The Big Exit

by David Carnoy

  “Are you meeting folks, or is it just you two?” the hostess asks.

  “Just us two,” Madden says, and hands her one of the cards they picked up a little earlier.

  “Sorry,” she says, “those expire at midnight.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t see the fine print.”

  “There isn’t any.”

  With that, she steps out from behind her station and leads them to a table.

  “Not too close,” he requests, eyeing Forman on the small stage in the center of the room. The lights of the city shimmer through the large, almost floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. He’s wearing a suit with a thin black tie and a dark fedora hat like the one Madden’s father used to wear. The hat’s tilted just so. Sinatra circa 1960, he thinks. His second prime.

  “We’re almost at last call,” the hostess says as they sit down. “If you want, I’ll put your orders in before the bar closes.”

  Much to Billings’s chagrin, Madden asks for two beers. Bud Lites.

  “I don’t want a beer,” Billings says.

  “What’s the difference? You’re not drinking it.”

  “It’s the principle, man.” He smiles at the hostess and says, “I’ll have a Patron Silver on the rocks.”

  “Give him a beer,” Madden says, waving her away.

  As she goes off, Billings gives a little a pout, and murmurs something about how he has an image to uphold.

  “I will not waste taxpayer dollars on your personal extravagances.”

  Billings isn’t listening. He’s staring at Forman, who’s broken into “Come Fly with Me.”

  “Damn,” Billings says. “He’s pretty good.”

  * * *

  Richie’s in between songs, riffing on how he can’t smoke in clubs anymore, when he sees two guys walk in and sit down at a table on the outer perimeter. The place has a decent crowd, but there are a few open tables here and there, and he’s happy at first to see a few more folks come in, gay or straight. Then he’s not.

  Though Madden looks familiar, it’s his indelible gait—that prominent limp—that jogs his memory and sets the alarm bells off. The last time he saw the detective, his hair and moustache were a little darker and he had more of it on his head. His hairline had been receding back then, but now, he notes, he has less on top and what’s on the sides is trimmed closely. It’s stubble really. And while he’s still thin, he isn’t as slight as he remembers.

  His initial reaction is shock. Not so much at seeing them, but that they’d come so quickly. They must have gone to his apartment, poked around, and someone told them where he was. How else could they know?

  The cards, he thinks. He’d given them to two people on his floor. The damn things were his booking agent’s idea. Per, a Swede who’d lived in the States for twenty-five years and still had a slight Nordic lilt when he spoke, has worked at the periphery of the dot-com scene since the late 90s. He’s technically an event promoter, but he dabbles in talent management and assorted other endeavors, including a ninety-second “hyper” speed-dating circuit and this latest venture, a “referral” business card he’s invented called the Rip-it.

  “Isn’t there an app for this?” Richie asked when he first saw the cards.

  “Just hand them out, okay?” Per said, not appreciating his decided lack of enthusiasm. “I can get you five bucks for each referral. I told the manager you had a big following. Don’t let me down.”

  He didn’t want to let Per down. So he took a stack of cards and distributed a few dozen of them. Now, launching into the breezy “Come Fly With Me,” which he can do in his sleep, he thinks the tipster was most likely the young Asian woman, Lynn, who sometimes opens her door to check on who’s out in the hallway when he dumps his garbage in the chute at the end of the hall or hauls his clothes to and from the laundry room in the middle of the floor.

  * * *

  Come fly with me, let’s float down to Peru

  In llama land there’s a one-man band

  Friendly yet suspicious, Lynn didn’t seem to know exactly what she wanted. She asked once whether he’d work her out, then abruptly cancelled. Then one night she’d knocked on his door and asked if he had any Sweet’N Low. Not sugar, but Sweet’N Low or some other “artificial sweetener.” She had wine on her breath and her teeth had a slight pink tinge to them. When he said he didn’t, she hovered, peeked around him into his apartment, half inviting herself in. He considered acting on the cue then decided he’d better pass. One or both of her parents stopped by every few weeks and she had the whole “daddy’s girl” vibe going strong. He just wasn’t confident in her ability to navigate the intricacies of a fling, especially at such close range.

