“Sure. Obviously I’m dying to see what you’ve done. But before I do, just so I know, let’s cut to the proverbial chase, Lucy: is she my daughter or not?”
She looked at him. “In the version I think you’ll like best she’s not your daughter. She’s Morris’s daughter, and he’s not your brother either. This you find out in the same way as in the original screenplay, going through the attic letters, where obviously your reaction will be different than if he was your estranged brother. But instead he’s your oldest friend and he fucked your wife for ten years behind your back, pretending he loathed her all the while, and the daughter whom you love dearly is actually his daughter. And since you’re his friend you have no actual blood ties to Delia, so…is that the one you like, Manny?” She felt a surge of hostility. What was bugging her? She wasn’t sure. He was just an old cock wanting to rule the roost for one more day.
“Hey, take it easy, Lucy R. Drink some coffee.” He sipped his brandy. “It’s just a movie. But yes, to answer your question. I do like that take on the story, and you know why I do, so why are you being so hard on me?”
“Do you have any idea where Carole is, Manny?” she asked, circling his question.
He gave her a guarded look. “I haven’t talked to her in a couple of days. Why? She’s OK, right?”
“Hey, you saw her with Wadsworth the other night. And he being the dead elephant in the room maybe we should talk about that. Get my drift?”
“I guess. What?”
“They were together that night. Later that night, at this weird club in Brooklyn. By weird I mean the last time I saw Wadsworth he was collared and leashed and wearing black velvet diapers. Your pal Carole, whose real name in case you didn’t know is Carolina Belinskowicz, was nearly naked and holding him by a leash. He was dead a couple of hours later and no one’s seen her since.”
He gave her his hard guy look and folded his arms across his chest. “So the kids liked to play a little rough. You know she couldn’t possibly have killed that overgrown knucklehead. Sorry, I guess I should be more…what, grief-stricken? I don’t think so. Paul tells me the show goes on so fuck it. That Wadsworth was no friend of mine. But anyways, what am I supposed to do about it?”
“Don’t you even wonder where she is?”
His tough guy persona fell away. “No.” He hit the cognac again. “Because I know.”
“You know?”
“Sure. She’s been at Jack’s place ever since.”
“Ever since when? Don’t you know the cops are looking for her?”
“Of course. But she’s scared. She came to me that night—night before last—but Marie-Claire wouldn’t let her in so I asked Jack.”
“What did she say about that night?”
He sat back, ready to tell his story. “Lucy, you should know a few things. My wife and I have slept in separate bedrooms for the last eleven years. That doesn’t mean we aren’t happily married because we are. She’s my best friend. And she knows I mess around, and doesn’t mind as long as I don’t bring it home. So here’s how the story goes: when I first saw Carole, like every other man in the room I wanted to sleep with her. After a couple of weeks on the shoot I did. I charmed her sweet little ass and seduced her with a twenty dollar bottle of pinot noir in a nice hotel suite. Hey, beautiful women are one of the perks of being a TV star—even a late blooming one—and I wasn’t about to miss out. On Carole or the fifteen or so other women under thirty I’ve screwed in the last two years. So we started having regular sexual encounters. I take my Viagra and we have some fun. We…”
“Whoa, whoa,” Lucy interrupted. “This is stuff I don’t need to know, please.” Was he bragging or putting a move on her, or what? “Since I’m your would-be screenwriter, not your confessor or your shrink, all I need to know—given what you just told me—is why do you think it’s so important to have this relationship with Delia turn out to be carnal instead of, you know, father-daughter or whatever? What’s at stake here, Manny?”
“Hey, the guy I play on TV is a demented, impotent old man. That is not me and I don’t want my public thinking it is. I need to reclaim my virile image as an actor. Even if I am old. This movie will do that for me, if we do it right.”
“So this is about your ego? Or should I say your libido?”
“That’s right, Lucy. My ego and my libido. Hey, I’m an actor. What did you expect, humility?” Smirking away, he didn’t look at all humble—or apologetic.
“I guess not, Manny. So when is Carole going to show her pretty face?”
