Fall Guy

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Fall Guy Page 11

by Carol Lea Benjamin


  “But…”

  “No poker with the dwarf. It is poker, isn’t it?”

  Brody grinned this time.

  “Poker it is,” he said.

  There was a little can with sand in it at the side of the path. He got up and pushed his cigarette into the sand. He turned and handed me the empty beer can. I called Dashiell over and tossed him the can. He walked toward the tunnel, dropping the can into the recycling container at the near end.

  “Good trick,” Brody said.

  “We’re full of them.”

  I walked him through the tunnel, thanking him for taking the time to let me know what was going on, unlocked the gate with the key and pulled it open.

  “You forgot to tell me his name.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You’ll know him when you see him.”

  “Short arms. Short legs. Red hair.”

  “Irwin Del Toro.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “He swears it’s real.”

  “You’re much too trusting,” I told him.

  “No woman’s ever said that to me before.”

  “Now that I believe.”

  I started to close the gate. He put his hand out to stop it.

  “If you change your mind about Friday…”

  “I can call anytime, day or night.”

  “I didn’t understand it before. But I do now.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Why Tim chose you.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  He pulled the gate closed behind him.

  “Why, Michael?” I put my hand on top of his. “What did he want me to do?”

  He shook his head, slid his hand from under mine and headed across the street, back toward the station house. I stood there watching him leave, Dashiell at my side.

  CHAPTER 12

  The box office at the Louise Lortell Theater didn’t open until noon and when I knocked on the door, no one answered. There was no one named Bowling listed on the poster outside. But there was an Elizabeth Bowles among the cast names. Perhaps they were still hopeful she’d show up for the next performance with a whopper of a story about where she’d been. I wasn’t so hopeful myself, not after what Brody had told me. And not after reading the article I found in the Metro section of the Times that morning.

  ACTRESS VANISHES, POLICE INVESTIGATE

  The police are investigating the mysterious disappearance of the actress Elizabeth Bowles, who was appearing in a play at the Louise Lortell Theater. Bowles, 53, who lives in Greenwich Village, did not show up for a performance last week and has not been seen since the evening before, when she left the theater after the show. Her nephew, Parker Bowles, 34, said she took a trip to Europe, but there is no record of her flight and her passport, police say, expired several years ago.

  “Elizabeth would never walk out in the middle of the run of a play,” the director, Herbert Lewis, said. “She’s the consummate professional. If you want someone who will inhabit a character fully and never miss a curtain, you hire Elizabeth. We’re all very concerned, very worried.”

  Police say that Parker Bowles, who is unemployed, has been living at her apartment off and on the last two years. Neighbors say they hadn’t seen Elizabeth for several days and that on Sunday, they saw her nephew and two friends throwing out what appeared to be women’s clothing and shoes. But police were unable to find these items. Mr. Bowles, also known as Parker Bowling and Dick Parker, denies knowing anything further about the disappearance of his aunt. Though the information he gave to the detectives was inconsistent, at this point, police sources say, there is no crime, so there is no suspect. However, a detective at the Sixth Precinct did say they did not believe Ms. Bowles had gone to Europe.

  Though she primarily worked on the stage, Elizabeth Bowles appeared in eleven films, including Strangers on a Train and Zorba the Greek. She was never married but was said to have had numerous affairs, including one with the actor Anthony Quinn.

  I still had time before picking up O’Fallon’s car and heading up to Piermont, so I walked over to O’Fallon’s building and rang the bell for the apartment over his. The voice that answered was husky and I wondered if I’d woken him, if he’d been playing cards half the night and hadn’t gotten to bed until the sun came up, letting my imagination run away with me.

  I stated my name and business and he buzzed me in. I climbed the stairs and as I lifted my hand to knock, the door opened and there he was, looking up at me, a scowl on his face.

  “I already talked to the police.”

  “I know.”

  “So what’s the deal here? You a cop? No, doll, anyone can see you’re not a cop. Your neck’s not thick enough. And your shoes. Tuh. No way. Not a cop. So what the hell do you want?”

  Beyond him, I could see the living room, the same size as O’Fallon’s but very different in appearance. The wall facing me was covered with posters. Brody hadn’t mentioned that Del Toro had had a varied and jaded career in show business, a stint with Barnum & Bailey, nightclub appearances, some TV work. In the middle of the room there was a traditional poker table, covered in green, eight chairs around it. I could smell the cigars from the last game even though the ashtrays had been emptied.

  “I didn’t see nothing. I didn’t hear nothing. I don’t know nothing. Case closed. Period. End of story.” He began to close the door. I put my hand out to stop it, feeling like a bully.

  “No gunshot?”

  “Not a one.”

  “No fight?”

  “Fight? What fight?”

  “The day before. He had a fight with Parker and some of his friends.”

  “Friends. You mean those freeloaders who used to come here, carry on, drink Tim’s booze, trash his apartment?”

  “Those very ones.”

  “Has he eaten yet today?” Pointing at Dash.

  I nodded.

