Romance, p.7
Romance, page 7
“I hate cops getting shot.”
“Tell me about it,” Sharyn said, and nodded grimly. “Anyway, I didn’t think about it again, about you again, about your calling and being so persistent on the phone, until the cop was safely on his way to Buenavista, where he won’t scream in the middle of the night, thank God, and no one’ll come. I was going out to my car, figuring I’d drive back out to C.P., when all at once I thought again of you saying you were willing to drive out there after you’d put in eight hours, just to have a cup of coffee and talk. And I thought about the cop getting shot and bringing me into the city, and I said to myself Listen, who’s being the stupid one here, you or him?”
“Who was it?”
“Anyway, I was starving to death.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I hate to eat alone.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So I called you.”
“And here we are,” he said.
“Alone at last,” she said.
Alone with him in bed that night, she told him how frightened she’d been. How frightened she still was.
“No, no,” he said, “don’t worry.”
Soothing her. Stroking her thighs, kissing her nipples and breasts, kissing her lips.
“Everything happened so fast,” she said.
“No, no.”
“Someone’s bound to realize …”
“How could they?”
“People aren’t stupid, you know.”
“Yes, but how could … ?”
“Suppose someone saw us tonight?”
“But no one did.”
“You don’t know that for a fact.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No, but …”
“Neither did I. No one saw us. Don’t worry.”
Kissing her again. Gently. Her lips, her breasts. His hand under the gossamer gown, stroking her, touching her.
“Everything’s happening so fast,” she whispered.
“It’s supposed to.”
“They’ll ask …”
“Sure.”
“Me. You. They’ll ask.”
“And we’ll tell them. Everything but.“
“They’re not stupid.”
“We’re smarter.”
“They’ll realize.”
““No.”
“Hold me, Johnny, I’m so scared.”
“No, baby, no, Michelle, don’t worry.”
4
THE TWO BLUES SEARCHING THE ALLEY WERE COMPLAINING that nobody in this city would’ve gave flying fuck about a stabbing if the victim hadn’ta been a celebrity.
“Also,” one of them said, “the only perp tosses a weapon is the pros. They use a cold piece, they throw it down a sewer afterwards, we find it, we can shove it up our ass. A person ain’t a contract hitter, he don’t throw away no weapon. Even a knife costs money, what d’you think? A person’s gonna throw it away cause he just juked somebody with it? Don’t be ridiculous. There’s switchblades cost fifty, a hundred bucks, some of them. He’s gonna throw it away cause it’s got a little blood on it? Gimme a break, willya?”
“Who’s the vic, anyway,” the other one asked, “we’re searchin this fuckin alley in the rain?”
“The fuck knows,” the other one said. “I never heard of her.”
It was really raining quite hard again.
Both of the blues were wearing black ponchos, and rain covers on their hats, but their shoulders and heads were dripping wet, anyway, and the drilling rain made it difficult to see in the dark alley here at close to two o’clock in the morning, even though they were industriously fanning every inch of it with their torches. Although they hadn’t expressed it quite this way, they were right about fame in that a stabbing in this city—especially so soon after there’d been so many stabbings in Grover Park last Saturday—was a relatively insignificant occurrence that might have gone virtually unnoticed if the victim hadn’t been an actress who once upon a time had played the lead in a road show production of Annie. Instead, here they were in a fuckin dark alley looking for a knife that had given some unknown “star” a scratch on the shoulder.
Well, something more than a scratch maybe, but according to what each of them had seen separately on television before they’d come on tonight, Michelle Cassidy’s shoulder wound had been truly superficial. How bad could it have been if they’d released her from the hospital within several hours of her admission to the emergency room? So if this was just a scratch here, then it couldn’t possibly be the required “serious” physical injury for Attempted Murder or even Assault One. What they had here was an Assault Two, maybe, where there’d been just a plain physical injury by means of a deadly weapon or a dangerous instrument. Which is why they were looking for a knife in the rain, they guessed.
“A fuckin Class D felony,” one of the blues said.
“Seven years max,” the other one said.
“Get a sharp lawyer in there, he’ll bargain it down to Assault Three.”
“A Class A mis.”
“Is what we’re wastin our time on.”
“This country, anything happens to you,” the first blue said, “you automatically become a star and a hero. All these shmucks came back from the Gulf War, they were all of a sudden heroes. I can remember a time when a hero was a guy who charged a fuckin machine-gun nest with a hand grenade in each hand and a bayonet between his teeth. That was a hero! Now you’re a hero if you just went to the fuckin war.”
