See why I love Lenny Zimmerman so much?
“He probably treats all women the same way,” I mused. “I bet he hates his mother.”
Lenny’s eyes widened in disbelief. His own parents were so wise and wonderful, he couldn’t imagine hating either one of them. “Speaking of mothers,” he said, mouth stretching into a wholesome grin, “mine made a big batch of potato pancakes yesterday. And she put about six of ’em in my lunch today, along with some homemade applesauce and my usual salami sandwich. Are you hungry?”
“Do babies burp?”
Lenny laughed and stood up. “Stay right where you are,” he said, heading for his drawing table in the back of the room. “I’ll get my lunchbox.” Two seconds later he was back sitting in the guest chair across from me, opening his big black lunchpail (the one I bought him for Christmas last year), and taking out two waxed paper-wrapped packages, which he placed on the desk between us. Then out came a Mason jar full of applesauce.
“So what’s your hot new story all about?” Lenny asked, unwrapping the salami sandwich and splitting it in two. “Who got killed?”
“A young actor by the name of Gray Gordon,” I told him. “He was stabbed to death in his Greenwich Village apartment, just a couple of blocks over from me. That’s why Pomeroy gave me the assignment. He figures I have a better sense of the territory than Mike does, that I’ll be able to dig up more information.” I took a huge bite of my half-a-sandwich and chomped it eagerly.
“You’d do a better job investigating and writing any story,” Lenny declared, opening the package of potato pancakes and giving three of them to me. “Mike Davidson has no sense. He should be forced to wear a dunce cap twenty-four hours a day.”
I giggled. “And what about Mario? What should his sentence be?”
“That’s easy,” Lenny snorted. “Mario Caruso should stand nose-to-the-wall for eternity, while legions of unblindfolded children pin tails on his donkey.”
We chuckled together for a few moments, enjoying the goofy images that Lenny had just invoked. Then we put a lid on our laughter and got down to some serious eating. The crispy, golden, onion-flecked pancakes were out of this world and, between bites, Lenny and I took turns spooning the fragrant applesauce straight from the jar into our greedy mouths. All the food was devoured in nine minutes flat.
“So what’s with the clashing duds?” Lenny asked, swiping his finger through a glob of stray mustard and licking it clean. “I never saw you look quite so, uh, colorful. Did you get dressed in the dark?”
“No, just in a hurry. I forgot to set my alarm and I woke up really late.”
“Oh, c’mon, Paige! That’s not the whole story and you know it. I took a good look at you when you came in this morning, and you had a lot more than punctuality on your mind. You looked like you were running for your life—not just to get to work on time.”
(See? I told you Lenny had me pegged.)
“And later on I saw you whispering on the phone to somebody, trying to hide what you were doing. You’re up to something,” he went on. “Something dangerous. And I’ll give you five seconds to tell me what it is.”
I spent the allotted time deciding whether or not to tell Lenny the truth. I didn’t want him to worry about me or feel like he had to watch over me (having saved my life once, he might feel honor-bound to attempt it again), but I didn’t want to deprive myself of his protective camaraderie, either (it feels good to have somebody know your troubles and be on your side).
When my five seconds were up, I leaned back in my chair, lit a cigarette, and spilled the beans. All of them.
LENNY STARTED YELLING AT ME THE very second I finished the tale of my gruesome “holiday” weekend. “God damn it, Paige! Have you lost your goddamn mind? This is really critical! How did you ever let yourself get involved in such a deadly mess?” (So much for protective camaraderie.)
“I didn’t let myself get involved!” I shrieked. “I was forcibly involved by fate. And by Abby—although it wasn’t her fault, either. Do you think we chose to discover the body? Do you think we allowed ourselves the pleasure of finding poor Gray slashed to bloody shreds on his living room floor?”
“Look, I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was—”
“Oh, hush! I know what you meant! You were saying that I shouldn’t have started my own investigation, that it was up to the police to find the killer, not me!” I struck a match and fired up another L&M. “But what the hell was I supposed to do? Just sit back and let Detective Flannagan pin the murder on Willy Sinclair, even though I know he didn’t do it?” I took a drag on my cigarette, then spewed the fumes out in an angry swoosh.
“What makes you so sure it wasn’t Willy?” Lenny probed, squinting at me through his uncommonly thick lenses. “All the evidence points to him, but for some reason you’re ignoring it. You know what I think? I think—”
“Please keep your thoughts to yourself,” I broke in, speaking in a much nastier tone than intended. “I can’t handle any more opposition right now. Dan’s furious at me, Flannagan’s up in arms, and now you. . . . But there’s no turning back. I’m working on assignment now, you know. If I don’t continue with my investigation, and produce an accurate, detailed, well-researched account of the murder, I could lose my job. Is that what you want?”
Lenny was hurt by my hotheaded response. And I felt so bad about the way I’d just spoken to him I wanted to apologize on the spot, beg him to forgive me on bended knee. I would have done it, too, if Mike and Mario hadn’t picked that very moment to come strutting back into the office, posturing and crowing like two demented roosters.