  “Good. Then you can come in.” He turned around and waddled toward the sofa under the windows, hiking his legs up with his hips as he walked. He took a little backward hop to get seated, his feet a good fifteen inches off the floor once he was up there. Looking around, I could see that even in his own home, everything was scaled too big for him. I figured there must be a stool at the sink, another in the bathroom, a stick with a pad on one end for reaching light switches—God knows what else to make the environment user-friendly.

  I grabbed a chair out from around the poker table and turned it so that I’d be facing him. “I was hoping…”

  “I don’t bite,” he said. “You could sit here, doll.” He patted the couch cushion. Dashiell walked over to see what he wanted. I stayed where I was. He put a hand on Dashiell’s head, gave it a pat.

  “In my day, I worked with the big cats. It was a comedic thing, you know, big joke seeing a little person controlling them with a whip and chair. Got a lot of laughs. Got me a lot of money at the time. Funny or no, a tiger’s still a tiger. Animals don’t scare me. It’s people you got to watch out for.”

  “Mr. Del Toro, are you sure you didn’t hear anything? I don’t understand why no one heard the shot.”

  “Where do you live, little lady? The suburbs? You think anyone in New York would single out a sound and say”—hands dramatically to his cheeks—“‘Jeepers, did you hear that, a gunshot!’ Never going to happen. Could be I did hear it. Could be I thought what I heard was a car backfiring. Could be some other horrific noise was happening at the same time and my air conditioner was on, the TV, the water running, whatever. Could be I was in church, praying to grow taller. There are just so many jobs for leprechauns, pixies, elves and trolls. A person has to earn a living, no matter what the fuck his height is. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Could be you can’t hear much from one floor to another in this old building.”

  “Is that so?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Have I ever lied to you, doll? I mean, so far.”

  “Mr. Del…”

&nbs
p; “Good. Glad that’s settled.”

  I got up. Dashiell got up. Irwin got up. He walked to the door, then turned back to face me.

  “You play poker?” he asked.

  “No,” I lied. “Never have.”

  “Perfect. Tonight at eight. Every Thursday at eight. You don’t have to call in advance. Just show up.”

  “Mr. Del Toro…” I said.

  “Call me Irwin. Everyone calls me Irwin, at least to my face.”

  “Irwin, if you can’t hear much up and down, how do you know about Parker’s friends coming here and carrying on and drinking Tim’s booze?”

  “Easy. A couple of them are buddies of mine.” He seemed to tilt his head to the wall with the posters. “No way they’re going to drink and not invite me to join them.”

  “You mean men you worked with?”

  He scratched his head, as if he were trying to figure out how to answer me.

  “Probably wrapped it in a towel. Probably didn’t want to disturb anyone, especially on a Sunday morning.”

  “But…”

  “He was the most considerate man you’d ever want to know, doll. I felt tall around him.”

  I looked at one of the posters, from a small circus, Gerber’s Traveling Oddities. One of the pictures was of Irwin getting out of one of those tiny cars. Even with the makeup and the fake nose, you couldn’t miss him, not with that bright red hair.

  “What would you have done if you were?” I asked.

  “Tall? High wire.” He stretched those short arms out to the side, lifted one short leg, closed his eyes.

  “You’d have been something, Irwin, really something.”

  “I know. He always said that, too. He said I was a tall man stuck in a short man’s body. He said everyone was stuck, one way or another.”

  “When you talked to Tim, did you go downstairs or did he come up here?”

  “Either way.”

  “And did you drink, you and Tim?”

  “You mean booze?” He screwed up his face, cocking his head like an attentive dog. “Me? Yeah. Tim? No. He drank club soda, or maybe coffee. You said you were taking care of his affairs?”

  “I am.”

  “What are you, with the bank or something? You his lawyer? What’s the deal?”

  “A friend.”

  “No way, doll. Tim was dry, going on eleven years. You don’t know that, you weren’t a friend.”

  “Correct,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I was more of a slight acquaintance.”

  “I don’t get it, doll.”

  “Neither do I, Irwin. Neither do I.”

  “What’s he do?” He was pointing at Dashiell again. “I had a trick dog, I could get TV work. I can’t just go on, make an ass of myself. It’s not PC, you know what I’m saying. I’d get the fucking Little People of America on my case. You can’t be an undignified dwarf anymore. But I could make an ass of him. Don’t worry, doll. You’d get a cut. I’m a fair man.”

  He turned to Dashiell.

  “Roll over,” he told him. “Speak.” Then he turned to me, palms raised toward the heavens. “Help me out here, doll. You must have taught him something, big dog like this.”

  “Nothing fancy,” I said. “He sits and gives his paw.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Semper paratus,” I told him. “Like you said, he’s a big dog. I had to train him.”

  “They get all the girls, you know.” He pointed up, at the ceiling. “The high-wire artists. People think it’s the lion tamer.” He shook his head. “Not so. Never been so. You single, doll? You seeing anyone?” He raised his eyebrows, looked me up and down, as if I were a piece of merchandise he was about to bid on.

  I raised my hand like a stop sign.

  “A guy can dream,” he said. “You change your mind, doll, you know where to find me. Don’t let my small stature fool you. I can show you a good time.”