  That still doesn’t explain why Madden and his partner have come up to the city so fast. He’d expected the detectives tomorrow, maybe the next day, but that they’re here now means that they have someone or something that links him to Mark. And it’s not just his past. They have to have something more concrete.

  After an initial wave of alarm an odd calm comes over him. This time at least he knows what’s coming. He finishes the song and picks up his half-full drink glass that’s sitting on a nearby bar stool. He takes a sip and smiles at the audience.

  “I can’t smoke,” he says, holding up half an unlit cigarette he’s been using as a prop, “but they said it was okay for me to bring my old friend from Tennessee.” He takes another swig of the Jack Daniel’s and soda, savoring the bite as it goes down.

  “I’ve got a few more,” he goes on. “Real nice songs. This first one I’d like to dedicate to an acquaintance who just showed up. We go way back. Can’t say it’s good to see him.”

  He takes a fake drag on the cigarette, then holds it out in front of him, down by his side.

  “I see he’s with his partner,” he says, smiling that cheerful, sardonic smile he’s worked hard to perfect. “I don’t know him but he looks like a handsome fella. A good catch, if you know what I mean.”

  He goes over to the sound system behind him, where he has his iPod Nano cradled in a little dock. He sets his drink down and scrolls through the list until he finds the song he wants.

  All those great musicians Sinatra recruited for his live performances and recordings are now packed into a tiny iPod that’s smaller than the gold lighter Ashley had been so curious about. When he hits the play button on the little remote he keeps in his pocket, all the instruments will be there except Frank’s voice. You can never replace or measure up to something as big or special as that. No one can. But there’s a way to be more right than wrong, to express a profoundness of emotion that moves people enough to overlook the limits of your talent. Sure, sometimes you end up looking and sounding like a street performer. But if you get a good venue with a decent sound system—like this place—you can go beyond glorified karaoke. You can transcend it.

  “They sometimes ask me which song I like to sing the most,” he says, facing his audience again. “And I say, I don’t know, I like to sing them all. But this is one of my favorites.”

  He hits the button on the remote. A moment passes, then the sound of fingers strumming a guitar, slowly, almost mournfully. One strum, then two … on five he starts in:

  The torch I carry is handsome.

  It’s worth its heartache in ransom.

  People know the popular songs: “My Way.” “New York, New York.” “Summer Wind.” “Come Fly with Me.” The iconic crowd pleasers; he mixes them in, usually finishing with “My Way.” But the real money songs, the real swoon-inducers are the songs that most people don’t really know. Stuff like “Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out To Dry” and Peter Allen’s “You and Me.” They are both harder and easier to do. Easier because you don’t have to compete with such a strong frame of reference. Harder because a lot of those tunes are dangerously schmaltzy—and he’d seen and heard plenty of less capable acts butcher them to cringe-inducing effect.

  Somebody said, “just said forget about her.”

  So I gave that treatmen
t a try.

  As he sings he looks over at Madden from time to time, then shifts his attention to a group of four women and two guys who’re sitting at one of the front tables. Two of the women have just shown up. He doesn’t know who’s with whom, but he figures the numbers are in his favor, and soon enough the new women are gazing up at him with an expression approaching rapture. He moves a little closer, leans down toward them, and sings as if it’s the last song he’ll ever sing.

  Madden’s eyes remain glued to Richie when he finishes his set. There’s no dressing room or private side room for him to slip away to. He simply takes his bows, unplugs his iPod dock, and walks over to the bar, where he has a drink waiting for him. A few people come over to congratulate him, including a few women, who appear to be groupies in the making.

  Madden doesn’t think he’ll run, but just in case, he has Billings go stand by the elevators. After the initial wave of well-wishers pays their respects, Richie glances over and sees Madden sitting alone at the table. The two lock eyes and Richie gives him what looks like a salute or tip of his hat. And then he comes over, sets his drink on the table and sits down in Billings’s chair.

