Even the Butler Was Poor

by Ron Goulart

  "H.J., there's a lot more to this mess than Rick Dell's bad debts."

  She located the nail file she'd been hunting. "We've missed the last ferry boat across, haven't we?"

  "By several hours."

  "Want to stay over here in a motel someplace for tonight?"

  "I want to get home, so I can be at my place by early morning. Beaujack's sending me copies of the scripts I'll need for the recording session this afternoon."

  "It's a long drive, going all the way around the Sound back to Connecticut. You should get some sleep if you're going to be doing your funny voices."

  "Even so."

  She started working on the dummy's leg with her file. "C'mon, c'mon, pry loose," she urged. "Ah, here we go."

  Ben took eyes off the night highway for a few seconds and saw her prying the section off the hollow wooden leg. "What's in there?"

  She set the section of leg on the seat beside her. Nose wrinkling slightly, she lifted out something small and dark between thumb and forefinger. "This is it?"

  "A roll of 35 millimeter film."

  "I know but . . ." She closed her fingers slowly over the roll of film. "People are getting killed. People are getting tortured. We're being shot at. All for this?"

  "Must be some important photos," he said. "And that just about proves that Rick Dell was a blackmailer."

  "We don't know for certain that this contains blackmail photos." She brought her hand up nearer her face, opened it and studied the spool. "This could just as well be prints of a treasure map."

  "It could be the plans for a new Disneyland in Yugoslavia," he said. "But I'm betting it's incriminating photos."

  She tapped the undeveloped film on her left knee. "Darn, what an anticlimax."

  "The point is, H.J., we've now found what we set out to find. It hasn't led to fame and fortune, but that's the way things go. As soon as we get home to Connecticut we'll turn this over to the police. That should get the hoods off our—"

  "Bullshit."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "I'm not quitting this business until I know for sure what's on this roll of film," she told him. "If it is a map or a chart, I don't want a bunch of cops digging up my doubloons."

  "So you want to get the pictures developed?"

  "I surely do."

  "Suppose it's thirty-six shots of a couple committing adultery in a motel? Fotomat's going to frown on—"

  "We'll have to get them developed privately, schmuck," she said. "Hey, Joe Sankowitz is an amateur photographer, isn't he? He used to be when I knew him."

  "Joe has his own darkroom, sure. But do you want to—"

  "We can trust him."

  "That's not it. I don't know if I want to involve a friend of mine in something crooked."

  "Rick may've been crooked, Ben, but we're not."

  After a few seconds he replied, "Okay, we'll stop by Joe's when we get back to Brimstone."

  She dropped the roll of film into her purse, deposited Buggsy on the floor. Placing a hand on Ben's arm, she sad, "Once we get a look at these pictures, I'll quit. I promise."

  Chapter 11

  Sankowitz, left eye narrowed, looked out at him through the narrow opening. "If you want to go running with me, you'll have to wait until. . . But, no. Nobody would want to run in a business suit," he said, opening his front door wider. "Especially a business suit that's apparently been worn wrestling alligators in a swamp."

  Ben blinked, then yawned. "Can you do me a favor, Joe?"

  "More than likely. What?"

  He shifted on the shaggy welcome mat, fished the roll of film out of his coat pocket. "Can you develop this for us?"

  His friend looked from the film to his face. "Is this another chapter in your adventures with H.J.?"

  "She's waiting in the car."

  "You may recall my warning you about taking up again with ladies known to have futzed up your life," Sankowitz reminded him. "This is only a hasty diagnosis, mind you, but I'd guess that your life has been futzed up considerably during the past few hours."

  "Somebody did try to shoot me," admitted Ben.

  "See?"

  "But we got away safely, and we're on the last phase of this business. Once we see what these pictures turn out to be, H.J. is going to turn over everything to the police."

  "Things are worse than I suspected, you're back to believing what she tells you. Remember the problems that she caused you during your—"

  "Contact prints'll do," said Ben, yawning again. "I have to go into the city for that My Man Chumley job this afternoon, but do you think you can have them done by tonight?"

