“Admirable?” She laughed, in an unattractive manner.
“What do you have in mind, then?”
“A gun,” she said.
“I see. Do you have a gun?”
“No. But I suppose you can get one, easily enough.”
I thought about that. Yes, I probably could. Easily enough, and safely enough. “All right,” I said, and it was decided.
Less than a week later, we sat in Annabelle’s car outside the Bloomsbury mansion block which contained Miranda’s flat. The gun was in the pocket of Annabelle’s raincoat. She’d suggested that she keep hold of it until we were inside, in case I needed both hands free to prevent Miranda from fleeing. I’d agreed to that—though only after what I hoped was a convincing show of reluctance.
I was confident that once the action was underway, Annabelle herself would do the shooting—and do it with pleasure. Whenever she spoke to me of Miranda, her ugly face burned with anger. Despite what she’d said in the pub, it was clear to me that she was the one who needed the reassurance of company on this outing.
I had told her that I had plans for disposing of the body which it would be better for her not to know about. In fact, the thing being done, I planned to leave the scene with all the considerable speed I could muster. Afterwards, Annabelle either would or wouldn’t be arrested. An ex-lover would, no doubt, be an obvious suspect. If she was, she wouldn’t tell the police about my part in the business since that could only serve to upgrade a case of manslaughter between lovers to one of conspiracy to commit murder. To be on the safe side, I would disappear for a while, until it seemed prudent to emerge, during which time I thought I might indulge in a little plastic surgery. Nothing major, a small nose job, which I hoped would enhance my employability as well as my anonymity.
If she wasn’t arrested, then so much the better. I’d still be free of her, since I could in theory turn her in at any time. Either way, I’d be free of Miranda.
We paused on the landing outside Miranda’s door. Annabelle handed me a large envelope containing my money. I checked it quickly, and nodded my acceptance. She inserted the key in the lock, more noisily than I had hoped. Before turning it, she said: “Here goes. Give us a smile for luck, Jez.”
Miranda Denny stood before us, in the center of her hallway, completely naked.
“Grab her!” said Annabelle, closing the door behind us.
I did so, overcoming my natural revulsion. She didn’t struggle. I heard Annabelle breathing heavily as she came up the hallway towards us. “Get ready,” I said, and I threw Miranda away from me with all my force, so that she bounced off a closed door and slumped onto the carpet.
I saw a flash of light in front of me, and then a nauseous pain colonised the back of my head and everything I had ever held to be true gushed out of my nose and down my shirt and onto the floor.
“YOU GAINED ACCESS to the flat by means of a door key which you had stolen from Ms. Inwood’s handbag when you visited her office earlier in the day,” said the detective chief inspector sitting opposite me in the little interview room. “Surprising the two occupants of the flat in bed, you became irate and irrational, ranting and saying that you were in love with Ms. Denny.” He put a finger on his notebook to mark his place, and glanced up at me. “Do you deny any of this, Mr. Becker?”
I said nothing. I had said nothing since waking up in the hospital, two days previously.
“They tried to reason with you, and were able to persuade you to retreat as far as the hall. But then you pulled out a handgun and said that if you couldn’t have Miranda, then no one could. You raised the gun and made as if to fire it at Ms. Denny. At this point, however, the lady’s partner, Ms. Inwood, hit you over the head with a Chinese dog.”
“With a what?”
He checked his notes. “Sorry, a china dog. An ornament, which had stood on a side table. So, you have got a tongue after all?”
I regretted my involuntary outburst, and said nothing more. There was very little I could say. Perhaps forensic evidence would have assisted me, but the police would only look for it if they had reason to—and I could not afford to give them that reason. The truth was useless to me, not only because it wouldn’t have been believed, but because, if it was believed, it would only place me in a deeper hole than the one I was already in. I did not wish to face charges of robbery and conspiracy, in addition to those already proffered against me.
“The gun went off as you fell,” said the policeman, “causing a single round of ammunition to enter the wall of the hallway at about head height. No one was hurt as a result of the shooting.”
