It Happened One Knife

by JEFFREY COHEN

  Lillis almost didn’t answer, but then said, “I put his name on my insurance. He gets all Les’s money and all of mine. Comes to over six million, when you add it together. ”

  “He couldn’t collect as a fugitive, but you figured that, too. Pretty cold,” I answered, but Lillis’s face was impassive; he seemed to be somewhere else entirely.

  With the cuffs on his prisoner, Dutton put his weapon back in his holster and exhaled. “All right, Mr. Lillis, let’s go,” he said.

  But before Patel or Dutton could grab Lillis’s arms, the comedian put on a satisfied smile and looked up at an imaginary adoring audience. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and good night,” he said in a theatrical voice.

  He took a step to the edge of the top stair, and then simply picked both feet up and threw them in front of himself. Lillis landed on his neck, hard, on the top step, and then tumbled all the way down the long staircase, finally landing in a heap at the foot of the stairs.

  I rushed to him, but it was obvious from the angle of his head that there was no helping Harry Lillis now. Dutton and Patel ran down the stairs, Dutton already calling for EMS on his cell phone. But everyone in that room knew rescue workers wouldn’t be anything more than a formality.

  Harry Lillis had taken the most perfect, most graceful, best-planned pratfall of his career. And the last.

  43

  YOU know you’ve had an interesting day when the highlight is Sid Caesar telling you that you “throw a hell of a funeral.” It’s a bittersweet experience at best.

  The guests had been interrogated and released, the TV crews allowed to leave with ecstasy to return to their home bases, carrying a remarkable story they hadn’t expected, and my father, having assessed the carpet damage and declaring it in need of replacement, packed into his truck to go home and tell my mother she really needed to come along with him next time because she didn’t know what she was missing.

  I sat behind my desk trying to figure out how to get another chair into the office. I’d had a lot of visitors lately, and this was getting tiresome. Anthony stood by my desk, as animated as I’d ever seen him, which normally wouldn’t be saying much. But now he was positively electric. He was pale, his hands were still a little shaky, his eyes were wide, and for reasons I couldn’t explain on my best day— which this clearly wasn’t—he was grinning.

  “Mr. Freed,” he said for the fifth time. “You saved my life.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I reiterated. “Chief Dutton saved your life. Go thank him.”

  “It was you,” Anthony insisted. “You got the police on the balcony to begin with. I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Mr. Freed. You talked Mr. Lillis out of killing me. You’re my hero.”

  This was worse than having him think I was a movie-thieving scoundrel. “Anthony, please. I’m not the person to thank. If anything, I put you in more danger than I could have anticipated. You never should have been that close to Lillis to begin with. I’m sorry, Anthony.”

  But he just grinned away. “Thank you, Mr. Freed. Thank you. You don’t even have to pay me anymore. I’ll just come to work for free. Honestly. Thank you.”

  Eventually, I convinced Anthony that he should go upstairs (apparently going back to the projection booth was not a source of great trauma for him) and get ready to run tonight’s movie. He did everything but kiss the hem of my garment on his way out.

  Before I could stand, Chief Barry Dutton replaced Anthony in the doorway of the former broom closet and shook his head. “You always have it all figured out, don’t you?” he said.

  “Obviously not.”

  “You knew Harry Lillis would come out of the cold if you threw a memorial service.”

  I rolled my eyes a bit, more at the thought of Lillis than at Dutton. “Anybody who’s ever met a comedian would have figured that one out. He’d be here just to see who showed up and who didn’t. I just hadn’t realized how far over the top he’d gone. I won’t sleep tonight thinking about how close Anthony and Jonathan were to . . .” I shuddered.

  “Patel and I were in the projection booth,” Dutton said. “I’m the one who should have realized Wilson wouldn’t be in the balcony. I figured he’d try to pick you off from up there, not that he’d be Lillis’s insurance policy downstairs. ”

  “Why doesn’t that make me feel better?” I wondered aloud.

  “We had a talk with Wilson,” Dutton said. “He admitted to sending the ‘bomb’ to you, as per Harry’s directions. It was supposed to scare you, but also to make you want to investigate Vivian’s death more closely.”

