“Mark Kristalli.”
“You know this character?”
“I met him,” Lucy said. “I heard about him from her too. He’s some major creep she met at the other fun club she and Wadsworth were going to.”
“Place called Moan?” he said, sort of guiltily.
“Yes, Paulie. Moan. This month’s location, Hell’s Kitchen. That’s where he and Carole went that night when they left you at Club Fetish. Where they’d been a few times previously. I tracked Kristalli down because he seemed like he might have been the one to, you know…”
“Kill Wadsworth.” He said it softly.
“Yeah. Take the money, do him in, set an example for whoever else he did business with. So I talked to him and he claims he was there that night at Wadsworth’s loft but didn’t do it, and why would he since the guy owed him three hundred and twenty grand in gambling debt?”
“Gambling, huh? Damn that Christopher was into a multifarious lot of shit. But Kristalli’s got a point. Why would he kill Wadsworth unless he already got the money from Carole and he’s just a psycho killer in it for revenge—or fun? One thing for sure is I know he didn’t get his money.”
“Because she still had it when you saw her at Jack’s. That’s when you got your one-fifty, right?”
“How did you know that, Lucy? Have you been playing detective?”
She shrugged. “Let’s just say I have good timing. So the way you see it, Carole’s got the money—three hundred and fifty grand anyway—and is what, waiting to see if Kristalli comes after her? Planning on paying him off? I could see him threatening her, somehow expecting her to come up with the money since he’d seen her hanging with Wadsworth a few times. What’s he got to lose, doing that?
“But what I don’t get is why you blackmailed her. I mean it’s not like you couldn’t have helped yourself to all the money, bro.”
“Couple things.” The wine showed, along with their salads. “Thanks,” he said to the waiter; they tasted the wine. “Wow, that’s good,” he said.
“Piquant,” Lucy added. “An underlying bouquet of bullshit I would say.”
“This ain’t bullshit, Lucy, this is movie financing. My lawyer tells me chances are the account is going to be frozen by Wadsworth’s family, possibly this week. I figure I can sell them on the idea that the half million was already in the pipeline for the movie, so maybe if they get their hands on the three point two mil they’ll leave me alone about the stray half mil.
“I can finish this movie with maybe a hundred, hundred twenty grand. That’s why I agreed with Carole and only took one-fifty. What matters to me is the movie gets done. As for the rest of what I got from Carole, whatever’s left over—well, to tell the truth, if I got two hundred and fifty grand I was going to give half of it to Grace, and then…now with only one fifty to work with I don’t know.” He looked down, then raised his eyes and gave her a cool, level gaze. “And then I was going to get the hell out of town. I want to move to Rio, Lucy, I can’t stand this life any more.”
“Rio? Jesus, Paul, what about your family?”
“My family? Fuck it. Grace is driving me nuts. I don’t like the USA anymore, New York ain’t what it used to be, I hate this S and M scene Grace has dragged me in to, I don’t like the way she’s raising Antoinette, she hates my sons and their mother, meanwhile her family are a bunch of sodlicking shitheads who don’t even know their little angel likes to play with whips. I’m so god damned stuck I could shoot myself, Lucy.”
“Or get out of town.”
“After this movie’s done, I’m done. With this city and this life. The way technology’s going I can make a movie anywhere.”
“So it really is So Long Lower East Side. Damn, Paul…I mean I knew things weren’t that great—why else would you be letting your wife beat your ass with a whip in public, I asked myself—but I figured you were just stressing over the movie.”
“Hey, I like that kind of stress, Lucy. Creative stress is good. You know that. What I don’t like is this petty personal shit I’m constantly encountering with Grace. I know marriage can be a lot of small battles, but the woman is picking me apart.”
“I’m sorry, Paul. Really sorry things went south so fast. Life just never stops being fucked up and complicated, does it?” She sipped her wine. “But to cut to another curious point, why does a dame like Carole Wainwright need to steal five hundred grand?”
“Everybody likes money, Lucy. Doesn’t she look like a classic girl on the make to you?”
