Bud gave a glance around. They weren’t within earshot of anyone else in the restaurant. “Is everyone else here willing to swear to secrecy?”
Al, “Yes.”
Bud, “Yes.”
Betsy, “Yes.”
Edith, “Yes.”
Buster, “NOOOOO!” after which he honked laughter as if it was the funniest thing he or any other human had ever said. The grownups joined in.
As the laughter was dying, Bud said, “We’ll just dump him in the Chicago River on the way home. No squealers in this family, right Buster?”
“NOOOOOO!” Buster yelled, to more gales of laughter.
As the laughter died out, Bud pulled out an old photo. There were thirteen people who had posed for their own photo. The back said, “Fifth Annual Big Shoulder Blizzard Stage Combat Workshop.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Al said in a distant voice.
“What? That mean something?”
“Kinda. I went to the sixth, seventh, and eighth Big Shoulder Blizzards. They were held at Concordia College. Fella named Giuseppe ran it.”
“Giuseppe?” asked Edith while her nose was being vigorously and thoroughly examined.
“Actually his name’s Joe Green. But there’s a composer named Giuseppe Verde. It means Joe Green in English. Theatre people like nicknames.” Al said with a shrug.
Betsy, who’d been fairly silent said, “Sounds like theatre people have too much time on their hands.” This elicited a friendly chuckle from the table.
“We do and we don’t. We do silly stuff, but it all has value in the theatre. People outside the theatre can’t really understand why you’d spend hundreds or thousands of hours pretending to fight with swords. A banker wouldn’t do that stuff.”
“Shit!” Buster added happily. Betsy gave Bud an enthusiastic whack.
“I told you he listens to everything.”
Buster replied with another, “NOOOOOO!” while pointing his finger in the air for emphasis. After making his point, he started munching on a breadstick. Al was looking at Edith during this, feeling both happy for the moment and sorry she couldn’t have the experience of actually having a child. She could be a mother, but she’d never have the baby carrying and birthing experience. At least she had her life and this island of happiness. It filled his heart to see her absolutely absorbed in this singular moment.
He turned his attention back to Bud and the picture. “These names on the back, are they the people on the front?”
“Hold it up to the light.”
Al did and saw that the names had been written directly behind each person. “Huh. Figures, Mr. Parcel was a lighting guy. They see things a little differently than most of us.”
Al turned the picture back over, momentarily disregarding the names lest he negate some part of the picture. The group of thirteen was bonded. They had some kind of connection. It was obvious from the body language. He recognized some of the faces but tried to keep his mind from that part of the issue. He had the names on the back. It was the picture for now, all the picture.
The group was in a large dance studio with mirrors lining the wall behind the group. On the floor, hither and yon, were the trappings of a stage combat workshop coming to an end. Weapon bags, duffle bags packed full of spare clothes and what was most likely a virtual drugstore full of aspirin, Ace bandages, instant ice packs, and all the other support one needs to get through four twelve-hour days of rigorous physical work.
In the reflection, Al could only make out the barest detail of the photographer. There was one other person in the photo. Only half his body was visible in the reflection. You couldn’t see him that well because of the camera focus, but his body said he was both interested in the group and a little downcast. He was a small guy. Al brushed off the thoughts. He was writing stories in his head, and that was for later. After he had all the solid information, he could start churning out theories. Just the facts, ma’am, as Jack Webb would have said.
“I know some of these folks.”
“Figured you did. Check the names and see what it means to you. I haven’t checked my hunch, but depending on your reaction, I may not have to.”
“OK.” He flipped the picture and leaned over to Edith. Buster was tearing a napkin into long strips as if it was the cure for all the world’s woes. “Look at these names with me.”
She looked at Buster and said, “Is that OK, big guy?”
Buster looked at her, grinned, and said, “No,” but was obviously OK with it.