“Whenever Paul tells us she’s needed for a scene.”
“What about the cops, and Wadsworth, and…”
“She came to my apartment at two-thirty that night. Wadsworth died between three and four, according to the coroner. There’s no way she did that murder.”
“You checked the time?”
“Someone rings your doorbell in the middle of the night you don’t check the time? Of course I checked the time.”
“How do I know…how will the cops know…you’re not just protecting her because she’s, you know, your…”
“Mistress? Special friend? Nobody knows that but you, Jack, and Paul I think has his suspicions. And Marie Claire, of course. Aside from that there’s no way I’m going to cover up a murder, Lucy. And there’s no way Carole could have done one. No, that fool got killed by someone you and I never heard of.”
“Like say, Bags Cantario?” Lucy said.
“Bags? You know Bags?” he said, not reacting at all.
“No, but I know you met with him right after you saw Carole making googoo eyes with Wadsworth at the café the other night. And you can’t tell me you weren’t pissed off she didn’t leave with you.”
“I was…disappointed. What did you do, follow me? Why would you do that?”
“I was looking for your motivation.”
“So was I, dame. I had a meeting with Cantario because I have this scene on the show where I have to beat a guy to death with a hammer and I wanted to talk to him about…what that feels like.”
“Did he tell you? Does he know?”
He gave her a look. “Between you and me, he told me he killed eleven people. Him personally. Before he retired to become a consultant.” He mimed quotes. “So yeah, he sure as hell knows.”
“He tell you how to strangle someone too?”
He grinned. “Lucy Ripken, if you’re going to accuse me of knocking off the knucklehead millionaire you’ll have to do better than this,” he said, shaking his head. “But don’t waste your time. I haven’t killed anybody in my whole long life and I sure don’t have reason to do so now. No, you need to find someone with probably cause, Lucy, if you’re going to play detective. Find someone with a motive. Like, say, Paul Wittgenstein, with a movie to finance.” He gave her a look. “Or maybe it was this clown,” he said, abruptly shifting gears as Jack Mackris strolled in. “Hey Jackie, how’s tricks?”
“Your girlfriend is driving me insane, Manny,” he said. “Hello, Lucy, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Jack. And yourself?”
“Like I said, that Wainwright broad is driving me nuts. She is the most self-indulgent, sloppy female I have met in many a moon.”
“Hey, you’ve been a bachelor too long, Jackie.”
“Yeah, well maybe if I was on the receiving end of what she’s giving you I might be a little more tolerant, friend.”
“You do know she’s wanted for questioning by the cops, Jack, right?” Lucy said.
“Yeah, yeah, but she’s no killer. She’s way too sexy and not too smart and a seriously bad houseguest but she hasn’t killed anybody, Lucy. Trust me on this.”
“So where is she at the moment?” Lucy said.
“Asleep in my bed. I’ve spent two miserable nights on my miserable couch thanks to you, Manfredo.”
“Grazie, grazie,” Manny said, grinning. “Hey Jack, Lucy’s rewritten the script so I get to kick your ass all over town.”
“Really,�
�� he said. “I’ll take an Irish coffee,” he said to the waiter. “What’s he talking about, Lucy?”
“You get to be friends instead of brothers. You get to betray your best friend, run off to Florida, continue to fuck his wife, and end up being his daughter’s real dad.”
“I was her real dad in reality I’d throw her out of the house and make her get a real job right now,” he laughed. “Broad’s a piece of work.”
“Hey Jack,” Lucy said, “Not to inject a note of gravity into this terribly amusing conversation over morning cocktails but you are obviously aware that our producer was murdered about 30 hours ago, yes?”
“Yes. And…?”
“Aren’t you in the least curious about how it happened?”
“Hey, one thing the Wainwright broad’s been good for is telling me all about Wadsworth’s weird shit. The guy liked to hang himself and you know, spank the monkey.”
“Auto-erotic asphyxiation? Hm.” She pictured Wadsworth in his dog mode. “Yes, I’d say that makes sense. But how do you know she wasn’t in on the whole deal?”