“I guess. But…no, I don’t buy it. There’s something else up. Maybe she really is going to pay Kristalli what Wadsworth owed him. Or…” she shook her head. “Damn, Paul, let’s get back on the movie. This scenario is too weird for my blood.”
“I’ll drink to that,” he said, lifting his glass.
“Cheers, Paul, you crazy man,” Lucy said, lifting hers. “Let’s eat and get back to work.”
Two hours later, Conrad, the enraged ex-father, barged into One Twenty One, where he found Nick sitting at a table with his sous chef, his hostess, his two waiters, and the three illegal Mexican immigrants who bussed tables and did grunt work in the kitchen, all of them excepting Nick hired to play themselves in the movie. They were taking their nightly pre-opening meeting. “God damn you you little wop motherfucker, listen to me!” Conrad bellowed at him. “You’ll not be seeing my daught…you keep away from Delia, you…”
“Hey, Mister Platznik, calm down,” Nick said. “Take it easy.” He stood, raising his hands gently, deferentially. Delia had told him about the situation with Morris due up from Florida in three days. Nick understood that Conrad was practically deranged by anger and confusion. What he didn’t understand was that the bellowing old man raged as much out of guilt at the unspeakable thing he’d done that very day as he did at the suddenly heartbreaking circumstances of his life. He had, in a ten minute emotional collapse in the afternoon, in his daughter’s apartment, in his daughter’s unwilling-but-unable-to-resist arms, transformed himself into an evil man, an outcast and a monster—and he knew it. He knew there was no way out, not after what he’d done, and all that he did now was little more than an emotional salvage job, a hapless, feeble effort to deny his corrupted new reality. For the sake of revenge on Morris Karlstein he had ruined himself, and possibly his daughter, and now he was driven to entirely possess her, as if that would, at least in his own mad, half-unhinged mind, justify what he had done to her.
Or some such tragic shit, Lucy thought, watching the scene through the open French doors that connected the cafe interior to the sidewalk terrace. Her cynical streak was revealing itself in its usual merciless fashion. The histrionics were excellent, she had to admit, but she was still not quite convinced, in spite of Manny’s brilliance. That’s what this was all about, this heavy duty rewrite: Manny needing to show off his chops, getting all Shakespearean and tragic. Playing Conrad like King Lear of the Lower East Side, a noble, tragically flawed character raging at destiny; a man whose heart has been broken by the implacable fate he has selfishly inflicted on his innocent, beloved daughter Cordelia. Delia. Lucy had failed to connect the name dots until this minute. They made for interesting considerations. Where had Paul come up with that name?
“Don’t tell me to take it easy, you nogoodnik bum you, you…”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Platznik, but…but why are you so angry at me?” Nick asked, sincerely confused. He was a good man, running a fine business that would surely succeed, since he cooked with the best of them, and he had treated Delia during their brief courtship with honor and courtesy. He liked Delia very much and sensed in his soul that they would fall in love, possibly soon, and maybe get married and live happily ever after. Why was this man so angry?
He knew, of course. Knew the sad story that had been told that very day. Knew this man had lost someone immeasurably important to him, for the second time in a couple of weeks. Only the way Nick saw it Conrad hadn’t really lost her, he’d simply lost one definition of
her. She was still his daughter in every sense but genetically. That was what Nick thought.
Little did he know. “Oh god, Nick, god damn, I’ve got to…” Conrad wailed. “I’ve got to go see her. I’ve got to say I’m sorry, that I was crazy today, that I didn’t know.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Platznik. She’ll be cool with that. She knows what you’re going through.”
Conrad stared at him, his face contorted into a freakish mask by confusion, anger, and self-hatred. He was incapable of comprehending that no one but he and Delia knew what he had done, because his actions had overwhelmed his world. “If you see her,” he said, lurching out the door and staggering down the street, the very image of a lost soul. He appeared intoxicated, so deeply was he possessed by guilt, remorse and sorrow. “Tell her I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Platznik,” Nicky called after him. “Poor guy,” he said to his crew. “He’s had a very bad time, this man. A very, very bad time.” He shook his head and then brightened up. “But Delia will come tonight, she told me. And we have 36 reservations. So let’s make some food, my friends.”
