“Gosh, that was fast!” I said. “These Broadway boys don’t mess around.”
“In this case, they didn’t have to. Binky is perfect for the part and very well-prepared.”
“Yeah, a little too well-prepared, if you ask me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Binky must have been preparing to take over this role long before Gray was murdered.”
“Ohhhhh . . .” Abby said, as my words sank in. “I see what you’re saying. Maybe Binky knew Gray’s job was going to become available because he intended to create the opening himself.”
“Exactly.”
“Oy vey!” she shrieked, eyeballs bulging. “Somebody better warn Ben right away!”
“Who? Wha—”
“Ben!” she cried. “Ben Gazzara! If Binky killed Gray just to get the understudy role, how far do you think he’ll go to land the lead? Ben better get himself a bodyguard immediately. His days are numbered!”
“Simmer down, sis,” I said, smiling at Abby’s dramatic outburst. “Now you’re making a tsimmis. Let me remind you that we don’t have any idea if Binky is guilty or not. In fact, what little knowledge we do have points in other directions entirely. The creep who was shadowing me tonight definitely wasn’t Binky, and the creep who bashed me on the head last night had to be either Blackie or Aunt Doobie—not Binky.
“We’ve got more suspects than we can handle,” I went on. “We can’t run around making any wild, unfounded accusations. And we certainly can’t tell Gazzara his life may be in danger. He would call in the cops, and Flannagan would arrest us instead of Binky.”
“Well, we’ve got to do something!” Abby blustered. She jumped up from the table and started pacing the floor again.
“I agree with you,” I said. “Not because I’m afraid for Gazzara’s life—which, at this point, I can assure you I’m not—but because I’m determined to discover who ended Gray’s life. I’m not kidding, Abby. I’m going to find out who killed Gray Gordon if it’s the last thing I do!” (The minute those words escaped my mouth, I wished I’d put them a different way.)
“Any idea how you’re going to accomplish this stunt?” Abby asked, suddenly stopping her pacing. She stepped over to the kitchen counter and began spooning coffee into the waiting pot.
“The only way I know how,” I said. “By following every lead and digging up all the evidence I can.”
“So what’s next on the agenda?”
“The first thing I want to do is get inside Binky’s apartment,” I said. “There are a couple of things I want to look for, and tomorrow—I mean, today—will be the perfect opportunity. Binky won’t be home all day, so I’ll have plenty of time to pick the lock and comb the place for clues.”
“Do you know where Binky lives?”
“Yes, over on Third Avenue between Thirty-second and Thirty-third. I got the address from the phone book. There’s only one Barnabas Kapinsky listed, and the phone number matches the one in Gray’s message pad.”
Abby snapped the lid on the coffee and put the pot on the stove to perk. Then she twirled around, folded her arms across her chest and—speaking in a voice as firm as flint—announced, “I’m going with you.”
“Oh, no you’re not!” I sputtered. “I can’t have you snooping around underfoot, messing up the evidence, making noise and alerting the neighbors!”
“Then I’ll go without you,” she declared. “I have as much right to case Binky’s apartment as you do. You said every girl for herself, remember?”
“Yes, but I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t care what you meant! I’m going to search Binky’s pad and that’s final. I’ve got a good eye and I might spot something you’d miss. So what’s it gonna be, Lee? With you or without you—it’s all the same to me.”
I couldn’t let her go alone, but I couldn’t stop her, either. “I give up,” I groaned. “I’ll call you from the office later and tell you when to meet me.”
“Good,” she said, snatching her purse, sunglasses, and Rita Hayworth wig off the table and heading for the door. “Your coffee will be ready soon. Better drink lots of it or you’ll fall asleep at work.”
“Don’t you want some?” I asked.
“Not a drop, pop!” she said, with a goofy grin. “I’m going home to take a nap.”
Chapter 32
AFTER ABBY LEFT, I DRANK TWO CUPS of coffee, took a shower, got dressed for work, then smoked a bunch of cigarettes and drank some more coffee. I’d like to tell you that I went through these motions with a fair measure of grace and composure, but the truth was I was bawling the whole time. I couldn’t get the picture of Dan kissing that woman out of my mind. If I’d had a gun, I would have blown my brains out just for relief. (Okay, okay! Maybe that’s a slight exaggeration—but what do you expect from a writer named Paige Turner?)
Finally, after an hour or two of sobbing and self-torture, it was time for me to head to the office. I dried my swollen eyes, blew my runny red nose, applied a new coat of mascara, and hit the sidewalk for the subway.
I was in such a muddled frame of mind, I didn’t notice the change right away. In fact, I walked all the way to Sheridan Square without perceiving any difference at all. But then suddenly, just as I was heading down the steps to the subway station, the realization swept over me like an ocean breeze. My face wasn’t dripping with sweat. My feet weren’t sizzling inside my stilettos. My breathing was almost normal. The heat wave had finally broken!
Exhaling a grateful sigh, I descended the rest of the steps and ventured into the tiled depths of the subway. It was even cooler underground. I took a seat on the uptown local, which had just pulled into the station, and then, as the screaking train pulled out again, began reading the overhead advertisements, hoping they’d help me keep my mind off Dan. I did not want to start crying again.