“What if she was? People are weird, she was doing what he wanted, maybe he dangled a little too long, who knows?”
“That’s pretty damned cavalier, Jackie,” said Manny—but he was smirking again.
“You play you pay I always say,” Jack said. “So what’s the drill here? You going to be the new producer, Lucy?”
“Me? No. But Paul’s got the money so I guess we’re moving forward. Manny’s got a couple of your crucial scenes there. My rewrites. I suggest you guys work on them together maybe.”
“The fight scene, Lucy?”
“Yeah, Manny?”
“Do me a favor and tell Paul I want to shoot it last, OK?”
“Why’s that, Manny?” asked Jack.
“Because I intend to kick the shit out of you, Jack, and I will probably wear myself out doing it,” he said, and laughed.
“I’ll tell him you said that,” Lucy said. “It sounds like a serious commitment to emotional authenticity, Manny.”
“You betcha, kiddo,” he said, then finished off his cognac and stood. “Your place or mine, Mr. Mackris?”
“Carole’s wreckage is all over my place, as you know, Mr. Carapini. And I suspect your wife is, let me see,” he looked at his watch. “At the gym. So your place.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow, Lucy,” said Manny. “I’ll check in with Paulie boy and see where and when we’re shooting. And I’ll call you later and let you know how this is working,” he said, waving the pages at her. “Ciao baby.”
“Bye guys,” she said, watching the two old men, the Sunshine Boys, the Odd Couple, Lemmon and Matthau redux, as they strolled out the door, infinitely pleased with themselves.
Nothing like knowing someone half your age just died to make an old man feel good. This was Schadenfruede on a spectacular, yet understandable and ultimately forgiveable level.
CHAPTER SIX
MOAN FOR THE MONEY
Fortunately Jack Mackris had not attained the level of celebrity that required an unlisted phone number and address, and so Lucy found him in Raoul’s five year old phone book while finishing her coffee. He lived on Carmine Street in the West Village. Intent on paying a surprise call on Carolina Belinskowicz, Lucy strolled over to Sixth Avenue, headed north, and soon veered west into the sweetly tangled little web of streets lined with small buildings that comprised the heart of the West Village. She loved this neighborhood for its human scale, welcome relief from the rip-roaring Manhattan she inhabited. Basking in what would surely be one of the last warm days of the year, she and Claud slowly meandered towards Carmine Street. Mackris’s block consisted of a row of about a dozen matching four- and five-story red brick walk-ups with glossy black window and roof trim, every single one manicured to perfection, with rows of well-groomed trees planted along both sidewalks, and few cars passing through. As Lucy paused at the corner to admire the 19th century charm of the quiet, tidy little street, she saw a door swing open halfway down the block. Paul Wittgenstein emerged in a hurry, wearing black wraparound sunglasses and carrying a shoulder bag. Lucy suppressed her first impulse, to call out, and instead slipped around the corner and pulled Claud into a doorway. A moment later Paul hurried past. She emerged onto the sidewalk and watched him walk away. He looked furtive, even sinister. Now what on earth was he doing here?
She went back to Carmine, approached the building she’d see him come out of, asked Claud to lie down and wait, and climbed the stoop. She rang Mackris’ buzzer. Half a long minute later the buzzer answered. She let herself in and headed up the stairs. Up two flights she found 3A and rapped on the door lightly. After a minute a voice came at her, “That you Jack? Who’s there?” The tone sounded sluggish, dopey.
“It’s Lucy. Lucy Ripken. Hey Carole, I’ve got some rewritten scenes I wanted to discuss with you, and Jack said you were here. So I thought I’d drop by.”
Another pause. “I’m sleeping. Can you come back later?”
“Hey, this is stuff we might shoot tomorrow, Carole.” Lucy waited. A lock turned. Three unlocks later, the door opened a crack. Carole peered out, with a single chain still holding the door at six inches. She looked dishevelled, her eyes bleary-red, blonde hair pillow-mashed flat and uncombed.
“Hi, Lucy,” she said, a little slow. “So you found me.”