I didn’t listen to the rest of what he had to say. I used the time instead to ponder upon the disgraceful nature of the events which had overtaken me. It was a mortal outrage that I should face time in prison for attempted murder, when I had never in my life attempted to murder anyone, and for firearms offenses, when I had never in my life handled a firearm of any sort (except very briefly, and then only as an intermediary). It was a mortal outrage that an ugly woman and a plain one should conspire to take such disproportionate revenge on a man whose own crimes were minor—and who had, in any case, renounced his former trade, and reformed of his own free will.
My life ruined in exchange for a purse full of cash: Yes, I would call that disproportionate. I would call that a mortal outrage. I would call that a slap in the face of justice.
Break a Leg
STUART M. KAMINSKY
KENNY KILLED THE wrong poodle, but it really didn’t matter.
You see Kenny wanted to kill Pinky of Ben Burke and His Amazing Poodles. Pinky was the star. Pinky was also getting old which was one reason Kenny didn’t feel so bad about poisoning Pinky’s food bowl. Actually, there were signs of arthritis or something in Pinky. Kenny was doing the dog, and himself, a favor. At least he would have been had Pinky eaten the food instead of Puddles. A mistake. But it was enough to cancel Ben Burke and His Amazing Poodles from the show which moved Kenny up a notch on the bill.
He still had a long way to go. Ben Burke would be replaced. That couldn’t be helped, but given Goobernick’s budget and the dwindling number of vaudeville houses and smaller audiences, the replacement would be someone cheap, a whistler, an alcoholic comic with a big tie, a juggler.
It was 1924. Movies were taking over the vaudeville houses. First the movies were an act like the seals and the dancing Bronte Sisters, but now the movies were taking over and the old acts were becoming filler for Valentino, Keaton, and Garbo.
Kenny was an optimist. Vaudeville wouldn’t die completely. People would get tired of mimes in black and white on a flat screen. There’d always be room for a few good acts like Kenny Poole the Dancing Fool. Actually, Kenny’s real name was Pemerhoven. But except for Sid Scrimberger and his Musical Seals no one Kenny knew in the business had kept their real names. Of course the Scrimberger name had been associated with seal acts for who knows how the hell many years but that didn’t really matter to anyone anymore. Besides, if things went right, the Scrimberger seals wouldn’t be belching or playing their horns or balancing their balls or clapping their fins much longer. The two of them would be dead. There had once, not long ago, been three Scrimberger seals. Old Betsy, who was temperamental and fat but the smartest of the trio, had swallowed a light bulb and died.
The problem was simple. Goobernick had told the eight acts on the traveling bill that three of them were going to have to be cut and soon. It didn’t take The Amazing Weller, the World’s Greatest Mind Reader, to figure out that it was the last three acts on the bill that would go. Even having moved up one with the death of the poodle, Kenny was still only one act up from the bottom. For him to survive, three of the top five had to meet with accidents.
They were in Chicago, the Rialto on State Street. Winter. Blizzard. Small houses. Almost not worth selling the tickets, but the show goes on, the girls stripped. Strippers didn’t belong. Burlesque was taking over. Burlesque and moving pictures. Vaudeville was talent, rea
l talent like Kenny’s or even the dogs and seals and those cousin contortionists and people like Callahan the World’s Greatest Irish Tenor who, when sober, could hit a note Caruso would envy.
Kenny sat in the diner across from the Rialto. Cars went by. The snow was blowing at an angle. Getting heavier. Cold out there. Mug of coffee and the sinker felt good.
Kenny had bills to pay. No relatives he could turn to. If he didn’t take care of himself, who would? Nobody, that’s who. Like Bert Williams sang, “Nobody.” Kenny liked to dance to that song, self-taught, making it all up. Now Bert Williams’s songs were too slow for the audiences. Kenny was so far down the bill that by the time they got to him, the people on the other side of the lights were looking at their watches. Kenny had to dance fast, smile, do tricks like the once over with a double click. He had to use taps. Make noise. Eccentric dancing wasn’t enough anymore. Kenny could only do the one-legged rollover to his right, but nobody knew or noticed.
Kenny got older. He had to dance faster. Smile more. That was okay. What the hell, but if he were higher on the bill, he could hang on, at least through the season which was just starting. No way Kenny could work in a diner like the one he was sitting in. He’d rather die. Well, not really. But he would rather kill.