“Cut it, wrap it, can it, let’s hustle up to Eighth and get the other scene done, guys,” Paul said, as the crew leapt into action, breaking the lights and gear down. “We’re rolling here. Hey Manny,” he called down the street. “That was intense. You all right?”
“Fine, fine,” he said, out of Conrad and into himself. “But where’s Carole?” He had a self-satisfied aura about him, Lucy thought. He loved doing these high tragic scenes. He was just a little disappointed that his current semi-squeeze had missed the show.
“At the apartment. We’re shooting the Delia and Morris meet today, remember?”
“Right. Well, I’m not sure I need to watch those two get to know each other,” he said. “Better I don’t see it, really. I’ve got to start prepping for the fight scene.”
“That’s right, Manny,” Lucy said. “Your next big moment. The cosmic punch-out. And it is going to be major. Should be shooting it in a couple of days now, right Paulie?”
“That’s right, guys. We’re getting there, sure enough. Bombing towards the denouement. So get your butt in training, Mr. Carapini.”
Paul and Lucy brought up the rear, trailing after the crew as it moved by truck and on foot from the Suffolk Street café location up to the apartment location on East Eighth Street. “I think I finally get what Manny’s up to,” she said.
“Yeah, me too,” said Paul.
“He said it was about being sexy, to reclaim his manhood from the demented loser he plays on the TV show, but what he really wanted was a chance to…”
“Chew some scenery?” Paul finished for her. “Show us what an awesomely profound level of acting he’s capable of?”
“Hey, let’s not get too cynical here,” she said. “He’s doing really good work.”
“Stealing my show is what he’s doing,” Paul responded. “This is becoming a different movie. I pictured something a little more down to earth, you know. A slice of latter-day neo-realism, Manhattan-style. But now we’re escalating into this hyper tragic mode, I don’t know…”
“You’ve still got your New York story here, Paul,” she said. “That hasn’t changed. Plus you can always edit his ass out the window.”
“Yeah I can but it feels different to me right now. And I know you had to do what you had to do, writing-wise, to accommodate the Manster’s monster ego, but I had no idea he would ramp things up with such—I hate to say it, but it is what I’m seeing—melodramatic intensity.”
“Roll with it, amigo. I think it’s coming together.” She did, actually. For a lot of reasons, not least among them being the way her rewrite allowed for the new elements of the story to connect with the old. She wasn’t entirely sure where all the weird new elements—the not-quite-incest and all that followed from it—would end up, but at least, she thought, it was working for the moment. For better or worse, the story had been infused with an aura of tragic grandeur.
Now let’s see how it plays at the other end, she thought, watching the action as the crew busied themselves setting up at the Eighth Street location.
Delia, seated on the bed, wearing shirts, skirts, pants, sweaters, and a coat, lost track of time. After Conrad had gone she’d slowly, unconsciously, dressed herself in one, two, three, four layers of clothing, covering up what had been uncovered, hiding away what had been revealed. Her mind had sort of shut down, and now, as the afternoon shifted towards evening, she hugged herself, swaying on the bed, and waited, for what she did not know. Sensing something changing, she rose and went to the open window and looked out. A man stood on the street, three stories down, looking up towards her windows. She stepped back so he wouldn’t see her. He was carrying flowers, and he wore a hat.
Her buzzer sounded. She ignored it. After a few seconds it rang again. She went to it. “What?”
“Is this the apartment of Delia Platznik?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I have a delivery.”
“From who?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Conrad sending flowers, trying to make up. Like a god damned bunch of flowers could make it all better again, like it was before. He used to be her father. Now he was her monster, her nightmare man. But maybe she still loved him. She didn’t know. She didn’t love anyone else, that much she knew, except her mom and her mom was dead. Would Nick still like her, want her, want to be with her now? After today? “I don’t need any surprises,” she finally said.
“Hey, it’s a beautiful bouquet from a secret admirer,” he said.