The names on the back were
Dirk Vanderbeek
Dave Parcel
Leafe Daniels
Lance Henderson
Karen Lane
Gill Murphy
Gary Shiffenburg
Skye Yeats
Sheena Hummel
Odd Bill Ruggers
Mary St. Claire
Ruth Herman
Liz Zustra
Al immediately reacted but waited for Edith to speak. She was as still as a post then said, “Eight.”
“Whaddya mean, eight?” asked Betsy. It was said with the tone of someone who is on the outside of a story but desperately wants in.
“Yeah, what do you mean, Edith? There are seven check marks. Did you men seven?”
Edith ignored them both. She said to Al, “You get it?”
Al nodded slowly. “Eight.” He turned to Bud and said, “You forgot to add one for Dave. Eight. All dead. All in our research.”
“Holy fuck,” replied the detective.
“Honny fuch,” Buster said between tearing napkins.
“We got a serial. Al, is that what this means? Do we have a serial?” Bud was pale but had high color on his cheeks.
“What do you think, Babe?”
Edith looked at him and said, “I think we might and…did you just call me Babe?” She looked at his large face for a moment and said, “I don’t know the parameters to define serial, but we have a series that seem to be derived from a common source. By common, I mean a pool that has at least a loose connection. This is good, but mathematically, it isn’t conclusive. If there were one or two more deaths on the list, I’d be more inclined to agree.”
Bud shifted his weight on the wooden chair. It creaked a brief protest against the listing weight but played along. He pulled out the scratch pad from his back pocket and flipped to the page that said Karen Lane. He slapped it down in front of Edith like a card that bumped her hand from sixteen to twenty-one. “Like Karen Lane?”
“Will someone explain this to me? At least the Reader’s Digest version?” Betsy was lost and getting frustrated.
Al said kindly, “There have been some deaths in the acting community. I came in to play Macbeth on the Boardwalk after the guy playing the role died in what was assumed to be an accident. All of these others have died in accidents, as well.”
“Except Lane,” interrupted Bud. He looked around and made sure they were still relatively isolated. He lowered his voice a bit, anyway. “Lane was found tied to a chair with a bottle of 190-proof alcohol hooked up in an IV.”
“Jesus criminy,” Al said in deference to Buster. “What would that even be like? Two or three ounces of that filtered through your liver will put most people out of commission. A bottle of it in an IV drip?”
“The IV was wide open. It was going in as fast as it could. Probably burned like a mother, as well. By the time anyone got there, she was dead.”
“She probably didn’t feel much pain,” offered Betsy helpfully. Al didn’t say it wasn’t the pain that was bad for her, but the abject terror.
“I’m confused,” said Edith. At that point, Buster reached for Betsy, and she scooped him into her lap. “This is a change in MO. That’s what you call it, right? All the others were accidental, or could have been. This is a straight-up killing.”
“Can I have a piece of paper?” Al asked.
Bud flipped the pad to a blank page and handed the pad with golf pencil to Al. Al looked at the back o
f the picture and wrote:
Lance Henderson
Sheena Hummel
Gill Murphy
“If it is a killer, and he’s working off this list, these are the only ones left. I gotta make a call. I’ll be right back. If the pie comes, start in.”
“I don’t know how hungry I am right now.” Said Betsy.
“Going hungry doesn’t stop bad guys. If it did, your hubby here and half the force in Chicago would be anorexic. Be right back.” He pecked Edith on the cheek and walked out the front door of the restaurant.
He dialed information and asked for two numbers. He wanted a Joe Green and the number for Concordia College information. The operator said there were multiple listings for Joe Green but she could give him the Concordia number and did. Al committed it to memory and dialed it next.
“Concordia College.”
“Hi. I’m trying to contact a professor who might or might not be in residence any more. His name s Joe Green. He’s in Theatre.”
“Do you want the number or do you want me to connect you?”
Al thought he’d forget the number so he said to just connect him. The phone picked up on the second ring.
“Dr. Green’s office.”
“Hey, hi. I’m looking for Joe. I’m an old friend, ancient, actually. Is he around?”
“If you’re his friend, then what do we all call him?”