It was best if it was just animals. He hadn’t killed a human yet. Tonight would be the first time. He’d get backstage early so he’d be there when Vogel, the World’s Strongest Human, dropped dead on stage. He’d be there so when Alf the stage manager with no teeth panicked, Kenny could say, “I’m here. I can go on.”
By the way, Kenny knew that Vogel was not the World’s Strongest Human. Lots of men on the circuit and in circuses and side shows and lifting logs somewhere in the woods in Norway or wherever were probably a lot stronger than Vogel. Hell, Kenny even knew two women who were stronger than Vogel.
Helga Katz who was retired now but could still hold up a platform on which sat five girls, an anvil and a fat man in a chair smoking a cigar and pretending to read a newspaper. The other woman was Marge Corsat, who Kenny preferred not to dwell on because Marge had once punched him in the chest when she thought he was getting fresh with her. That was a long time ago. Maybe Kenny was getting a little fresh wondering what it would be like to be with a woman as big and strong as Marge.
Vogel had a gut. He didn’t deserve billing above The Dancing Fool. Vogel didn’t do anything original except maybe for bending the two-inch pipe over his head, which he did with much grunting. Kenny knew if he examined that pipe he’d find Vogel had done something to it. Besides, where did Vogel get a new two-inch pipe two shows a day? Pipe cost money. He had to be using the same piece of pipe over and over. It had probably gone soft in the middle five years ago.
Kenny checked the clock on the wall. Time to get back. He had put the rat poison in the egg salad sandwich on Vogel’s dressing table. Vogel ate an egg salad sandwich every night before he went on. Vogel had great faith in eggs. Four acts including Kenny shared the dressing room. The women had another room. The animal acts were downstairs.
Kenny had to get back to get rid of the sandwich remnants if there were any. He hoped Vogel didn’t die till he got on stage. The good thing about killing Vogel was that Kenny really didn’t like him. Nobody liked him. He was a grunter, a loner. He read books in German. The U.S. of A. had goddamn just a year ago beat the crap out of the Huns and here was one of them taking money from people like Kenny, good Americans. Vogel had probably been a Hun soldier, maybe even killed Americans. Kenny was performing a patriotic act. Maybe. At least he was helping one American named Kenny Poole.
He finished his coffee, dropped a quarter on the counter near the cash register, pulled his coat collar up, and went out on State Street. It was damn cold. He had seen worse. Buffalo, just last year. Snow up to your neck almost. Cold as an icebox. Colder. Six people in the audience. Where the hell had they come from? Buffalo. Kenny crossed the street almost slipping, avoiding the cars, hearing the elevated train rumble above him half a block away above Wells Street.
In the stage door. Old guy at the door sitting with a pipe barely looked up. Kenny didn’t want to be one of those old guys who everybody called Pop, old guys whose name no one ever remembered, who wore sweaters and sat at stage doors and went home to a small one-room walk-up to open a can of beans and maybe listen to Amos and Andy on the radio.
The dressing room was empty. The sandwich was gone. So was Vogel which meant he hadn’t died right away. Kenny put on his costume, smoothed out the wrinkles in his trousers with his palm, adjusted his tie in the mirror, checked the taps on his shoes, spit on a rag, and rubbed the toes and heels. He was ready.
The Bronte Sisters were on. He could hear their music, Together in a Corner, Juntos en el Rincon, their signature final number. Kenny clicked down the dozen metal steps from the dressing rooms and moved toward Vogel waiting to get on. Vogel was not doing his usual preparatory muscle flexing. Alf the stage manager, little Alfie who always looked as if he were about to cry, looked at Kenny and whispered,
“What the hell are you doing here? You’ve got a for-chrissake half hour for chrissake.”
Kenny shrugged.
“Staying warm,” he said flexing his shoulders. “Being ready. Never know, do you?”
“You always know,” said Alf turning to Vogel and asking, “What’s wrong with you?”
“Shtomack,” said Vogel, hand to his gut. Vogel wore blue tights with a black sash. His black dyed hair was parted in the middle. He had once had a mustache, but had shaved it last year. No one knew why. Vogel didn’t say.