She decided she liked his voice. “OK,” she said, pushing the door buzzer. “Come on up.” Numbly she waited, heard him climbing carefully up the stairs. He knocked.
She opened the door. “Hello,” she said, gazing at the man holding the flowers. He was in his sixties, well-dressed, well-groomed, tanned, and there were tears in his eyes as he swept off his hat to reveal a head of silvery hair. He looked familiar but wasn’t. “What’s the matter? Do I know you?” she said, taking the flowers he thrust at her, almost flailing in an effort to keep his emotions in check.
“No, but…my name is Morris. Morris Karlstein.”
“Morris Karlstein?” Then she realized. “You’re…you’re…” she stood utterly still, the flowers clutched in front of her breast. She trembled.
“I’m your father,” he said, blurting out the words he’d sworn to himself, time and again, that he would wait until the right moment to say. He had failed to do that. He blundered ahead, this smooth-talking South Beach operator, for that’s what Morris Karlstein had become in 25 years, a Florida real estate millionaire with a big house on a waterway with a fifty foot boat on a private dock and three ex-wives and a line of jive a mile wide. But only one kid. This one. This stunningly beautiful blonde girl was his daughter! “Your real father.” He reached out to hug her. She shoved the flowers at him, holding him off, backing into the apartment.
“No, no, I can’t…you’re not supposed to be here until…three days…I can’t help you now, I’m…”
“What’s the matter, Delia? I know Conrad told you I was…that I was coming to see him. I came early, and…” he suddenly realized. She already knew. “Did he tell you? Did you…what did he tell you?”
She stared at him, tears welling in her eyes. “There were letters. He found them.”
“Oh my God. When? When did he find them?”
“Just the other day. He was going through her things after my mom…passed. She’d kept them in a box in the attic. He told me that you…I never saw the letters, he said he threw them away, but he told me that you…that momma and you…that you’re my father.” She stopped abruptly, then started up, talking rapidfire. “I told him it didn’t matter, he was my real father because you left, you never told me, momma never told me, you had nothing to do with my life and now you think you can come here and announce that you have some…” she bu
rst into tears, “claim on my life? Is that what you think?”
“Delia, I don’t know. I didn’t…when I stopped seeing her your mother told me to…to stay away, to stay out of your life. I didn’t ever see you so I never had a…I never knew anything about you. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t…don’t…care about you.” He was crying too. “Where’s your Dad…where’s Conrad?”
Her eyes went dead. “I don’t know.” She shrugged, and her voice slowed, as if she was having trouble finding words. “I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s…I don’t know where he is, and I don’t care,” she wailed, suddenly hysterical. “I thought he was my dad and then he found these letters and ever since then he’s been someone else, this angry old man, and now you’re here and…and…I don’t know anybody any more.” She wailed, then sat down, sobbing as she threw the flowers on the floor.
He stood, watching her, wondering what he could do or say. He had pictured something a little less intense than this. He had planned to ease into it, spend some time with Conrad, re-establish their friendship, get to know Delia, and then at some point, without letting Conrad in on the secret, he had planned to let Delia know, gently, sweetly, that he was her “real” father, and explain everything, including the reasons Conrad did not need to know. Fool! He said to himself. You should have known, you should have foreseen this possibility. But he hadn’t, and now he wasn’t sure what to do or say. He’d never been a parent before and now, even though his daughter was a grown woman, he felt like he always had around other people’s children—like an awkward, clumsy man. “Hey, I’m sorry, Delia.” He threw his hat down, and moved closer to her. He knelt. “I know this is…this whole thing has been upsetting for you—and for Conrad.” She jerked back, panicky, as he said the name. “I mean your father.” Tears streamed from his eyes now. “God Delia, he was, they were my best friends, your mother and father, and then I…your mother and I…God, I never intended for all this to happen the way it did, to know about you and…not have you in my life, but your mother always said, always told me that your father…that Conrad…would be so heartbroken if he knew.” He’d already said these things, but he didn’t know what else to say.
Sex and Death: The Movie: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 6) Page 13