all bluff.”

  “All bluff? He killed his wife and threatened to kill you, and he’s all bluff?”

  “Les killed Viv by accident,” he said without a lick of inflection. “He was trying to scare her and squeezed too hard. He burned the place down to cover it all up. The man couldn’t look you in the face and kill you.”

  “His son could,” I tried. Maybe I could scare Lillis into calling off his cockamamie plan.

  “Don’t worry about that boy,” he dismissed me.

  “Boy? The guy’s gotta be fifty, and he’s the size of a baseball team I was on once.”

  “That’s not bad, Elliot. Where’d you get that line?” Lillis was leading me.

  I’d been caught. “From you,” I admitted. “It’s from Peace and Quiet.”

  “I know. I wrote it. Good work, Elliot,” Lillis said
, and hung up.

  That had not been a satisfactory conversation. I considered calling Lillis back, but that seemed pointless. His twisted comedian’s mind had wrapped itself around this “secret plan,” and I was apparently part of it. The question, then, was: What was my next move?

  I could do nothing. That seemed the most rational position to take. Doing nothing meant that Les Townes wouldn’t be any more irritated—and therefore no more homicidal—than he was now. Lillis wouldn’t be in danger, and neither (I’m embarrassed to note) would I.

  The problem was, Lillis seemed hell-bent on implementing his plan, and if I didn’t play my part, it might collapse around him, leaving him vulnerable to an angry Townes. Besides, Townes had told Harry that if the police came to his house more than once, Harry would be held responsible. Surely the cops had come to follow up on the fake bomb. That would be twice, and Lillis could already be in serious jeopardy. Assuming Townes and/or his son hadn’t been arrested.

  Another option was to call the police. But which police? Townes lived in New York City. Lillis was in Englewood. I was in Midland Heights. Vivian Reynolds had died in Bel Air, California. Unless the FBI decided to get involved (which seemed unlikely), I’d have to decide which jurisdiction to call.

  And then, tell them what? That there had been a threat against Lillis, which he’d probably deny? That I’d gotten a fake bomb? Dutton and the NYPD already knew about that. And I’d be amazed if Townes didn’t look them right in the face and say he had no idea what they—and by extension, I—could be talking about.

  The third, and least attractive possibility, was to call Townes and do what Harry Lillis had asked me to do. It seemed the stupidest plan by far, easily the most dangerous, and also the only one I could do right now.

  So I picked up the phone and rolled my ’dex to Townes’s number.

  I admit I was nervous as the phone was ringing; the last time I’d spoken to Townes, it hadn’t gone especially well. But I couldn’t leave Harry Lillis twisting in the wind. Maybe I could find a middle ground.

  The voice that answered could have been Townes or his son. “Mr. Townes?” I asked.