“Or if you get yourself stabbed,” the other one said. “It used to be if you defended yourself against the perp, and grabbed the knife away from him, and shoved it down his fuckin throat, then you were a hero. Now you’re a hero if you just get stabbed. The TV cameras come in on you, this is the person got stabbed on the subway tonight, folks, he’s a hero, look at him, he got himself stabbed, give him a great big hand.”
“A hero and a celebrity, don’t forget,” the first one said.
“Yeah, but this one here is really supposed to be a celebrity, though.”
“You ever hear of her?”
“No.”
“Neither did I. Michelle Cassidy? Who the fuck’s Michelle Cassidy?”
“She’s a Little Orphan Annie.”
“She’s bullshit is what she is. Anybody gets hurt in this country, he becomes a hero and a celebrity, they give him a fuckin ticker tape parade. You notice how everybody knows exactly how to be interviewed on television? There’s a tenement fire and the television cameras are there, and all at once this spic in her nightgown, she just got here from Colombia the night before, she’s standin in the street can hardly speak English, she’s giving an interview to the reporter, she sounds as if she’s the guest star on The Tonight Show. ‘Oh, si, it wass so terrible, my baby wass in huh creeb in dee odder room, I dinn know wah to do!’ An illegal from Colombia is all at once a fuckin celebrity givin interviews.”
“She’ll be doin hair commercials next week.”
“Commercials for fire extinguishers,” the first blue said, and both of them burst out laughing.
The rain kept pouring down, sobering them.
“You see any fuckin knife in this alley?” the first one asked.
“I see rain in this alley, is what I see.”
“Let’s try the sidewalk.”
“The gutter.”
“Maybe he threw it in the gutter.”
“Maybe he took it home and tucked it under his pillow, fifty-dollar switchblade knife.”
“What time you got?”
“Almost two.”
“Wanna call in a pee break?”
“Too early.”
“Ain’t you hungry?”
“I could go for a slice a’pizza.”
“So let’s give it a shot.”
“We only been on two hours.”
“More than two.”
“Two and a quarter.”
“In the fuckin rain, don’t forget.”
“Even so.”
“Lookin for a knife don’t exist.”
“He coulda tossed it in the gutter.”
“Knife we’ll never find.”
“Let’s check the gutter.”
Twenty minutes later, they were eating pizza in an all-night joint just off Mapes Avenue.
Seven hours after that, Carella and Kling were sitting in the squadroom going over the notes they’d taken at the theater last night. The rain had tapered a bit, but not enough to keep them from feeling that winter was still here. This was the seventh day of April. Spring had been here for two weeks and three days already, but it had been a rotten winter, and it was still a rotten winter as far as anyone in this city was concerned.
“The way it looks to me,” Kling said, “everybody had already left the theater when she came out into that alley.”
“Except the costume designer,” Carella said. “According to Kendall, she stayed behind for a fitting with the costume designer.”
“Woman named Gillian Peck,” Kling said, and yawned. “Stage manager gave me her address and phone number, too.”
“Late night?” Carella asked, and stifled the urge to yawn himself.
“I got home around three. We talked a lot.”
“You and Sharon?”
“Sharyn.”
“She finally agreed to let you come all the way out to C.P., huh?”
“No, she met me here in the city. Anyway, how’d you … ?”
“Small squadron.”
“Big ears.”
“I muri hanno orrecchi,“ Carella said.
“What’s that mean?”
“The walls have ears. My grandmother used to say that all the time. So who is she?”
“Your grandmother?”
“Yes, my grandmother.”
“Sharyn, you mean?”
“Sharon, I mean.”
“Sharyn.”
“Must be an echo in this place.”
“No, it’s Sharyn. With a ‘y.’ ”
“Ahh, Sharyn.“
“Sharyn, yes.”
“So, who is she?”
“A cop,” Kling said.
He guessed it was reasonable to call a one-star chief a cop.
“Anyone I know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Where’d you meet her?”
“On the job.”
Which was also true, more or less.
“If all of them had already left the theater,” he said, changing the subject, “any one of them could have been out in the alley stabbing her. So …”
“Are you changing the subject?” Carella asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“I just don’t want to talk about it yet,” Kling said.
“Okay,” Carella said, but he looked hurt. “Where do we start here?”
“Steve …”
“I know.”
“How long are we gonna beat this thing to death? She was out of the hospital a minute and a half after she checked in. She’ll be back at rehearsal today, the show will go on. I’ve got three backed-up murders and a dozen …”
“I know.”
“This isn’t that important, Steve.”
“You know it’s not important, and I know it’s not important, but does Commissioner Hartman know it’s not important?”
“What are you saying?”