“I just met with Jack and Manny to talk about the script. They told me you were here.”
“Yeah, well, after the other night I thought I’d lay low a few days.”
“You know the police want to talk to you, right?”
“Yeah, I heard that. But I wasn’t ready to, you know, tell them…” she stopped.
“Tell them what?”
“What happened. That night. I…here, why don’t you come in? Wait a sec.” She closed the door with a minor slam, then unfastened the chain and swung the door open. Lucy walked into a beautiful little village apartment entry and living room, tastefully executed, with myriad well-stocked bookshelves, original paintings and drawings, lovely furnishings, Persian rugs perfectly positioned over gleaming wood floors—and Carole’s low-rent punky-looking shit draped and tossed over everything everywhere. “Jack’s place is nice, huh?” she said. “I have friends who’d kill to get a place like this. He pays three hundred a month. Can you believe it?”
“A rent-controlled paradise,” said Lucy. “He’s probably lived here for thirty years.”
“Thirty-seven’s what he told me,” Carole answered. “He’d already lived here for 12 years when I was born,” she added, steering the conversation back to the only topic that mattered to her. Her. “That’s like, so weird.”
“Awesome,” said Lucy. “So anyways, Carole, you were saying, about the other night.”
“Shit, yes,” she said. “It was…so bizarre, Lucy. I mean I’ve been around a few guys who got into that stuff pretty heavy, but—”
“What stuff is that?” Lucy asked. A phone rang in the other room.
“Sorry,” Carole said, “I’ve got to get that.” She ran into the bedroom and closed the door. Lucy looked around, spotted a purse, found a cell phone. She turned it on and had a quick look at some names, numbers, and even a couple of indecipherable but somehow suggestive pictures. She wrote down a couple of names and numbers—contrary to what Dezira had told her, Moan did have a phone, for here it was, followed by another number for something called Dark Krystal, which sounded odd enough to merit further investigation. Lucy got those two then put it away and leaned back into lounge position just in time to fool Carole, returning from the bedroom. “That was Jack. He says they’re just getting started and you did a great job on the rewrite. He says even Manny is impressed, and believe me, Manny is very hard to please.”
“Cool. I was pretty sure I did some good work last night but you never know until someone else sees it. Did you tell him I was here?”
“No. It didn’t come up.”
“Probably better that way. OK, so
let’s do this by the book, whatever book it is we’re reading.”
“Huh?”
“Wadsworth died, you were the last person to see him alive.” She paused, seeking the right tone to move it forward. Odd how little resonance this death seemed to have. The guy was money, but seemingly not much else. Up in Greenwich maybe a different story might be unfolding at Wadsworth Manor, but who knew? “So tell me, Carole, what…look, this is what I know: you left Paul and Grace at the Fetish, and according to what I’ve heard you and Christopher Wadsworth went on to another club that night, called Bone, or Home, or…”
“Moan. It’s called Moan.”
“Right. Moan.”
“How did you know about that? About Moan?” she said quietly, sitting down. Lucy noticed that somehow during the brief telephone conversation in the other room Carole had also managed to put her face and hair somewhat together as well as change from a bathrobe into a navel-baring pink t-shirt and a short black skirt which was now riding way up her thighs. So far up her thighs Lucy could see that she was unburdened by underwear, in the style popularized first by the great Sharon Stone and later by the great Britney Spears and, Lucy guessed, several hundred porn stars. But why did this woman want to do this on her behalf? Or had she simply forgotten that undergarments were part of the deal? There was a kind of missing circuit feel to the girl. Maybe it was the underwear circuit.
“I talked to someone from Fetish.”
“I see. Yes, those people would know. About Moan I mean.”
“Moan. Right.” Lucy waited.
“So I went there with Christopher. To Moan, which is a place that I’ve been once or twice.”
“So I gathered, since you know where it is, and few people do.”
“It’s pretty kinky.” She unconsciously stroked her own leg, up the thigh and down, back and forth.
“Meaning…?”
Sex and Death: The Movie: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 6) Page 8