by David Daniel
“Sorry.”
“No one s’posed to be down here but me.”
I told him what had brought me, told him I’d been on the campus the other day. He peered into the surrounding shadows and rubbed his mouth. “Ain’t seen no one. I stepped out to get the paper. You think he come down here?”
I shrugged. “The door’s unlocked. Does this lead anywhere?”
“It’s old steam tunnels that hook up to the older buildings on campus. Ain’t been used in years.” He sent an uncertain frown into the darkness. “I better call campus security.”
We moved around the boiler into the faint glow of another bulb. The space was set up like a tiny office. The man tossed his newspaper onto a table and used an old rotary phone.
I looked at a small plastic Christmas tree and some stuffed animals and assorted chipped coffee mugs. On the wall above the table hung a four-year-old calendar and some AA bumper stickers. There was a Philco radio that might have been plugged into the year it was made: Johnnie Ray was singing “The Little White Cloud That Cried.” Overloading the same outlet were a hot plate and a dusty fan. The place was a pack rat’s nest. Most of the stuff looked scrounged.
“They’ll check out Alum Hall and swing by here,” the man said, hanging up the phone. “Hey, Curtis Smyth, by the way. With a ‘y,’ but it’s still pronounced ‘Smith,’ not like some folks like to say Smyth, make it sound like ‘smile’—to be different, I guess.” We shook hands, and he turned the radio down beyond hearing. “Started out sweeping floors. I mind this baby now.” He nodded at the boiler. “I’m hung out to dry is the truth of it. A friend of Bill’s. Ten years now, but I still think about it. Still know the smell of it.” He looked at me meaningfully, then laughed. “Hey, live and let live. I’m not bein’ hospitable. Want coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
“Yeah, it’s kinda late. I lose track down here. My own little world. I like the warmth for my arther-itus. Boiler’s old, but good. A Scannell, built right here in the city.”
As if in agreement, the motor grumbled to life. Curtis Smyth fished something from the pocket of his sweatshirt and looked at it in the light. It was a short piece of metal tube with copper wire wrapped around it. “Found this little wingdoodle on the floor,” he said. “Always more than one use for anything.” He set it in a soap dish next to the Philco. “Hey,” he said, “I see in the paper Jerry Corbin’s makin’ a return.”
“Do you go back that far?”
“Oh, hell, yes. And then some. One day at a time.”
“Did you know Corbin when he was here?”
He gave a silent laugh. “They’ll be comin’ outta the woodwork now, sayin’ they was his roommate or his best friend’s sister. Have a sit.” He waved me into a bentwood chair that Clyde Beatty might have used to hold off tigers. Smyth sank into an easy chair, making the cracked vinyl sigh. “I never knew him personal, but he was noticeable when he was here. In this club, on that team. Big, good-lookin’ Irish kid, had been in the service. Smart as a whip, too. He was on the debate club, as I recollect, and on TV. Seems to me that had something to do with Corbin gettin’ his break in show business. Back in the days of Jack Paar and them. Before your time.”
“God bless you,” I said.
“Prof Westrake was his coach. For a while there, Jerry was Prof’s protocol”—he frowned—“that the word I want? I used to sweep the old humanities building, and young Corbin’d be hangin’ around the office Westrake and his missus shared. She was a prof, too. Corbin was always around. If I didn’t know better…” He broke off and squinted up at the light bulb, as though to illuminate his memory, but I couldn’t see how it would do much.
“You’d say what?” I prompted.
He shook his head. “Nah. Just thinkin’ aloud, and not much good at that. Live and let live. ‘Protégé.’ That’s the word I meant, what Jerry was to the prof. Anyways, I’ll go see Corbin’s show when he comes. I won’t be on any VIP list, I guess—though I could probably sneak up to the auditorium through the tunnels.” He turned to peer into the dim maze beyond us. “But I’ll scrounge the dough and probably go. Hell of a comedian, Jerry Corbin. Last of the breed.”