  “Harry really thought Townes had killed Vivian Reynolds, ” I marveled. “You could have laid all the evidence out in front of him, and he still wasn’t going to change his mind.”

  “Think about it, Elliot,” Dutton said. “Lillis was in love with Vivian. How long did it take Sharon to convince you that she was better off with Gregory than with you?”

  “It would have taken forever,” I nodded. “But I believed she’d be happier, and that turned out to be wrong, too. Did you see if she’s still here? I think she was going to stay for the movie.”

  Dutton’s eyebrows started to orbit his head. “You’re going on with the showing tonight?” he asked.

  “I let Leo in for free. He’d kill me if I didn’t show the movie. But just It Happened One Night. After all the police activity, there won’t be time for the new one.”

  Dutton shook his head. “Movie people are crazy,” he said. Then a thought occurred to him, and he smiled at me. "You know, C. Francis Jenkins was one of the men credited, along with Thomas Edison, with inventing the motion picture projector.”

  He had me. “Okay,” I said. “Go upstairs and tell Anthony I said it was okay for you to push the start button when it’s time for the showing.” Dutton turned to leave. “How’d you find that one out?” I asked.

  “Ya gotta love Google,” Dutton said, and he left, looking like the world’s largest seven-year-old about to play with a really cool set of electric trains.

  I got up and walked to the snack bar, where Sophie was leaning on the case and talking to Jonathan, staring into his eyes with a rapt attention that I’d never seen her use on anything or anyone before.

  “So, how long has this been going on?” I said by way of greeting.

  Jonathan grinned the most Cheshire cat-like grin I’d ever seen, and said, “A week or so.”

  “Five days,” Sophie corrected him. She started to move boxes of candy from the floor behind the snack bar to the counter, so she could empty them into the display.

  Of course. “You weren’t looking for Les Townes’s phone number that night in my Rolodex, were you, Jonathan?”

  He stared at me as if I’d grown a horn in the middle of my forehead and sprouted hooves. “Of course not,” he said. “I didn’t want to go out with Mr. Townes.”

  “Your card must have been next to Les Townes’s,” I said to Sophie, who looked confused. “I came down one night and found Jonathan looking through my Rolodex. It was open to Townes’s card, and I thought Jonathan might have been in on the fake bomb.”

  Sophie’s eyes widened. “Jonathan?” she said. “Shame on you, Elliot. My Jonathan wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  “Your Jonathan?” Then I recovered. “But that was more than five days ago. It was at least two weeks.”

  Jonathan stared at his shoes. “It took me a while to work up the nerve,” he said.

  Sophie actually ruffled his hair. “He’s so shy,” she said. I wondered if Dutton could bring back his fingerprint kit to make sure she was the same Sophie who rolled her eyes at The Philadelphia Story.

  Jonathan reached into his back pocket. “By the way, Mr. Freed,” he said. “I forgot I had this.” He produced a Rolodex card with Sophie’s address and phone number. “Sorry I borrowed it from your office.”

  I took it from him. It was wrinkled and looked like ketchup had been spilled on it and cleaned off. “Thanks, Jonathan,” I said. “The next time you want so
mething, just ask, okay?”

  Sophie gave me a sharp look. “You’d give away my phone number to anybody who’d ask?”

  “No, but at least I’d know he wasn’t a mad bomber.” I started away from them to open the front doors for the night’s show.

  As I did, Jonathan walked behind the counter. “Do you need help with those boxes?” he asked Sophie.

  “I can handle it,” she said. “Don’t be such a man.”

  On my way to the doors, I noticed Sharon walking out of my office. “I really need to remember to lock that door,” I said. “Everybody’s walking in and out of there lately.”

  “I’m just leaving,” she said. “Came to say good night, and you weren’t there.”

  “You’re not staying for Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable?” I asked. “Mostly Clark Gable?”

  “He never did that much for me, I’m sorry to say,” my ex-wife told me. “I prefer less oily hair. Something curlier.” She put her hand on top of my unruly mop.

  “Clark couldn’t help it that it was the 1930s,” I said.

