Rough Cut

by Ed Gorman

  I also began to wonder about the finances of our shop. I was creative director and in charge of all writing, art, and production. Denny was to be in charge of business. But he began being secretive about things. His expense account, for example, swelled beyond recognition. I began to wonder if he ever paid for anything himself. Conservative by nature, I tended to leave everything I could in the business. I asked Wickes about what was going on many times-and many times he responded the same way, by showing me financial statements I didn't quite understand, no matter how hard I tried.

  Along with the perilous business situation, my marriage began to suffer, (which, of course, I didn't share with Bonnell). It was obvious to everybody but me apparently that my wife Sylvia and I had nothing in common anymore. She had taken up the bar scene-the leper colony I referred to earlier-abdicating, as I saw it, her responsibilities as both wife and mother. Fortunately, our kids were old enough that they could accept the inevitable. They accepted it with much more grace than I did. Particularly after she told me she had had lovers over the past three years…

  "I know how all this sounds," I said to Bonnell. "I wish I could say I liked Denny-I'd feel better about myself if I could-but I didn't." I shook my head. "But I didn't kill him, either."

  "I have to ask you something…" Bonnell began.

  And then I knew that Sarah had told him. She was the only person up here who knew it-Denny had told her one day ostensibly because he felt guilty about it and needed to unburden himself; what he was really trying to do was establish himself forever as the dominant figure on this particular landscape. I didn't blame her, not really. She was being a good citizen, that was all, trying to help the police do their job the best way possible.

  "Your wife-" Bonnell began.

  "-Ex-wife-"

  "-had a brief affair with Denny Harris. Is that right?" I nodded.

  I could see by the indifferent way Clay looked that he'd known already. So much for shocking revelations. I suppose Denny had told everybody. I saw a terrible kind of justice in it-the lepers that Sylvia saw as so glittering and so much fun, using her for nothing more than cocktail chatter and gossip.

  "You were married while this was going on?" Bonnell asked.

  "Yes, though I didn't know about it until after I'd filed for divorce."

  "You didn't end your business relationship?" I shrugged. "By then it didn't matter. I was pretty much numb."

  Bonnell nodded. "Yeah, I went through a divorce myself. I know what you mean." Human-at last, and however briefly.

  "I didn't kill him. I really didn't," I said. He assessed me. He seemed to believe me-or was I just hoping?

  "I'm going to have to ask both you gentlemen where you were last evening. We don't have a medical examiner's report yet, but the lab is estimating the death at late afternoon-say around six o'clock."

  Which was when Clay Traynor said, in the cocky way I was used to, "Hate to spoil your fun, Bonnell. But we were together, weren't we Michael? Working late right here in this office." The hangdog Clay and the arrogant one.

  The irony returned to Bonnell's gaze. He looked at me. "True, Mr. Ketchum?"

  At first I couldn't get it out-the single syllable that would make me a perjurer.

  "Mr. Ketchum?" Bonnell repeated.

  I looked at Clay, who was stupidly smiling. I thought of my kids and my old man in the nursing home, his paperlike flesh. The eyes that did not quite know me when I bent to kiss him. Losing the agency would cut me adrift-I wouldn't be able to help them.

  "Yes," I said. "True."

  EIGHT

  Around noon I decided to close the office for the rest of the day. Not out of any respect for Denny, of course-though I was beginning to feel guilty that my thoughts weren't at least occasionally reverent-but rather because nobody was getting anything done.

  Clay Traynor had left a few minutes after Bonnell. Traynor had been grinning as he exited. Apparendy he wasn't feeling any worse about his good friend Denny than I was.

  I closed my door and stood at the window looking down on the city. The sky was the slate gray it had been the past few days. Without snow to accompany them, the Christmas decorations hanging everywhere looked more hopeful than real-like the decorations you see in balmy Florida around the holidays. Shoppers leaned into the bitter wind and fled into storefronts for respite. Even shopping was edged with travail these days-at least that's how I'd come to see the world.

  A knock on my door-discreet as only Sarah Anders could make it-caused me to turn around and get it over with. Sarah was going to apologize and I was going to accept- sincerely-and that was going to be that.

  When I let her in, her eyes were red from crying and her voice was hoarse. She daubed at her cheeks with a handkerchief that had seen extra duty in the past few hours. "I can't believe it," she said. "Dead." I guided her to a chair.

  I went back behind my desk and sat down and let her sniffle and sob until she was done.

  Finally, she looked up and said, "I have to tell you something, Michael."

  I stared across at her, trying to look as pleasant as possible. "I know what you're going to tell me, Sarah."

  "You do?"

  I nodded. "That you had to tell Detective Bonnell that Denny and my ex-wife had a small affair."

  She put her head down, stared at her lap, at her fingers knotted around her handkerchief. "I'm sorry."

  "I understand."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. Really, Sarah."

  "I was afraid you'd…" She shook her head, started crying again. "…afraid you'd hate me."