“Hey, Mike, would you look at this?” Mario said, gesturing toward Lenny and me with a malignant smile on his sweaty face. “The lovebirds had a little picnic together. Isn’t that sweet?” (Mario was jealous of my close friendship with Lenny, so he made fun of it at every opportunity.)
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Real sweet.”
“Too bad we busted up their cozy little heart-to-heart,” Mario needled.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Too bad.”
“But now that we’re here, and the lunch hour is officially over,” Mario went on, “don’t you think they ought to stop slobbering all over each other and get back to work?”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Sure do.”
“Because if they don’t,” Mario added, “Mr. Pomeroy will probably find out about their wicked waste of time, and make them work late tonight. And I really would hate to see that happen, wouldn’t you?”
“Yep,” Mike said. “Sure would.” But even he was getting bored with Mario’s stupid little game. Looping his hat and jacket on the coat rack, Mike strode down the aisle past my desk and sat down at his own. He rolled a piece of paper into his typewriter and started pecking out another sure-to-be-shoddy clip story.
Without his accomplice at his side, Mario lost some of his spiteful steam. Hanging up his own hat and jacket, he turned to Lenny and inquired, “Did you finish the cover paste-up yet?”
“No, I’m waiting for some repros from the typesetter,” Lenny replied. “They should be delivered this afternoon.”
“What about the ‘Gun-Happy Harlot from Harlem’ story? Did you finish that layout?”
“Uh, no . . . it’s not due until next week.”
“I don’t care when it’s due!” Mario ranted. “Go back to your desk and get to work on it right now!”
Lenny’s face turned beet red, but he didn’t say anything to Mario. He didn’t dare. Mario was his immediate boss and could have him fired at any time. Without a groan, or even a sigh, of protest, Lenny rose to his feet, plunked the empty Mason jar in his metal lunchpail, and then carried the rattling pail—along with his rattled pride—back to his place at the rear of the workroom.
Deliberately avoiding eye contact with Mario, I crumpled up the greasy sheets of waxed paper and tossed them in my wastebasket. Then I took the stack of unrecorded invoices out of my drawer and began studying the one on top as if
it were a new edition of the Kinsey Report. I was so mad at Mario, I was afraid of myself. If Mario said one word to me—or one more word to Lenny—I might tell him where to get off. Or sock him in the nose. Or bonk him on the bean with Pomeroy’s marble ashtray. And then I’d either be fired for insubordination, or arrested and charged with assault, or taken into custody and booked for murder.
So Mario and I were both saved by the office entry bell when Mr. Crockett came back from lunch early. “It’s hot as hell out there,” he said, just in case we hadn’t noticed (or read the morning headlines). He hooked his light blue seersucker jacket on one branch of the coat tree and perched his Panama on another. “Bring me some coffee, Paige,” he grunted, pushing his wide body down the narrow center aisle of the workroom, thereby forcing Mario, who had been standing in the middle of the aisle, to hustle back to his desk. (Lenny and I shared a secret smile over that one.)
After taking Mr. Crockett his coffee (and ignoring Mario’s lewd winks and gestures along the way), I went back to my desk and began studying the invoices for real, putting them in chronological order, tallying the amounts, checking them against my pre-publication records, entering them in the ledger. This tedious job, plus a complete retyping of one of Mike’s more heavily corrected stories, kept me busy for the rest of the afternoon. Pomeroy came back about three, but he merely sat down in his cushy swivel chair, turned his face toward the wall, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and fell into an alcoholic snooze. (His morning martini fast had obviously been reversed.)
At the stroke of five, I walked into Mr. Crockett’s office and closed the door behind me. “Mr. Pomeroy has given me a very important story assignment,” I told him, “which is going to require a lot of after-hours legwork. May I have your permission to leave early tonight? I have to meet an informant all the way across town at six.”
(Okay, so I lied about the time. But just by thirty measely minutes! And a harried, hungry, hard-working girl like myself is entitled to a measely thirty-minute dinner break, wouldn’t you say?)
Mr. Crockett barely looked up from his copy of the Saturday Evening Post. “Okay,” he said, switching his soggy cigar stub from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Go on. Scoot.”
Chapter 26
I LEARNED FROM THE PHONE BOOK that the Actors Studio was located at 432 West 44th Street, between Ninth and Tenth, so I took the 42nd Street shuttle to Times Square. Then I pushed my way through the dizzying rush-hour crowd to the nearest exit. (I don’t have to tell you how hot it was, because you know that already, right? I mean, descriptive detail is good up to a point, after which it can turn rancid. Especially in the heat.)
I had a hot dog with mustard and relish at Nedick’s, and a frosty tall one at a nearby A&W Root Beer stand. And then—despite the amused gawks my gaudy multicolored outfit kept attracting—I proudly proceeded to 44th Street, turned left, and began the two-and-a-half-block trek westward. I was walking on air. I was working on an important story assignment! So what if I looked like a parrot? A legitimate professional journalist on assignment could wear anything she darn well pleased.