The Bronte Sisters danced off the stage right past Vogel and Kenny. Their huge smiles ended. The applause behind them wasn’t bad, especially for a frozen night in Chicago.
Vogel rubbed his stomach, made a face, and watched the curtain come down. Then he wheeled his low, flat cart full of weights onto the stage and nodded at Alf. Alf waved at the stagehand who lifted the curtain.
Kenny stood watching, waiting for Vogel to die on stage, ready to dance in to save the show. But Vogel didn’t die. He lifted bars, bent pipe over his head, held a reluctant volunteer from the audience over his head with his right hand and then moved the terrified man to his left hand. Applause. Vogel bowed in dignified silence. The curtain came down.
One of the Bronte sisters, probably Lizzy, screamed from the women’s dressing room upstairs,
“Alfie, somethin’s wrong with Corrine. Get up here.”
“Corrine’s on now,” Alf said. “Tell her. She’s on. Chrissake.”
Kenny looked toward stairs. Lizzy was standing at the top.
“She’s not movin’,” Lizzy said.
Corrine was a ventriloquist, the World’s Greatest Female Ventriloquist, but they didn’t put that in the program. There were already too many “Greatests” in the show and besides, anyone who saw Corrine’s act could tell that she was far from the greatest. She was the bottom of the bill, below Kenny. Corrine’s dummy was Fifi. Fifi was supposed to have a French accent, but when Corrine had been drinking, she forgot the accent or used an Italian or Spanish one instead. When Corrine had been drinking, which was frequent, she also sometimes forgot to move Fifi’s mouth when Fifi spoke. Corrine was over seventy, and her false teeth clacked. She forgot most of her punch lines. She wasn’t a bad sort, but she wasn’t much of a mingler.
“I’ll go see,” said Alf. “Kenny, you go on. You’re ready. You go on. Tell Al and Spitzer in the pit.”
Al was the piano player. Spitzer played clarinet, trumpet, sax, whatever was called for. Spitzer of all trades. Versatility and mediocrity combined to make one perfect inexpensive musician.
Kenny moved past Vogel and asked,
“How’s your stomach?”
“Not good. Couldn’t even eat my sandwich.”
“You gave it to Corrine didn’t you?” Kenny asked.
Vogel nodded seeing nothing meaningful in the question.
Kenny stuck his head through the curtain and signaled t
o Al and Spitzer that he was going on next. They both shrugged. Made no difference to them.
They started his music. Chinatown. The Dancing Fool came tapping out. No applause. He didn’t expect any. Not yet. If he were lucky, the few dozen people out there would clap out of sync when he finished. Kenny was determined to wow ’em. He doubled the tempo. Al and Spitzer had a hard time keeping up with him. Al frowned. Kenny Poole danced like a fool trying not to think about Corrine. There was no point killing Corrine. It wouldn’t move him up in the bill. First he kills the wrong poodle and now the wrong person. But maybe she wasn’t dead.
Kenny sweated through three fast-paced numbers and then did his special, hands-in-the-pocket slow dance to Silver Threads Among the Gold. The trick was, the skill was, not to tap, to defy the metal cleats. It took work, practice. Only the pros knew how hard it was. Audience’s almost never got it. Once in Rochester a woman had applauded wildly after he did the slow dance. He had tried to get a good look at her, but she was in the back of the house. That was five, maybe eight years ago.
He ended the act with the lean-forward kick and double back arm swing to the slightly flat rendition of Stars and Stripes Forever. You had to be unpatriotic not to applaud, especially when Kenny stopped dancing and pulled the flag out of his jacket pocket.
He tapped offstage, smiling over his shoulder, exhausted, tucked the flag in his pocket, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He’d have to get the soaked costume cleaned. Two bits, maybe half a buck. Cost of doing this kind of business. The seals were sitting there already barking, being fed fish from a bucket.
“Corrine’s dead,” Lizzy Bronte greeted him, tears in her eyes.
The seals and Sandy Scrimberger moved onstage to the pit duo playing The Battle Hymn of the Republic that they played because Sandy was dressed in a Union uniform and the seals were going to play the song on their horns.
Scrimberger and the seals were number five on the list. Few would mourn a pair of deal seals.
Show Business Is Murder Page 33