  "I only have two finishes to do for The New Yorker and a color comp for a Westport ad agency." His friend took the film from his hand. "That's nowhere near as important as this obviously. You be home by eight?"

  "I should, and if I'm not, H.J. can let you in."

  "She's living with you again?"

  "Just for now, because it's safer."

  "I'd wish you good luck," said Sankowitz, "but I think it's too late for that."

  Ben's agent had gotten him a leading role in a French farce, one of those plays where there are a half-dozen doors that are continually opening and shutting. The problem for Ben was that whenever it was his turn to open a door, a corpse would come falling into the room. They weren't farce corpses either, but realistic ones splattered with blood and gore and sporting repulsive wounds. Taking the job had obviously been a mistake and he decided to quit.

  He hadn't been aware that his agent had moved her offices, but here she was doing business in the cemetery on the old Universal set. Her cluttered desk was set up in the middle of a shadowy marble tomb, the fog machines were sending thick, chilly swirls of mist all around Elsie Macklin and her filing cabinets.

  Somebody nudged Ben in the back, requesting him to hurry up and pay his last respects to the deceased.

  He didn't especially feel like walking up to look into the open coffin, but he knew he'd be embarrassed if he didn't and he'd also disappoint the dozens of mourners who were lined up impatiently behind him. He stepped forward.

  "Jesus, you weren't supposed to be home this early." H.J. was lying naked in the coffin, making love to a naked red-haired midget.

  "Close the damn lid, will you, buddy," requested the little man.

  "I can't even trust you after you're dead, H.J."

  Nope, this was definitely not the part for him. He'd have to get hold of Elsie right away to have her break the contract. Maybe if he shouted loudly enough, his agent would hear him and do something.

  He started yelling.

  "Easy now, Ben."

  "Anyway, farce isn't my strong. . . Hum?" He awoke to find his former wife, wearing a faded grey sweatshirt and jeans, sitting on the edge of his bed.

  "Do you have nightmares often these days?"

  "First one in three years." He sat up, shaking his head.

  "You okay?" She put her hand against his forehead.

  "Nothing more than a touch of black water fever, old girl," he replied in his Nigel Bruce voice. "No, I'm fine. What time is it?"

  "Almost eleven, which is why I popped in to wake you. If you're going to catch the 12:33 from Westport, you'd better start getting ready."

  He swung out of bed, then remembered he'd been sleeping in his shorts. "Oops, excuse me."

  "I'm family, more or less."

  Shrugging, he headed into the bathroom off his master bedroom. "Modern science tells us man can get by with four hours sleep."

  "I apologize again for keeping you out all night, Ben," she said. "But I wasn't, you know, anticipating all the complications we ran into over there."

  As he plugged in his electric razor; he studied his face in the mirror. "Gosh, I seem to have turned into Spanky McFarland overnight," he said. "I'll join you for coffee in the kitchen in a few minutes, H.J."

  She came over to lean in the open doorway. "I do appreciate all the help you've been."

  "It's okay, the new stresses you
've brought into my dull routine will no doubt make a better person of me."

  "But seriously." Leaning in, she kissed him on the cheek.

  It was a pleasant spring afternoon and Ben didn't encounter anyone he knew on the train platform at Westport. The 12:33 pulled in at 12:31 and he got a window seat by himself. After opening the bottle of passion fruit-pineapple juice he'd bought at the small store across from the station, he took the three My Man Chumley scripts out of his attaché case. Sipping the juice, he read over the scripts again. He was set to play, according to Les Beaujack's cover letter, the part of the First Muffin. A character described as "self-confident Cockney who's justifiably proud of being part of My Man Chumley's New $1.99 Kipper 'N' Muffin Bargain Breakfast."

  Using his closed case as a lap table, Ben started marking his scripts with a red Pentel. He underlined all the speeches of the First Muffin. Then, trying out various voices and reading in a faint murmur, he checked the important words in each line of dialogue. The First Muffin carried on conversations with the Second Muffin, a snooty type, rejected by Chumley for lacking crispness, crunchiness and Honest-To-Blighty flavor.