The theater district was crowded as always. A lot of excited people were standing under the maroon awning and green neon sign of Sardi’s restaurant, trying to peer through the windows. I figured some famous Broadway star had just swept inside for a pre-show snack or highball. Passing by the Majestic Theatre, where Fanny was playing, and the St. James, where The Pajama Game was in its second year, I had to push my way through long, disorderly lines of last-minute ticket buyers. After I crossed over Eighth Avenue, though, and headed for Ninth, the street became a whole lot quieter.
And creepier. . . .
All of a sudden I was walking on eggs instead of air. What if somebody’s following me? I whimpered to myself. What if Aunt Doobie’s on my trail, carrying another hunk of concrete under his well-muscled arm? What if Blackie’s crouching like a panther in the shadows, waiting to jump out and claw me to pieces? Maybe Baldy’s pulling up behind me in his limousine right now, scheming to snatch me off the street and whisk me down to the docks for a final (i.e., fatal) beating.
Okay, okay! So my fantasies were probably working overtime. (At least I hoped they were!) It hadn’t gotten dark yet, and as many times as I whipped my head around, searching for suspicious characters, I didn’t spot a single one. I still felt very nervous, though, and I crossed Ninth Avenue with a sense of dread in my racing heart.
Halfway down the block I reached it—the small, low, red-brick building that housed the Actors Studio. It looked like an old church or theater or some kind of meeting hall. A flight of about ten stone steps led up to the wide, white double-door entrance, but the entire face of the property, including the entryway and the tiny, heavily shrubbed front yard, was closed off by a wrought iron fence. The gate was securely locked.
How’s anybody supposed to get in? I wondered, standing anxiously by the iron barricade, looking up and down the nearly deserted street for Binky (or, rather, any young man I thought might be Binky). I couldn’t go inside without him. Where was he? He was coming, wasn’t he? What if he didn’t show up? I looked at my watch. It was 6:32. He was late! (Okay, so he wasn’t really that late. But when you’re convinced you’re being stalked by a homicidal maniac, two minutes can seem like two months.)
There was a loud creaking noise behind me. I jerked around to see who was there or what was happening, but detected no movement at all. Then, from out of nowhere, a male voice called out, “Hey, Phoebe? Over here!”
Straining my eyes toward the source of the voice, I finally saw him. Well, his head, anyway. It was a fairly large head with lots of curly light brown hair, and it was sticking out from a street-level door on the far side of the building.
“Binky?” I called back. “Is that you?”
“Yeah.” He stepped all the way through the creaky door and walked across a small cement courtyard to the edge of the fence. “Come down here,” he said, gesturing for me to come closer. “This is the best way in.”
Baring my teeth in a huge Bucky Beaver smile, I walked down to where Binky was standing. “Hi!” I said, extending my hand over the fence for a shake. “It’s nice to meet you, finally. I really appreciate what you’re doing for me.” He was a tall, lean, good-looking guy. Not heart-stoppingly gorgeous, like Gray, but quite attractive in a tense, Van Heflin kind of way.
There was another gate at this end of the fence and Binky opened it for me. “So you really are an actress,” he said, smirking, eyeing my colorful clothes. “I had my doubts before, but now I see from your way-out wardrobe you’re just like all the other actresses I know. You want to be the center of attention.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” I said, just to keep him guessing. (Sometimes, when you’re trying to solve a mystery, it helps to be mysterious yourself.) I stepped through the gate and walked into the courtyard. “For instance,” I added, blatantly scrutinizing the way he was dressed, “one glance at your tightly buttoned collar and long-sleeved shirt tells me you’re either priggish or feeling chilly. But neither of those hasty conclusions can be true, now, can they? A bartender at the Latin Quarter couldn’t possibly be a prig, and nobody could be feeling chilly in this unbearable heat.”
He gave me a chilly smile. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss my clothes, my job, or the weather. And the auditions will be starting soon. Let’s go inside.” He led the way to the side door and opened it wide.
“Thanks, Binky,” I said, as he ushered me into the building.
“Don’t call me that!” he snapped. “Especially when we get upstairs.” He followed me into the dim hallway, then paused at the bottom of the steps. “Just call me Barnabas, please,” he said, re-collecting himself. “The Studio bigwigs know me by my real name—Barnabas Kapinsky—and I want to keep it that way. Binky’s too rinky-dink. It’s fit for a performing poodle, not a serious actor.”
It was time for me to do some serious acting. “You’re so right, Barnabas
,” I simmered, doing my best Susan Hayward (she really knows how to emote). “An important director like Elia Kazan would surely laugh at a name like Binky. And isn’t that who you’re auditioning for this evening? Elia Kazan?”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes darting from my face, to the floor, to the well-lit landing at the top of the stairs. “Mr. Kazan’s one of the founders of the Actors Studio, and whenever he needs a new face for one of his movies or plays, he looks here first. If he likes my work tonight, my career will be made in the shade.”
“Gosh!” I cried, flapping my lashes like a starstruck fool (I felt my role called for a little more pep and hooey). “Aren’t you nervous? How can you be so cool? I would be having a heart attack!”
Murder on a Hot Tin Roof Page 21