  “Hello, Detective,” he says, his voice unchanged from the one Madden had heard on the stage.

  “Very nice job, Mr. Forman. I didn’t realize you had that kind of talent.”

  “Had some time to practice.”

  “Well, we were impressed. I played some drums back in the day. Was even in a band for a bit, so I know how difficult it can be to perform.”

  “Percussionist, huh? I pictured you for something a bit more cerebral. Piano maybe. Or bass. Where’s your partner? Guarding the exit? Tell him to come back and have a drink. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Madden swings around in his chair and motions for Billings to return.

  “I heard,” Richie says.

  Madden: “Heard what?”

  Richie pulls a cell phone out of his inside coat pocket, hits a button, and aims the screen toward Madden. Lifting his glasses, Madden leans forward and looks at the text message that’s on the screen:

  Just got a Google alert. Someone tweeting Mark McGregor is dead. Where are you?

  It’s time-stamped just before midnight. Whoever sent it did so an hour ago.

  “Who’s that from?” Madden asks.

  “Someone I work with. Is it true?”

  Madden nods.

  “How? What happened?”

  “Why don’t you tell us?”

  This is Billings. He’s just come back to the table and flips around a chair. He sits down, his elbows on top of the backrest.

  Richie smiles. “Now why would you go and say something like that, Detective? I feel hurt.”

  He says the last part with a comical, over-the-top looney tunes Jersey accent. I feel whoort.

  “Because that’s what they pay me to do.”

  “I didn’t get your name.”

  “Billings. Jeff.”

  Richie raises his glass to toast him. “Pleasure’s mine.”

  He’s still in character, still doing Sinatra, and Madden doesn’t like it one bit. He says, “Mr. Forman, would you mind telling us where you were earlier tonight?”

  “Would you mind telling me what happened?”

  “Your old pal Mark McGregor was murdered earlier this evening,” Billings says.

  “How?”

  Madden: “Bludgeoned to death with a sharp object.”

  Richie grimaces. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Cut the funny talk,” Billings says. “Show’s over. Where were you?”

  “Have a drink, sonny. Be sociable. This is me. This is how I talk. Get used to it.”

  Billings looks at Madden, who puts up a hand, gesturing for him to hold off on the bad-cop routine.

  “We can’t drink,” Madden says. “We’re on the job.”

  “Well, I hate to drink alone. You want me to call some of the gals over? Until you guyz showed your mugs ’round here things was looking pretty promising. One over there looks like some San Quentin quail. Not sure how they let her in. Maybe you guys should check her ID.”

  “Look, we just want to ask you a few questions,” Madden says. “We don’t think you did anything.”

  Richie lets out a little laugh. “Right,” he says half under his breath.

  Madden: “We want to rule you out. So just help us out so we can do that.”

  “Well, I’d like to, fellas, ’cause as much as I disliked Mark, I sure as shit didn’t kill him. But that’s all I gotta say.”

  “So you got someone who can vouch for your whereabouts the last several hours?” Madden prods gently. “That’s all we need.”

  Richie doesn’t answer. He stares down at his drink, silent. It’s hard to tell what’s going through his head, but Madden sees him clench his jaw, so he suspects that despite the cool exterior, he’s under significant duress. The longer he doesn’t answer, the more they’ll consider him a suspect. He has to know that. Yet he’s also eminently familiar with the criminal justice system to be well aware of the hazards of speaking with the police, particularly if he has anything to do with the crime.

  A good ten seconds pass. Then Richie finally says: “What time was he killed?”

  Madden looks over at Billings, who already knows what he’s thinking. The door has opened. A crack. And in the next moment, depending on their response, it can shut or they can bust it wide open. Billings, as cocky and quirky as he can be, recognizes the moment and knows to defer to Madden, who instinctively does exactly what he’s supposed to do in just such a situation: he lies.