I told Curtis Smyth that if he saw anything of interest, I’d appreciate a call. I gave him one of my cards. I didn’t bother with the spelling change; unless someone was writing a check, I saw no need. He said, “Sure thing,” and carefully set the card on the ledge by the Philco and the little scrap of wire and tubing he’d found; one more knickknack for the pile. He could always pick his teeth with a corner.
9
WHEN I WOKE up Wednesday morning, the cavalry had been in overnight and used my tongue as a boot scraper. As the coffee perked, I opened a bagel without slicing off any fingers and wedged it into the toaster to burn while I took a shower. At 9:00, half-awake at least, I phoned the Riverfront Plaza and was told that the Corbin entourage had already decamped for rehearsals at the university. There was a message asking me to get over there and look for Justin Ross when I did.
On campus there was a little more excitement than usual, students milling about outside the auditorium, where The New Gong Show rehearsals were being held. Jerry Corbin’s name was in the air. As I went through the lobby, no one mistook me for a star.
Gripaldi was inside, as inconspicuous as a ’58 Edsel. “Yo, Mr. R.!” he greeted me. When I raised my arms for a frisk, he grinned.
“I’m looking for Justin Ross,” I said. “Seen him?”
“Down front there a while ago. Mr. C.’s got everyone hopping.”
The auditorium was dark, except for the stage. Up there some of the lights in the overhead grid were on, bathing a cluster of about a dozen people in their glow. I didn’t see Ross, but Jerry Corbin was evident. Gone was the pouchy softness of the night before. He looked so refreshed that I wondered if he was a stand-in. I took the other people to be the production crew. There was a powwow in progress, with Corbin clearly the chief. Chelsea Nash stood by with her clipboard, taking notes. She had a healthy glow, too. Maybe I should go up and bask in the light for a while. To one side, near the foot of the stage stairs, I spotted Morrie. He was parked at a table, munching a doughnut as he poked his calculator. He didn’t look any better at all. I went over.
“How’s the getting and spending going?” I said.
He glared up at me. “Jerry’s financial affairs are none of your goddamn business.”
“And don’t forget it,” I said. “Justin Ross around?”
Morrie gestured in the vicinity of backstage. I climbed the stairs and moved around the curtain. There was a narrow corridor there, with several closed doors off it. One door at the far end was open. As I neared the door, I heard Ross’s raised voice. “Is that some kind of threat?” he was saying.
I stepped to where I could look in and see him and stopped. He was standing in profile in a wash of spotlight, garbed in jeans, a tan leather vest over a denim shirt, and his ostrich-hide boots, and for an instant I thought he was rehearsing lines. Then another voice came from among some stage props painted to look like marble columns. “It’s a caution. He’d be wise to be careful.”
The voice was reedy and used up: an old man’s voice.
“Or what?” Ross said.
“He ought to keep his mouth shut. Those are not people who are going to stand for being the brunt of a joke forever.”
“In case you’re so absentminded you’ve forgotten,” Ross said, “free speech isn’t limited to academics.”
“Free speech! Free rein around here, it looks like!” Because of the props, I couldn’t see the other speaker well; only a dim form, gesturing there in the shadows. “I’m going to let the dean know my displeasure.” I heard him stalk off.
“Be my guest. Hell, phone the newspapers!” Ross called after him. “Just spell the names right!”
A door slammed. I waited a moment before I went in. Ross looked up. “Rasmussen.”
“R-a-s-m-u-s-s-e-n,” I said.
He fr
owned. “You catch that?”
“Some.”
“He got the word that a play he’s rehearsing—some version of Hamlet—has been bumped to another location.”
“Who is he?”
“Name’s Westrake.”
I glanced beyond the thicket of prop columns. “Professor Westrake?”
“We need the space, and the university knows the exposure will be good.” Ross stopped. “Yeah, that’s him. You know him?”
“Heard the name. He was Jerry’s teacher, wasn’t he?”
Ross seemed surprised that I knew it. “What was he lecturing about?” I asked.