  “I guess, but he could have cut back on the Vitalis.”

  “Anyway, you’re skipping it,” I reminded her.

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks for coming today,” I told her, running the risk that I could easily start getting far too gushy. “I meant everything I said.”

  “I know, Elliot.” Sharon got close and kissed me lightly. “Let’s not make major decisions this week, okay?”

  I nodded. “Okay. But eventually, right?”

  “We’ll see. I think maybe I need to not have a husband for a while.”

  “How about a boyfriend?”

  She lowered her eyebrows and her voice the same amount. “Not this week.”

  “Okay. I . . .”

  The lights in the lobby went out, and then came back on. Sharon looked around.

  “Chief Dutton is playing with my equipment,” I said.

  “Are you sure you want a girlfriend?” Before I could answer, she kissed my cheek and started toward the front doors.

  44

  WEDNESDAY

  Bananas (1971) and Guacamole (this week)

  TWO weeks later, the closeness of my office (which is similar to the closeness one would feel stuffed into a shoebox) had overwhelmed me, and it was too cold to go outside for long—I am a warm-blooded animal, and should be living in a more temperate climate—so I set up camp for the late afternoon in the lobby of Comedy Tonight, where I could look out onto Edison Avenue and ponder life, since I didn’t actually have anything to do.

  Sophie and Jonathan were behind the snack bar, setting up for the evening and making each other giggle. Sophie’s style had shifted away from the baggy sweatshirts and combat boots, and was trying to decide whether it should return to its Goth roots or move onto something that allowed for a color other than black. Right now, she was wearing black pants and ballet slippers (pink, of all things) with a black tuxedo shirt open at the neck. I don’t know how, but she pulls it off.

  Anthony, still hideously grateful for my almost getting him killed, came in from the street and stopped on his way to the balcony stairs. He held a bag labeled DUNKIN’ DONUTS, and brought forth from said bag a large coffee with milk and a lo-cal sweetener, which I had not requested.

  “Here you go, Mr. Freed,” he said. “Anything else I can do for you right now?”

  “No, thank you, Anthony. This was really not necessary. ”

  “Don’t even think about it. Would you like a doughnut?” he asked.

  “No. Thanks.”

  “I have chocolate-filled.” He sounded like my mother did when she was trying to get me to eat more eggs. I was six at the time.

  “No, really. Thank you, Anthony.”

  “No. Thank you, Mr. Freed.”

  I wasn’t sure how much more of this I’d be able to take.

  After about a half hour of sitting in the lobby, I’d started feeling separation anxiety from my computer, so I went back to the office and began paying some bills online. Around six, Vic Testalone walked in, no cigar in his mouth or hand. Never a good sign.

  “Who shot your dog?” I asked him.

  “Worse than that. I have to go up and tell the kid Monitor passed on his film.” Vic had been counting on upgrading to a higher-quality polyester on the profits he’d assumed would come from Killin’ Time. This must have been a blow.

  “I’m sorry, Vic,” I told him. “What happened?”

  “They said Westerns don’t sell. Can you imagine? The kid delivers a masterpiece of blood and guts, and they turn it down because they don’t like the costumes. Go figure studios.”

  "Well, it was W. C. Fields who said, ’If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There’s no use being a damn fool about it.’ ” I don’t know why, but I felt a little vindicated that the studio had rejected Anthony’s film, which made me feel guilty. Of course, almost everything makes me feel guilty. It’s my heritage.

  “It’s not me I’m worried about,” Vic lied. “It’s the kid. Is he upstairs?”

  I nodded. Vic still seemed reluctant to head upstairs and deliver the bad news to Anthony. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to volunteer. I’d rather have Anthony overly grateful than sulky again.

  “Good luck,” I told Vic. “I’m out of here. Be back in an hour or so.” And I put on my jacket and headed for the door. Vic didn’t follow. “Come on, tiger,” I told him. “You need to go upstairs now.”

  He really looked like a kid who had been summoned to the principal’s office. “Can’t I just stay here for a minute?” Vic asked.

  “Not a chance,” I told him. “I lock my office door when I leave.” And I showed him the key in my hand.