  I can't tell you why, but watching her just then I was struck by a false note. Maybe it was the way she started and stopped crying with such regularity. Maybe it was the curious lack of conviction in her apology. Whatever, I was aware that I was watching a performance rather than anything spontaneous-but I couldn't pinpoint why.

  Which led me to wonder for the first time-letting my anger and suspicions come out-why she'd "had to" tell Bonnell about Denny and my ex-wife at all. Had he come right out and asked her if she suspected that I was the killer? Damned unlikely. How had the subject come up unless she'd brought it up herself?

  "Why don't you go home, Sarah," I said, as kindly as possible.

  She glanced up. Started sniffling again. She was a bad actress.

  Looking at her, I realized I was in the throes of a kind of madness. I didn't trust Sarah, Clay Traynor, Cindy Traynor, Bonnell, or Merle or Julie Wickes-and I saw all of them as knowing far more than they were letting on. I needed to turn to somebody, talk to somebody-but who? When you get that sense of isolation, that sense that you can confide in no one, then you're easing open the door of madness and peering inside.

  Sarah stood up.

  "I just can't imagine who'd do anything like this," she said. "He… he had his faults but…"

  That was the only genuine-sounding thing she'd said since coming in here. Even when he was dead, she wanted to mother and protect him. Maybe in a curious way I felt jealous-that she'd never expressed any protective feelings toward me. Apparently I wasn't the kind of guy women enjoy mothering.

  I walked her to the door. She kissed me on the cheek with her warm, wet face, then clutched my hand. It was the kind of thing you expected at graveside, very dramatic rather than low-key and earnest.

  Then she turned back and stared at me a moment. "I know you may not believe this, but deep down, he really respected you. I know he did."

  Sure he did, Sarah. About as much as I respected Hitler.

  ***

  I spent the next few hours going over the work load that lay ahead for the next few weeks. If I needed any reminder of how critical the Traynor account was to the preservation of Harris-Ketchum, this was it.

  Two television and six radio spots and four print ads needed to be produced for the Traynor account, along with forty-two different pieces of collateral, meaning brochures, catalog pages, point-of-purchase cards, etc. Much of the work would yield us fifteen perc
ent for placing it in various mediums, all of which amounted to several hundred thousand dollars, and this for a very small campaign. In the parlance of the trade, Traynor was a "cash cow," meaning it could be milked for our sustenance.

  And-if we were to meet overhead-it needed to be milked for every possible penny.

  Not noble, perhaps, but true.

  Around three, with a headache starting to work through my frontal lobes, I decided to walk through the shop, kind of an inspection now that I would be running the place myself. I wasn't sure what provisions Denny had made in his will for his part of the agency, but I felt sure he would have left it to somebody outside the business.

  Ordinarily, I didn't like walking the length and breadth of the shop because it was too much like spying: Douglas Mac-Arthur inspecting all the funny little yellow troops at his command. Today, though, alone, I picked up layouts, looked at copy, played some videotapes, and in general learned that we could turn out good creative work on a rather consistent basis.

  I was headed back toward my office after spending an hour in the shop when I heard the noise coming from Denny's office.

  At first I thought it might be Bonnell back again, but there was a furtive edge to the sounds of drawers being opened and closed, closets being searched…

  On impulse, I picked up a knife used for cutting packing tape as I moved closer to Denny's office…

  They were so busy they didn't even hear me. Both of them looked sweaty, almost feverish, they were working so quickly.

  "Hello," I said.

  Sarah Anders looked up first. Her tears were long gone, replaced now with a resolute kind of anger.

  Then Gettig whirled to look at me. He had been working on the wall safe Denny kept behind the framed photograph of his father, while Sarah had been working through the bookcase, dropping books as she went.

  As usual, Gettig was dressed like the lead in a beer commercial. Today he was trying to look like a Jack London seaman-thick black turtleneck, heavy belt holding up designer jeans. I almost expected him to call me "matey." Instead, he said, "Get the hell out of here." Then he started stalking toward me.

  I'm not going to pretend that I'm tough, or even especially physically adept. But at that precise moment I had two things going for me. One, I was composed enough that I could set my balance; two, I genuinely disliked Gettig, which made what I was about to do a very pleasant task.

  I got him a good clean shot across the jaw and he sagged before I could get him with another one. He slumped against the desk, his eyes vague.

  Sarah grabbed my arm. "Don't hit him again, Michael. Please."

  It was in her voice and gaze, something I wouldn't have ever suspected. I wondered how and when they'd gotten together-and why. I couldn't imagine an intelligent, sensitive woman like Sarah with a cartoon like Gettig. But there it was-pity and fear and passion in her eyes and voice all at the same time.

  "What are you looking for Sarah?" I snapped.

  "Just…" She seemed on the verge of talking when Gettig regained his feet.

  "Don't tell him a damned thing!" he said.

  Sarah flushed. "Ron, please…"

  I thought of Sarah's plump, friendly husband sitting out in the suburbs somewhere. Well, I supposed that for all his flaws, Gettig was exciting in his foolish way…

  "Get out," I said. Obviously neither of them was going to talk.