“Harvard. Jerry’s got that shtick he does. Harvard, the Eastern establishment, Ivy Leaguers. Easy targets because WASPs don’t fight back. Their idea of anger is to not offer you cocktails.”
“I’m glad I don’t know many.”
“Westrake was telling me Jerry should drop it. I may have been a bit rough on the old dude. I’m jumpy this morning.” He adjusted the silver longhorn steer slide on his bolo tie. “Have you spoken to Jerry yet?”
“No.”
Ross took an envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to me. It had Corbin’s name hand-lettered on it. Inside was a small pasteboard skeleton, its jointed arms and legs folded in. I swung them open. A face had been glued on the skull—from a picture of a young Jerry Corbin. On the back of the skeleton someone had written: It tolls for thee.
I glanced at Ross. He didn’t look so good; one day in New England and his tan was already fading. Maybe we should both go stand under the stage lights.
“It was at the hotel desk this morning, left there in a bunch of flowers late last night. Nobody saw who delivered them.”
“Probably some little guy with wings on his feet,” I said. “At the risk of sounding boring, is Corbin still resistant to telling the cops?”
“You’re kidding, right? You know how much work has gone into this show? We’re two days away. The boat’s launched. Spring a small leak now, we start shipping water, the whole schmear could go down like the Titanic.”
“Nice extended metaphor,” I said. “You just come up with that?”
“Goddammit, Rasmussen. This isn’t a joke.”
“I know.”
“That’s number four, for chrissakes.”
“Yeah.” I was feeling pressed. Whoever was sending messages was at close range now. A net was tightening, but it wasn’t mine. The only people who weren’t potential suspects were over in Westlawn Cemetery. Maybe I was better suited for shadowing people on aluminum walkers, though even they were getting friskier lately. “Can I hang onto this?” I said.
“Go ahead.”
Just then a thin young man came in. He nodded at us and went over to the props and began lifting one of the stage columns. His hair was cropped close on the sides and went up and fanned out on top like a typewriter eraser. Balancing a pair of columns on his shoulders, he went out. I said to Ross, “Is this what you wanted to see me about?”
“I want us to have a skull session with Jerry. He’s lunching with reporters, so I don’t want to screw that up, or afternoon rehearsal. How about tonight at the hotel. Seven-thirty?” I said okay. “I hope you can come up with some answers by then,” Ross said.
I told him I’d give it the old college try. As I started out, he said, “Rasmussen.”
I turned.
“We’ve got a crew on this show, a lot of people doing a lot of jobs. Folks alive in the business.”
“Translate,” I said.
“You’ve probably seen all the Jerry stuff in the tabloids. I know he comes off as a blowhard at times. But he genuinely cares about what he does, and about people. He’s a good guy, and he deserves some luck. I think the network’s getting ready to hang him out to dry on Good Night.”
“Cancel him?”
“Some of his West Coast staff are already papering the town with their résumés. So this new show means everything. It’s a chance for … I don’t know, redemption? If it blows up before Saturday night, if anything—bad press, news leak—if something stops the show … it’ll be the kiss of death for all of us.”
Skull session; blows up; kiss of death. I hoped Ross’s images were accidental.
10
I OVERTOOK THE young man carrying the stage props and offered him a hand. He gave me a Doric column. I asked him if he was in Professor Westrake’s play.
“Just a stagehand,” he said. We went out a side door and started across a sunny quadrangle. “Unfortunately the play just got bumped. Prof isn’t a happy camper right now.”
“On account of Jerry Corbin’s show?”
“I think so. I think he and Mr. Corbin have bad blood between them.”
“Really?” I said it casually. I didn’t want to scare him off.
“Prof used to have Mr. Corbin as a student, so I asked him about it, and he basically told me mind my own business and concentrate on the play.”
We went into another building and deposited the props in a small lecture hall. “Is Professor Westrake around now?” I asked.
“Probably in his office,” the kid said. “Bitching.”