  Ben tried his Stanley Holloway voice, then blended in a touch of Roland Young.

  "What is it this time?" The thickset graying conductor was standing in the aisle beside his seat.

  "Hum?"

  "You're going in to do another commercial, aren't you, Mr. Spanner?"

  "Yeah, I am." Slipping his ticket out of his breast pocket, he handed it over. "I'm going to play a part in some My Man Chumley radio commercials."

  "Do you know him?"

  "Who?"

  "Chumley—the guy who plays him, that is."

  "That's Barry Katbkart. I've met him a few times over the years, but we aren't chums."

  "Seems like a very warm, likeable person."

  Ben looked out the window. "I hear he's not exactly that in real life."

  Nodding, the conductor punched the ticket. "What are the chances of you getting a job like that for yourself? They not only use that guy on television and radio, but in magazines and newspapers, and even on all the cups and napkins. Just about everything but the toilet paper, but maybe they just haven't thought of that yet."

  "I'm basically a voice man, not an in-front-of-the-camera actor."

  "He must earn a lot of money."

  "I've heard tell Kathkart makes more per year than a Metro North conductor," confided Ben. "Though I find it hard to believe any mere performer can do that well."

  The conductor chuckled and moved on.

  Ben returned to his scripts. He paused, leaned back, muttered the word "Blimey" several times in different voices. When he finally found the reading he was satisfied with, he returned to marking his lines.

  He yawned twice, took another drink of juice. By concentrating on the commercials, he had hoped to keep his mind off H.J. This whole business he was now entangled in with her failed to cheer him.

  She still looked great, though. Prettier than ever actually, if you were honest about it. But you had to keep in mind that there's more to a marriage than a wife who looks great. H.J. sure hadn't overcome her tendency to wander into trouble. This Rick Dell/ninety-nine clop clop business was considerably more horrendous than her usual run of trouble, but it followed pretty much the same pattern he'd grown familiar with. She'd get into a screwed up situation, he'd feel obliged to help pull her out.

  His life really had been different in the three years since they'd separated and divorced. He'd risen in his chosen profession, met new women, led a much less stressful life and a more content one, too.

  A duller life, though. Yeah, and he had to admit that every so often he'd missed H.J.

  Such thoughts were dangerous.

  "Blimey," he said aloud.

  Chapter 12

  Head low, mumbling his lines in the muffin voice he'd pretty nearly decided he'd go with, Ben stepped out of the elevator twenty six-floors above Third Avenue and 51st and walked smack into a very pretty blonde woman who was searching for something in her large scarlet purse. He became briefly entangled with her, executing a wobbly half turn before getting free.

  "Asshole," remarked the blonde, elbowing him aside so that she might jump into the elevator just before its doors came hissing shut.

  Backing across the thickly carpeted corridor, clutching his attaché case to his chest, Ben stared at the closed silvery doors of the elevator. His nose wrinkled once as he muttered, "Same smell."

  The young woman was the model Trinity Winters and she was wearing the same scent as the woman in the ski mask with whom he'd wrestled on Long Island the night before.

  The perfume must be Crazed. A popular one, worn probably by thousands of women. Except that Trinity Winters, judging by his quick go-round with her just now, also felt a lot like the masked female burglar.

  That's a hell of a subjective judgment, though, based on a quick feel in the hall, he reminded himself.

  Still, it was odd.

  Everything is odd. Has been since you allowed H.J. to cross your threshold again. He noticed his watch, saw that the time was two minutes short of two and hurried into the Lenzer, Moon & Lombard reception room.

  The place was large and white. The carpeting, the chairs, the reception desk, the platinum-haired receptionist were all shades of white. Three LM&L print ad proofs framed on the far wall provided the only trace of color, and they had wide white frames. Two of the ads were for the My Man Chumley account and featured full color shots of Barry Kathkart as the jovial butler.

  Ben crossed over to the desk. "You know, I debated about wearing my white suit," he confided to the receptionist. "Now I'm sorry I didn't. I would've blended better."