  “Since when?”

  I walked to Big Herbs to meet Sharon for an early dinner. We’d decided that this was a reasonable step between our usual lunch at C’est Moi! and a full-fledged date, since I’d be going back to work after we ate. We’d concluded that dating had been ill-advised for us while Sharon was still married to Gregory. Well, she’d concluded that, and I’d said I agreed. Like I had a choice.

  Belinda waved at me from behind the counter, but this time, I was seated at one of the tables, looking over the menu as if I didn’t have it memorized. My polo shirt and khakis were a half step up from the usual grubby T-shirt and jeans, and Belinda smiled knowingly as she approached the table.

  “You’re expecting a lady,” she said as she plunked down the flatware and filled my glass with water from a pitcher.

  “Do you read tea leaves as well? Because I’d like to know what the lotto numbers are going to be this week. Powerball, if you’ve got ’em.”

  “I have bad news for you, Elliot. She’s not coming.”

  All right, that was odd. “I beg your pardon?” I said.

  “Sharon’s receptionist called here earlier. She said the doc was dealing with a patient emergency, and to tell you she was sorry, she couldn’t make it to dinner tonight.” Belinda looked sympathetic, and sat down across from me. “Couldn’t be avoided,” she added.

  “I’m used to it,” I told her with a brief sigh. “She was a doctor when we were married, too. But at least in those days she had the guts to call me herself, the coward.”

  “You don’t own a cell phone,” Belinda reminded me. She reached into her pocket and produced a small box. “She sent this for you,” she said. “If it helps.” Then she got up and walked back to the counter, as another customer with a serious veggie craving had entered.

  Maybe this was the way it would always be for Sharon and me. Maybe we’d always come close and never really get what we needed from each other. I hoped the medical emergency was a real one, and that she wasn’t just ducking out on me to avoid making the same mistake . . . a third time.

  At least this time I’d gotten a present. I took off the wrapping paper Sharon had used on the box, which was heavier than you would have expected, and saw a small note she’d stuck inside the flap.<
br />
  “This isn’t a bomb,” it read. “I got it for you from my cousin Jane in Colorado Springs. I’ll see you soon. Love you. Shar.”

  Inside the box was a snow globe from Pikes Peak, identical to the one Wilson Townes, now a resident of Bergen County Jail, had crushed in his hand. I shook it, and snickered just a bit.

  Belinda sat with me for a few minutes, until I felt a tap on my shoulder. Thinking Sharon might have gotten away after all, I turned with great hope, and saw Marion Borello standing behind me, leaning on a cane.

  “What’s a gal have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?” she asked.

  Marion sat down and Belinda went to find coffee with, as Marion put it, “extra caffeine.” I asked her how she’d found me.

  “The girl at your theatre said you’d be here,” she said. “She’s quite a girl.”

  “Don’t tell her that,” I said. “She says she’s a woman.”

  “Hear her roar.”

  “Precisely,” I said.

  “You want to know why I’m here?” Marion asked as Belinda placed a cup in front of her and retreated to the counter. (I could be certain she was listening to every word; the distance wasn’t fooling me.)

  “The question did come to mind,” I said. “Was it to tell me how you’d lied for Harry Lillis?”

  Marion actually blushed, and made a point of looking at Belinda as she spoke. “Harry asked me to cover for him. Before we came to the theatre that first night, even. He told me the story he was going to tell you about Les and Vivian. He said it was a joke, that he was going to get you to chase around and then tell you how it was all a lie. I knew it was nonsense, but he asked me to back him up. Said you’d ask. I should just agree with whatever he’d told you.”

  “Why did you go along with it?” I asked. Marion blinked, and I said, “Stupid question. I should have seen it that night at the theatre. You never took your eyes off Harry. You never looked at Les. It was Lillis, not Townes, you were in love with, wasn’t it? It was, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded. “I never had an affair with Les Townes. I barely ever spoke to Les Townes. He was devoted to Vivian, and didn’t even look at other girls. But Harry . . . I loved Harry even back then. The ones that make you laugh, you know? I could tell you things about Chico Marx, even at the age he was when I knew him . . .”