In the ad directly across the aisle, a sexy blonde in a slinky black dress was lounging on the “Airliner Reclining Seat” of a new 1955 Rambler, inviting all onlookers inside for a “Deep Coil Ride.” Next to her, an ad pushing “Houses for the Atomic Age!” proclaimed the “unique design for these all-concrete blast-resistant homes was based on principles learned at Hiroshima and Nagasaki.” And next to that pack of lies danced a pack of Old Gold cigarettes. I say danced because the package of smokes was, by some miracle of modern science, prancing around on a pair of shapely feminine (i.e., human) legs. The copy beneath the familiar image said, “No song and dance about medical claims—Old Gold’s specialty is to give you a TREAT instead of a TREATMENT!”
Soon tiring of the absurd advertisements, I closed my aching, bloodshot eyes and gave them a rest until we pulled into the Times Square station. Then I hopped off the train and headed for the crosstown shuttle. Turning my head for a second as I was walking toward the gate to the shuttle, I caught a glimpse of a man in dark clothing sneaking along in the rush hour crowd behind me.
Oh, my god! Is this guy going to follow me everywhere? And what’s his motive, anyway? Is he just looking for a good place to kill me?
Emboldened by the presence of so many people, and determined to catch the creeper off-guard and get a good look at his face, I pretended that I hadn’t noticed him and continued walking ahead for about thirty yards. And then suddenly, without any delay or warning, I jerked to a halt, jumped around in a fast about-face and landed in a menacing combat stance.
“Yeow!!” cried the startled old man right behind me. He was so taken aback by my sudden maneuver that he lurched, stumbled, and dropped his walking stick on the floor.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” I stammered, hurrying to help him balance himself, then picking up his cane. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Eh?” he croaked, holding a gnarly hand up to one ear. “What did you say?”
Oh, dear. Deaf as well as lame. (Can I pick ’em, or what?)
“I said I didn’t mean to frighten you!” I shouted.
The old man still didn’t hear me. But Blackie, or
Aunt Doobie, or whoever had been tailing me, must have heard me loud and clear, because when I raised my eyes and looked around for him, he was gone. Pfffffft! Vanished completely.
Just par for the course, I thought, handing the wobbly old man his cane and tucking my arm under his elbow. He looked shaken and disoriented. “Can I help you, sir?” I asked, leaning down and screaming directly into his ear. “Where do you want to go?”
“Er, ah, ub . . . shuttle,” he burbled, “eastbound.” A thin line of spit was dribbling down his chin.
I gave him a big smile and slowly guided him toward the gate, truly glad we were taking the same train. There are times in a fearful, crazed, heartbroken girl’s life when she needs a little company.
I BOUGHT A CORN MUFFIN IN THE LOBBY coffee shop, then took the elevator up to nine. As far as I could tell, nobody had followed me into the building. I still felt a little uneasy, though, so when I exited the elevator and saw that the long hallway leading to my office was totally deserted, I—well, let’s just say I overreacted (that’s a much nicer word than panicked, don’t you think?). I ran (okay, rocketed) down to the Daring Detective door, unlocked it and hopped inside, then slammed it right behind me and locked it tight again. None of my coworkers were due to arrive for at least thirty minutes, and I didn’t want any surprise visitors.
But I was very surprised when, ten minutes later—after I’d finished my muffin and begun sorting the mail—somebody started twisting the knob and throwing their weight against the door. (At least that’s what it sounded like: a large body thumping repeatedly against a flat wooden blockade.) My first impulse was to hide under my desk, but I didn’t want to behave like a coward (or get a run in my new nylons), so I jumped to my feet instead. Then I tiptoed over to the door and held my ear as close to the jamb as I dared, listening for clues to the body-bumping knob-twister’s identity.
I couldn’t tell a thing from the wrenching and thumping sounds, but the reeking wet cigar smell was a dead giveaway.
“Mr. Crockett?” I timidly inquired. “Is that you?”
“Yeah!” he bellowed. “Open up!”
Whew!
I unlocked the door, pulled it wide, and watched my boss propel himself inside and over to the coat tree, smoldering cigar stub clenched between his teeth. Without a single hello or how-do-you-do (or even a query as to why the office door had been locked) he removed his hat and jacket and hooked them on the tree. Then he plucked the chewed-up, nearly burnt-out stogie from the corner of his mouth and squashed it in Pomeroy’s ashtray.
“Coffee,” he grunted, heading down the aisle of the common workroom toward his private office in the back. “And bring me the morning papers.”
“You’re in early today, Mr. Crockett,” I said to his retreating back. “I haven’t made the coffee yet.”
As he turned to enter his office he shot me a grumpy look. “So, what are you waiting for? Do it now.”
I was so used to Crockett’s brusque, disrespectful style, I didn’t bother to get upset. I just picked up the heavy Coffeemaster and lugged it into the ladies’ room to wash it and fill it with water. Luckily, there were no suspicious, dark-clothed characters lurking in the hallway.