  She gave him a look that lacked sufficient warmth to be disdainful. "Yes?"

  "Ben Spanner."

  "Who?"

  "Spanner. To see Les Beaujack."

  "Oh, yes. If you'll take a seat, Mr. Beaujack will be ready for you very shortly."

  An artist, who looked no more than twenty-two, was the only other person waiting. He was slouched in one of the white chairs, his large black leather portfolio resting across his knees.

  "Afternoon." Ben seated himself two chairs away.

  "You're married to H.J. Mavity," said the shaggy-headed young man.

  "Used to be."

  "She's an interesting lady."

  "She is, yes."

  "Nice bone structure, too."

  "You think so? I've never been quite satisfied with her ribs along this side."

  "Facial bones I mean, speaking strictly from an artist's viewpoint," the young artist explained. "She isn't too terrible a painter either, if you like the trite, traditional paperback school."

  "I do. In fact, I was always after my parents to send me to the trite, traditional paperback school. But they insisted on UCLA instead."

  "Yeah, that's right." The artist folded his arms and turned away. "H.J. mentioned that you were an incurable wiseass."

  Grinning, Ben opened his attaché case and got out his scripts for further study. Eleven minutes later a white door to the rear of the receptionist flipped open and a middle-sized, deeply tanned man of about forty looked out into the room. "Ben, old buddy, come on in," he invited. "We'll be taping right here in our in-house studio today."

  "Hi, Les." Shutting the scripts away again, he got up and went over to shake hands with the advertising executive. "I think I've worked out the right voice for the—"

  "I'm sure you have, which is why we hired you." He stepped back into the office area, holding the door. "Let me guide you through the labyrinth."

  Just about everything on the other side of the door was white, too.

  "By the way, I was glad to hear," said Beaujack over his shoulder, "that you and your lovely bride were back together again."

  "Where'd you hear that?"

  "Oh, around someplace. Isn't it so?"

  "For the moment," admitted Ben after a few seconds. He followed Beaujack deeper into th
e agency.

  The director up in the booth said, "My Man Chumley, Spot 32B, Take 7." He was a plump black man in his middle thirties. As he pointed at Ben through the glass now, he smiled with just a trace of weariness. The clock on the wall of the small studio showed that it was nearly four o'clock.

  Ben leaned into his microphone and said, "Blimey, but I'm on top of the bloomin' world, I am."

  The small, pale actor beside Ben said, "An' well yer should be, mate. You've been picked to be part of a blinkin' My Man—"

  "Jesus H. Christ, aren't you ever going to read that line right, jerk?" Barry Kathkart, standing at a microphone of his own, lowered his script to glare over at the small, pale actor.

  "Barry, old buddy," said Beaujack from the booth, "Pierce sounds fine to us up here. Suppose we try to get all the way through his second commercial before we—"

  "He sounds like a raving faggot," said the tall, broad actor.

  "I am a faggot," said Pierce Gardener, "but that's no reason for you to keep—"

  "Fellows," put in Ben, "I think Les has a splendid idea. Let's get a complete take on this thing and then see about what doctoring, if any, we—"

  "If you want to kiss Les's ass, Spanner," suggested Kathkart, "do it elsewhere. I don't think your boyfriend's reading is right. And keep in mind that I'm really the one who has to be satisfied here. I sure as hell know what makes a good Chumley commercial. And let me tell you, brothers, this ain't it."

  Ben said, "Granted you've sat in on some of the great muffin performances of the century, Barry. Even so, everybody else thinks Pierce is doing okay."

  "Ah, the Sir John Gielgud of silly voices has spoken." Kathkart threw his script to the floor and went striding over to a far corner of the studio. "Les, fire both these assholes and get me two new muffins."

  Ben said, "Come on, Barry, we're all professionals here and—"

  "I'm telling you Pierce's reading isn't right, and yours isn't all that good either, Spanner." He poked a forefinger in Ben's direction and then at the booth. "Get him the hell out of here, Les."

  "Hold it a minute, everybody," advised Beaujack. He came hurrying down out of the booth and into the room.