  He reached for the doorknob. I raised my hand again. “Open it,” I told Dash, indicating the door with a tilt of my head. Dashiell pushed in front of Irwin, grasped the knob, turned his head and backed up.

  Irwin squinted at me. “Always something up your sleeve, eh? I like that in a woman. Don’t be a stranger, doll. You hear me?”

  I stopped at O’Fallon’s apartment and dumped out the briefcase on his desk, refilling it with the things I wanted to take to Maggie’s house—one of the photo albums, the coin collection, the silver ashtray that Parker had tried to steal. I decided to take the file on the car as well, in case there was any trouble at the lot.

  My cell phone rang as I was on the way to pick up the car.

  “Alexander.”

  “Rachel. I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner. I was away.”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Ted Hank. I was John’s partner. I guess you hadn’t heard.”

  “Heard what?” I asked, though I thought perhaps I knew.

  “John’s dead, Rachel. He died of AIDS five months ago.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “He talked about you. And about Dash. He said he thought it was so weird, a private investigator doing pet therapy.”

  I stopped in the street. Dashiell began to sniff at the wrought iron around a tree pit, coleus growing around the tree, a plastic water bottle lying on top of two of the rich red leaves.

  “He knew that? I never told anyone in the group…”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to give you a double shock. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “No, just tell me how he knew.”

  “I don’t know. I figured you told him. Not so?”

  I didn’t say anything right away, so he kept on talking.

  “No harm meant. No harm done, I hope. It’s not some big secret, is it? I mean, in order for you to get work, people have to know, don’t they?”

  “Might he have told anyone else? Do you think he…”

  There was silence on the line. Someone blew his horn on Washington Street. A dog across the street, a short-legged Jack Russell, all full of himself, began to bark at Dashiell.

  “I couldn’t honestly say.”

  “No harm done,” I said a little too quickly. “I appreciate your calling, and I’m so sorry to hear about John.”

  O’Fallon’s car was a beat-up Toyota Celica. I was glad I’d brought along the file with his papers. The monthly fee for the lot was worth more than the damn car and was due the next day. I’d see if Maggie would agree to come in by bus on Saturday and then drive Tim’s car home. If not, I could even pick her up. Either way, it would save the estate about three hundred dollars because I could just pay the day rate until then. One less bill to deduct from Maggie’s inheritance, one less thing for me to worry about.

  And one more. Had John told O’Fallon that I was a private investigator? If I’d been named executor because of that, it wasn’t just curiosity I was feeling. I wasn’t just acting out of habit. I was on the job. I was getting paid to discover something, to do something. The only trouble was, I didn’t know what it was.

  I opened the back windows halfway for Dashiell. As I pulled out of the lot, I heard him sneezing, clearing the way for new scents, ready to pull the world in as fast as it was passing, trying not to miss a thing. It was a lesson that wasn’t lost on me.

  CHAPTER 13

  The house, along the Sparkill Creek, was one of the little saltboxes that faced a winding two-lane road, their long, narrow backyards sloping down toward the water. The O’Fallon house was painted gray with white trim. I parked along the road so that I wouldn’t block Mary Margaret’s car. She was at the open door as soon as I got out. She waited as we walked toward the house, asked if the dog was housebroken, then invited us in.

  She had the kind of strong, trim body you often see on nurses and she was dressed in a trim, no-nonsense way as well, a pretty woman who did nothing to augment the gifts nature had given her. Her red hair was pulled back in a knot at the
nape of her neck. She was in a pantsuit in shades of tan, no makeup, no nail polish, no jewelry. A little brown bird trying very hard not to be noticed.

  Dashiell and I followed her inside. If I’d expected to be hit by the lingering odors of her mother’s long-term illness, vaguely concealed by Lysol, Fantastic and Soft Scrub, I was pleasantly surprised. The windows were open, sunlight pouring in, the living room bright and airy, everything in its place. The house had so much sparkle I would have bet Maggie made the beds with hospital corners, even here at home.

  We walked through the living room to the kitchen. In New York City, it would be called an eat-in kitchen. But this was a house. Houses almost always had kitchens you could eat in. The table was set for lunch. She pointed to the place farther from the sink and refrigerator and asked me to sit. Then, surprising me, she took an old saucepan from under the sink, ran the water cold and filled the pot for Dashiell. She stood watching him drink noisily from the pan before really looking at me.

  “Does he need something to eat? I could give him some turkey if he’s hungry.”

  “No, he’s fine, thank you.” Again, a surprise. And then another. She had a full-time job and, until recently, another one at home, caring for her sick mother. I expected a tuna sandwich, perhaps a tossed salad with bottled dressing, but Maggie was taking eggs out of the refrigerator, then butter and cheese. That’s when I noticed the omelet pan on the stove, the little pile of fresh herbs on the counter.

  “I don’t buy this nonsense about eggs being bad for you, do you, Rachel?” She was melting butter, whipping the eggs. “It sometimes seems there’s nothing left to eat, if you read what’s in the papers and take it seriously.” She grated just a touch of cheese into the whipped eggs, poured the mixture into the pan and began to chop the herbs, her hand moving quickly, the rhythmic sound of the knife on the cutting board filling the kitchen.

 

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