When I returned to the office, sloshing coffeemaker balanced on one hip, Lenny was standing in the reception area just inside the door. He was carrying his art portfolio in one hand, his lunchbox in the other, and he was huffing and puffing like a long-distance runner on his last legs. I wasn’t surprised that Lenny was out of breath. When a thin, unathletic fellow is terrified of elevators and has to climb nine flights to get to work, a certain amount of huffing and puffing is to be expected.
“Hiya, Zimmerman,” I said, setting the Coffeemaster down on the service table and measuring out the Maxwell House. “How’s tricks?”
“Okay,” he said, still panting for air. “It’s not so . . . hot today, thank . . . God.”
“Yes, the good Lord’s smiling on us now,” I said. “But it’s the least he could do, wouldn’t you say? For the past five days he’s been laughing his almighty head off.” I plugged in the coffeemaker, walked over to my desk, and started arranging the morning newspapers in a tidy pile.
“Hey, speaking of days past,” Lenny said, his breathing returning to normal, “where did you disappear to yesterday? You left work in such a hurry, you didn’t even say good night.”
“I had to go meet somebody, and I couldn’t be late. I’m working on an important story assignment, don’t ya know.” I gave Lenny a conspiratorial wink, hoping that would mollify his curiosity. I didn’t feel like discussing the case or telling him what happened at the Actors Studio. And I didn’t even want to think about what took place at Sardi’s.
“Who did you meet?” Lenny persisted. “Did you learn anything new?”
“Nothing significant—unless you want to count the fact that Ben Gazzara makes Abby’s insides quiver.”
“Who? You mean the actor? What does Abby have to do with—”
“I’ll tell you later, Len. Right now I have to take Mr. Crockett the newspapers.” I scooped the early editions up in my arms and scurried off to deliver them. Then I exited Crockett’s office and scooted back over to the service table to fix him a cup of coffee.
Lenny was still standing in the front of the workroom, anxiously tapping his metal lunchbox against his thigh. “What’s going on, Paige?” he demanded. “Why are your eyes so red and puffy? Something happened last night, and I want to know what it was.”
“Sorry, Len. Gotta take the boss his java,” I said, scurrying away again. While I was in Crockett’s office, setting his cup down on his desk, the front door entry bell rang. Glad for the timely interruption, and quickly assuming my required receptionist role, I went out into the workroom to see who had come in. It was Mike and Mario, of course (somehow they always managed to arrive together), and it was probably the first time in my entire Daring Detective career that I was pleased to see them.
Surely they would keep me from thinking about Dan.
“Goooood morning, Paige Turner,” Mario intoned, big lips curving in a devious smile. “You look very enticing today . . . Isn’t that right, Mike?” he asked, giving his partner in crime an exacting look. “Doesn’t she look fetching?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” Mike said, not sure how Mario wanted him to respond. He removed his hat and jacket and hung them on the rack. “Very enticing,” he echoed, just to be on the safe side.
“You can say that again!” Mario went on, hanging up his hat and jacket and walking down the aisle toward his desk, and—since I was standing near his desk—toward me. “You know what I think?” he said, talking to Mike but staring straight at me. “I think she looks like a hot new mystery novel—so juicy and sensational, you want to set her down on your lap, open her up, and turn all her pages.”
Mike started laughing, and then Mario joined in. Pretty soon, they were howling like two harebrained hyenas.
“Hey, shut the hell up out there!” Mr. Crockett yelled from his office, never looking up from the newspaper. (From where I was standing I could see that his nose was buried in the Herald Tribune.) “Pipe down and get to work!”
Mario sat down at his desk and then Mike made his way to his own. Then Lenny walked back to the rear of the workroom, stashed his portfolio and lunchbox on the floor right next to his desk, and—giving me a stern you-better-tell-me-what-the-hell-is-going-on-soon squint—sat down in his wooden swivel chair and turned toward his drawing board.
Aisle finally clear, I walked back to my desk in the front of the room and sat down with my back to the boys. Then I took a deep breath, picked up my pencil, and—doing my doggone damnedest to read and edit Mike’s latest story—started thinking about Dan again.
Chapter 33
MY OFFICE DICTIONARY DEFINED OBSESSION as “the domination of one’s thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, or desire.” I already knew the meaning of the word, of course, but I looked it up anyway. My obsession with Dan ha
d reached the sickening stage, and I wanted to see if the dictionary would offer a useful antidote or cure.
No way, Doris Day. All Random House presented was the list of symptoms, which—big surprise!—described my state of mind to a T. Especially the persistent image part. No matter what I tried to focus on that morning—the galleys I had to proofread, the stories I had to edit, the newspapers I had to clip—all I could see was the clinch and the kiss (i.e., the locked-together limbs and lips of my daring detective and his ravishing redhead).
I was going out of my mind.
I really couldn’t stand it anymore.
So when Brandon Pomeroy arrived at the office (early again, if you can believe that!), I was elated. (Okay, not really elated, but more like . . . well, happy for the change of scene.)
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