  "He's got something of mine," Gettig said, rubbing his jaw. "I want it."

  "Take it up with his estate."

  Sarah, sensing that the punches were going to start flying again, took Gettig's arm. He wrenched it away violently. She looked as if God had just spurned her.

  Then Gettig said, "C'mon," and stormed out.

  She stared at me then followed him out, turning back only at the last. "Denny really did have something that belonged to Ron."

  I thought of Clay Traynor using similar words to explain why he'd gone out to Denny's last night.

  "Sarah, why the hell would you get mixed up with somebody like Gettig?"

  Anger flashed across her eyes. "You don't have a right to judge me!"

  Her words hurt me just enough-obviously I did have a tendency to be overly judgmental-that I could do nothing but shake my head.

  Then she followed her lover out and disappeared down the hall.

  For the next ten minutes the echoes of all the anger rang in the room. I sat in Denny's desk chair and thought of the better times when we'd been younger and gotten along. I looked at the awards that covered one entire wall and thought of all the great work we'd done over the years, despite any number of personal ups and downs.

  It was while I was mellowing out that I started wondering again what it was that Gettig and Sarah had been looking for. On the floor around my feet were small piles of stuff they'd left from their search. I started putting the things back into the drawers they'd been taken from.

  Which was when I found the newspaper clipping about the robbery.

  At the time it didn't make the least bit of sense to me and I wondered why Denny had kept it in his desk at all.

  I also wondered why I felt compelled to put the clipping in my pocket and take it along with me when I went home.

  NINE

  By the time I reached the parking garage, a winter dusk had settled over the chill air. The garage was in shadows. On my way to my car I heard my name called out cheerfully. Ahead of me in the gloom, I saw Tommy Byrnes wave and walk toward me.

  My stomach did unpleasant things. We hadn't really talked since our conversation in my office. I was going to have to be very nice and very apologetic and at the moment the prospect of being either wearied me.

  Tommy came toward me like a shy animal. "Hi," he said.

  I nodded. Decided to get it over with quickly. "Sorry about yesterday, Tommy. I'm not in the best frame of mind. You know how that goes-little things, insignificant things, irritate me. I want you to know I think you're doing a good job."

  "Thanks," he said. Obviously he was half afraid to speak, afraid he'd make me angry again.

  We walked to our cars in tense silence.

  "I really do want to be in advertising," he said finally.

  "I know you do, Tommy. I just can't figure out why."

  He was surprised. "But it's a great field, Michael." He was still self-conscious about calling me by my first name but he was learning. "I mean, it's really creative."

  "I don't think so," I said. "You don't? Really?"

  "We're dabblers, Tommy. That's what most of us are. We can't write novels or poetry so we dabble at writing copy and make a very big thing of how 'creative' we are. Or we can't paint seriously so we go on about how inventive we are and throw a lot of awards dinners so that everybody will know that we're important. In a way, the account executives are the most honest of all of us. They're whores and most of them don't pretend to be anything else." I looked over at his young, shocked face. This wasn't anything remotely resembling what his professors would be telling him-particularly not with the venom I could hear in my voice.

  "So how come you stay in it, then?"

  "Very simple. There's nothing else I can do that people will pay me half as well for."

  "But you're a good writer. You really are."

  This time I could sense he wasn't offering idle ass-kissing. He was being sincere.

  "A good copywriter, Tommy. You've got to make that distinction. It's one thing to write a clever little ad and it's another thing entirely to write something worthwhile."

  "But you've won Clios. That should be worth something."

  "It wouldn't be worth a hell of a lot to Hemingway." I laughed. "Tommy, this is a field where agency people who help pollute the air and feed chemicals into the food supply are given statues of appreciation." I stopped at my car and clapped him on the shoulder. "There I go again, Tommy. Sorry. I'm not in the best of moods."

  "I still want to be in advertising." He had received the True Calling and his voice trembled with it now. Despite
my cynicism he preferred to believe that advertising was just as important and glamorous and soul-sustaining as his advertising professor told him it was. "Well, at least I'm glad you're not still mad at me," he added.

  I nodded and waved goodnight and watched him walk into the shadows at the far end of the ramp.

  Then I opened the door to my own car. The overhead light came on. In the dimness I saw Cindy Traynor.

  All she said was, "God, I'm freezing to death. Hurry up. Please."

  TEN

  She didn't seem aware when I got in and closed the door. She just stared straight ahead. Obviously she was looking at much more than the rough concrete wall.

  "Are you all right?" I asked.

  Nothing.

  "You must be freezing, Cindy." Nothing.

  I turned on the heater. Played the radio. Sat back and lit a cigarette.

  "I'm sorry about having you followed," I said. "I know." Her voice, ethereal, was nonetheless startling in the quiet.

  I decided to start over again. Gently. "How long have you been here?" Her car was parked next to mine.

  "An hour. I'm not sure."

  I reached over and touched the tip of her nose. It felt like a piece of ice. I smiled. "At least an hour."