  “Well, the coroner’s investigator showed up at ten,” he answers quickly and smoothly. “Says the guy was dead less than two hours. The 911 call came in at around eight twenty-five and the body was still warm when we got there. So that puts us at around eight, give or take twenty minutes.”

  Richie nods. “I was on a Caltrain at that time. Or, actually just getting into the station here in SF. I took the six forty-five. Got into the city at quarter to eight.”

  “Where were you coming from?” Billings asks.

  “Menlo Park,” he says without emotion.

  Madden blinks. “Menlo Park?”

  “Yeah. My ticket doesn’t have a time stamp but I’m sure there’s a camera on the platform that can verify I was on that train.”

  Madden is stupefied. “The six-forty-five?”

  “Yeah.”

  Another glance at Billings, who appears to be running the same calculations in his own mind. The 911 call came in around six thirty. The CSU unit showed at just before eight. Rodriguez, the coroner’s investigator, had said they were looking at the guy being dead somewhere between two to three hours. Eight minus two was six. Six-forty-five was well within the window.

  Madden didn’t tell him that, however. “What were you doing there?” he asks instead.

  Richie reaches into his left coat pocket and produces a small, light blue velvet pouch. It has the Tiffany logo on it. He opens the pouch and turns it upside down, letting the contents roll out onto the table. It’s a ring, a very distinct-looking one, with a big stone and a ring of pavé diamonds around the setting. It seems familiar to Madden. And then he remembers the finger he’d seen it on once upon a time.

  “I went to get this,” he says.

  They all stare at the ring on the table for a moment. It’s Beth Hill’s engagement ring. Then Richie says something odd.

  “The broad said I’m pragmatic. Do you think I’m pragmatic, Detective?”

  11/ REAL PHONY

  CAROLYN’S CELL PHONE STARTS RINGING AT SEVEN IN THE MORNING. The first call is from Steve Clark, her colleague and partner at the firm. She’d spoken to him briefly the night before, told him there’d been a murder in Menlo Park and that the victim’s wife had retained her as an attorney.

  “I’m at the scene now,” she said. “I’m calling you as a courtesy because you’re going to be hearing a lot about it. We’ll talk in the morni
ng.”

  She hung up as he was in the middle of asking her who the victim was. Both Clark and her other partner, Bill Kirshner, called her later in the evening once the news broke on Twitter. She’d ignored them. However, in the morning, Clark’s voice mails had a greater urgency; he seemed genuinely panicked. After the police revealed that Carolyn was representing the deceased’s wife, the press had started bombarding Clark, Kirshner, and Dupuy with both voice messages and email. It didn’t help matters that her office voice-mail greeting directed callers that she was on leave and to contact her partners in her absence.

  “Damn it, Carolyn,” Clark texted her, “I don’t know what the hell to tell anybody.”

  He’s one of those quixotic guys who, if something doesn’t go his way, huffs, puffs, shouts, and has a general tizzy, then apologizes almost immediately afterwards. She senses that he’s in full combustion mode but is doing everything in his power to restrain himself, fearing she might try to cut them out of a lucrative payday. The thought has crossed her mind, but she knows it’s not worth the trouble. Besides, at heart she’s a loyal person. That’s why she was so hurt in the first place when Clark went all corporate on her.

  After his third call in less than ten minutes she calls him back and apologizes for not getting back to him sooner but she’s been in the shower.

  “What’s going on, Carolyn?” he asks. “What am I supposed to be telling people?”

  “Give them my email,” she says. “I’ve prepared a statement. I’ll respond through email. I took the out-of-office reply off.”

  “Carolyn, we need to discuss strategy,” he pleads.

  “The strategy’s set. She’s my client. I’m in charge. The firm will get its cut as it usually does. I’ll let you know when I need your help.”

  “But—”

  “Look, if she’s charged, it wouldn’t surprise me if she goes with someone higher profile. She can afford it.”