* * *
The muted rings from the campus bell tolling 11:00 drifted through the trees as I climbed the steps to Canterbury Hall. A directory in the foyer sent me up two more flights. Canterbury was the humanities building, one of the older structures on campus, all varnished wood, shadowed linoleum, and the feeling of time. As I neared Room 313, I smelled cigars. Apparently the smoke-free-workplace idea hadn’t made it up this far yet. Alfred Westrake’s name, with PROFESSOR EMERITUS under it, was painted on the pebbled glass panel of the wooden door, which stood open. Inside, a man with long white hair drawn into a ponytail sat at the desk. He had his back to me and was staring out a window.
“Professor Westrake?”
He turned a gaunt face on me, with deep-set eyes and thick, unruly eyebrows that curled at the tops of his gold-frame glasses like honeysuckle overrunning a trellis. I guessed him to be seventy-five. “What?” he said.
“My name is Rasmussen. I’d like to talk if you have a few minutes.”
“If it’s about tryouts for A Christmas Carol, you’re a month early,” he said in the voice I’d heard arguing with Justin Ross.
“It’s about next weekend.”
“Next weekend? Goddammit, this is our tenth rehearsal. We’ve got exactly five days until opening.” He frowned. “Are you a student? You look kind of old.”
I let it pass. “I’m a private investigator.”
The frown deepened. “And you want to talk about Traitorous Gifts?”
“What’s that?”
“My play. What are you here for?”
“I thought you were doing Hamlet.”
“What is it you want?” he said.
“To talk about Jerry Corbin.”
“Corbin? Are you after him?”
“Figuratively, I guess I am. Mind if I sit down?”
He sighed. “You may as well. We’re not getting anywhere this way.”
I took a wooden chair by the desk. Like everything else in the room, it was old, worn to a curvy shine by generations of student rear ends. The office was narrowed by crowded bookshelves. The one wall not dominated by them had the window in it, flanking which was an array of framed photographs. They gave an impression of smaller windows that looked into an indefinite past. I said, “Corbin hired me to look out for him while he’s here in Lowell.”
“A bodyguard? Is he in danger?”
“I hope not.”
Westrake sized me up, whether with newfound respect or scorn, I couldn’t tell. “Well, you certainly look as if you would be good at that sort of thing.”
“I’m trying to get some background from people who know Corbin.”
“Cross me off the list. I haven’t spoken with him in ages.”
Westrake took a stub of evil-looking black cigar from an ashtray and produced a silver lighter.
“Can
you do that in here?” I asked.
“Do what?”
Flame danced and died in his eyeglasses. The lighter snapped shut. “When I knew Jerry Corbin, he was a young man—bright enough, curious, though not very focused. He spread himself thin.”
“On what?” I asked.
“Drama, debate, sports, whatever was going on. Coeds. He was attending on the G.I. Bill, probably simply for something to do. It worked, I suppose. There’s no denying he’s made a name for himself.”
“The university is giving him an honorary degree, I hear.”
Westrake blew smoke at the ceiling. “Not through any fault of mine. I mean, it isn’t as if he were in legitimate theater.”
“Shakespeare?” I said.
“Look, Mr.—”
“Rasmussen.”
“—we all were taken by young Jeremiah Corbin.” For an instant, I thought he’d said taken in. “He was popular, and we were close during his last few semesters—even friends, to a point. But after his graduation he turned his back on all that. He had gone to California for a screen test. He possessed a certain Hibernian sparkle that came across on the little video box, and some smart cookie out there saw it. I guess we know the rest.” He spoke as though each word burned his tongue. With a glance at me from under his tangled brows, he shifted forward in his chair. “I felt betrayed. I’d coached him in classical acting and debate, taken him under my wing. Though why I should have expected any different, I don’t know. It’s just that he had real curiosity. In my experience, it’s rare.” Westrake waved at the smoke as though freeing himself of the past’s pull and sat back. “Ah, who cares? As I said, that was long ago.”
“Not a big Corbin fan, huh?”
“You can get annoying with all those questions.”
“My Socratic training,” I said.
His brows crinkled skeptically. “Socrates?”
“He’s my favorite ancient philosopher, after Barney Rubble.”