“We used to call him Giuseppe, but that was an age ago.”
He heard the female voice on the other end yell into the distance, “Giuseppe! Phone!” Then, in a normal tone, to Al, “He’ll be here in a jiff.”
Al waited for what seemed like a year then a vaguely familiar voice picked up. “Verde.”
“Giuseppe, you probably don’t remember me; it’s been ten years or more. I used to come to the Big Shoulder Blizzard. Assisted in the last one.”
“Well, that narrows it right down. I could try guessing from the thousand people who have come through here, or you could…”
“Al McNair.”
There was the briefest pause then, “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit! Last I heard about you, you were making a big name for yourself academically. I mean, I read your paper about mass-media influence on children’s perceptions of violence, and it knocked me on my ass. I wanted to fly you out to do a master’s seminar. By the time I’d gotten around to calling you, they said you’d boogied. No one knew where you went. I figured you finally found that bigger, badder dude you seemed to always be passively hunting.”
“I did. Her name was Mary.” They both laughed. Al gave him the short story of becoming a PI. “I’m in town. I replaced Dirk in Macbeth. Marty Mitchell called me out of the blue. I had some time. I’m working on a side project and wanted to ask you a question.”
“Shoot, man.”
“Do you still keep archive shots of the old workshops?”
“Of course. Before you guys gave me a cool nickname, they used to call me ‘the Pack Rat.’ What years are you looking for, and when do you want to look?”
“How late are you there tonight?”
“Christ, I’ll be here till 11:00. I’m faculty babysitter for a student rehearsal.” Students often mounted their own productions, but due to legal crap, a faculty member had to be in the building. “When can you be by?”
“I’ll be by at nine-ish latest. If you’re lucky, I’ll bring you a slice of Gino’s East. We just ordered a large combo, but the four of us won’t kill it.”
“Had a heart attack a couple of years ago. No more meat for me. But come by anyway.”
“I’ll be there. And Giuseppe?”
“Yeah?”
“I never told you this, but you taught me everything I ever needed to know about rapier and dagger. I must have studied with five other guys, but I could have stopped with you.”
“Salve for my old soul. Come see me, kid. Oh! What years do you want to see pictures from?”
“Fifth Annual. That’s the only year, and everything you’ve got. I’ll even take the registration forms, if you’ve got ‘em.”
“I’ll have them by the time you get here.”
“See you then, Doc.”
“Can’t wait to see your mug, Al. Later.” And he was off the line.
When Al got back in, the pie had come, and everyone had found their appetites after all. Buster was somehow wedged into a high chair and was enraptured with the idea that he could, indeed, cover every inch of his body with red sauce.
Edith saw Al first. “What’s up?”
“We have a stop to make after this. Expected around 9:00. It’s close, so we can take our time.” He stopped their waiter as he came by. “Hey, can I order a small deep dish veggie to go? We’ll still eat here. It’s for a friend.”
The waiter, a small rotund Italian kid, said, “Sure it is, Mac. Anything you say.” He gave Al a salacious wink and walked off. Al told the rest of the table where he was going and suggested they stop talking about this stuff for the night. It was time for the ideas to take root and grow on their own. It would be best if their mental gardens didn’t cross-pollinate just yet.
42
Al and Edith got to Concordia at 8:50. By the time they had parked and walked up to the third floor, it was two minutes to 9:00. Al opened the door from the stairway into the hall and saw a small man with a ponytail and an Iron Man-style Van Dyke goatee. Giuseppe looked the same as he had ten years ago. The only difference was the color of his hair. When Al had last seen him, Giuseppe had salt-and-pepper hair. Now, it was a distinguished silver. He turned when he heard the door close.
“Al McNair! Come here and give me some love!”
Al walked quickly to the small man and picked him up in a hug. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed this guy--all of his teachers, in fact. Time was a persistent foe, and he felt guilty for not staying in touch through the relentless march of years. “You look good, Doc.”
“Fuck you, Al. I look old. I am old. You got lean and seem to have broken out in muscles.”
“Divorce will do that to you.”
“Or the opposite. I wouldn’t know. Still with Caroline.” He looked at Edith. “Are you going to introduce me or force me to do it myself?”
“Shit. Sorry. Edith, this is Giuseppe Verde, AKA Dr. Joe Green. He’s about the only guy I wouldn’t draw steel against. And Giuseppe, this is Ms. Edith Fiske.”
“Enchanté, mademoiselle.” He made a small bow and kissed her hand. From anyone else, it would have looked forced. From Giuseppe, it was pure charm. Edith looked a little like her knees might come unhinged.
“A pleasure, Joseph.” Her smile was equally disarming. Al was again surprised how well she fit into his weird and wacky world.
“My assistant bugged out, so it’s just the three of us and about five tons of old papers. Come on down to my office.” He offered his arm to Edith, who took it with delicate grace.
They got to Giuseppe’s office, and it was literally stacked from floor to ceiling with paper. It was an impressive collection of the flotsam that gathers when you spend your life as an academician and pack rat. In his life as a professor, Al had used the five-year rule. If he didn’t look at it for five years in the academy, it got shit-canned. Contrapuntally, Giuseppe’s desk was obsessively neat. In the middle of the blotter was a hanging folder labeled “Year Five-Big Shoulder Blizzard.” Giuseppe had pulled up two chairs to the desk opposite his own. He sat, and Al was about to sit when he remembered he had something for the old professor.
“Edith? Do you have the package for the Maestro?”
“Oh, yes.” She reached in the large white bag she was carrying and pulled out the small veggie pizza. “Al said you could use this. No meat.”
Giuseppe smelled it and said, “The remains of this will go in my mini fridge. Caroline wouldn’t approve…or she’d want some. Either way, this is safer.”
“Wisdom abounds. So, Doc, I gotta ask you about that workshop.”
“I want to know why, that is if you can te
ll me without having to kill me.” Giuseppe said this with a smile but was serious. He wanted to know who was in trouble and if he knew them. He might decide he didn’t have the right information, especially if it incriminated someone who he was tight with. It was the way the fight world worked, and Al understood. Edith, apparently did not.
“Why does it matter? We’re working on something important and really need your help.”
“Easy, Miss Fiske. Many of us in the fight community are like family but closer. Al could explain it to you, I’m sure. It’s deeper than just a bunch of people who play with swords. We can only do what we do because we trust each other implicitly.”
“It’s true, Edith. I’m sure the Doc’ll help out. We aren’t asking him to narc on anyone.”
“Narc?” Edith was looking a little overwhelmed.
“Tattle. Tell tales out of school. It’ll be OK, but you do have to understand you are stepping through the looking glass a little here. Giuseppe’s one of the old guard.”
“And to many of us, so is Al.” He looked directly at Al when he said this. “You know you broke a lot of hearts when you disappeared. People were looking at you to step up as one of the leaders of AFDA. You could have been a fight master in a few years.”
Edith was looking at Al for help with this. He sighed. He hadn’t ever thought that his dropping out would have any effect on his professional connections. He was looking at it now through their eyes and didn’t like what he saw. He had, in effect, thrown a tantrum, then thrown in the towel. He had earned a place of respect and a national, hell, an international reputation in a tough field and just walked away.
“The American Fight Director’s Association is a large body of people dedicated to the training of theatre artists in the proper practices for presenting the illusion of violence on stage. They are part magicians, part acrobats, part actors, part a million other things, but those who are dedicated to teaching it save people’s lives every day by opening to, caring about, and trusting each other.
“The association has several levels. Novices-these are beginning combat practitioners. They usually train on up to three weapons until they gain proficiency; then they get the title ‘Actor Combatant.’ If they keep training they can move up to ‘Advanced Actor Combatant’ and other titles that have certifications and carry progressively more weight in the profession. There are certified teachers, certified fight directors, several other little niches.”
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