“Pete called me at home this morning.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Said he’d just got off the phone with Hartman. The Commish and the Mayor both wanted to know what the Eight-Seven was doing about this big star who got stabbed right outside the theater. Said they understood she’d been up here previously to report …”
“Three hours previously!”
“But who’s counting? Said it didn’t look good that we knew about threatening phone calls and still allowed …”
“Allowed?”
“… the vic to get stabbed …”
“Oh yes, we allowed her to get stabbed.”
“Is what the Commish told Pete. Which Pete repeated to me on the phone this morning at seven-thirty. The media’s making a big deal out of this, Bert. Another feeding frenzy. Pete wants the knifer. Fast.”
A uniformed black doorman asked Carella who he was here to see, please, and Carella showed him his shield and gave him Morgenstern’s name. The doorman buzzed upstairs, announced Carella, and then told him he could go right up, it was Penthouse C, elevator just to the right there. A uniformed black maid opened the door for Carella and told him that Mr. Morgenstern was in the breakfast room, would he care to follow her, please? He followed her through a sumptuously decorated apartment with windows facing the park everywhere.
Marvin Morgenstern was sitting in a bay window streaming midmorning sunlight, wearing a blue silk robe with a blue silk collar and a blue silk sash. Silk pajamas of a paler blue hue showed below the hem of the robe and in the open V of its front. He was munching on a piece of toast as the maid led Carella into the room. “Hello,” he said, “nice to see you,” and then rose and wiped either butter or jelly from his hand, and offered it to Carella. They shook hands, and then Morgenstern said, “Sit down, sit down. Have some coffee. Some toast? Ellie, bring some hot toast and another cup. You want some orange juice? Ellie, bring him a glass of juice, too. Sit down. Please.”
Carella sat.
He’d had breakfast at eight this morning, and it was now a little past ten. Morgenstern hadn’t yet shaved, but he’d combed the sleep out of his hair, sweeping it back from his forehead without a part. He had shaggy black brows to match the hair, though the hair was so black it looked dyed. Maybe the brows were dyed, too. Narrow thin-lipped mouth, bright blue eyes, mouth and eyes seeming to join in secret amusement, though Carella could find nothing funny about assault.
“So do you know who did it yet?” Morgenstern asked.
“Do you?” Carella said.
“Who knows, the bedbugs in this city? What ideas do you have?”
“We’re still investigating,” Carella said vaguely.
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Yes.”
“You think I did it?” Morgenstern said, and burst out laughing.
“Did you?”
“I’m sixty-seven years old,” he said, his laughter subsiding. “I had a triple bypass three years ago, my knee from when I had the cartilage removed twenty years ago is finally beginning to tell me when it’s going to rain, and you think I stabbed my own star in an alley? Have a heart, willya? Ah, here’s Ellie,” he said. “Fresh coffee, too, terrific. Just set it down, Ellie. Thank you.”
The maid put down a tray bearing a teaspoon, a fork, a knife, a napkin, a glass of orange juice, an empty cup and saucer, a rack of toast, and a fresh pot of coffee. Carella guessed she was no older than twenty-three, a pretty woman with sloe eyes and a cafe au lait complexion. He guessed Haitian only because so many of the new black immigrants were Haitian. Without uttering a word, she left the room again.
Morgenstern poured coffee, passed the cream pitcher and the sugar bowl. Carella drank his orange juice, and then reached for a piece of toast. He buttered it and put strawberry jam on it, and then bit into it. The bread was fresh and the toast was crunchy and still warm. The coffee was good and strong, too. He made himself at home.
“So tell me about the theater business,” he said.
“You want to know if it was worth my while stabbing her, right?” Morgenstern said.
He still seemed secretly amused by all this.
“Something like that,” Carella said.
“Like what do I stand to gain now that my star has been stabbed and everybody in town knows the name of my play,” he said, and this time he smiled openly, never mind any secrets.
“And the date it’s going to open,” Carella said.
“Right, the sixteenth,” Morgenstern said. “A Thursday night. The day before Passover and Good Friday. That should bring us luck, don’t you think? A double whammy? So let me tell you just what I’ll earn if this play is a hit, okay? Which, I’ll admit, seems a good possibility. We’re getting the cover of Time next week, you know. It’ll be on the stands Monday.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. But this has become a continuing television drama, anyway. You can’t tune in a news broadcast without seeing and hearing some mention of Michelle Cassidy, Michelle Cassidy, Michelle Cassidy. Nothing television likes better, right? Beautiful girl with big tits gets stabbed, they eat it up. Wring their hands in public, but in private they’re licking their chops. I won’t be surprised if they make the story a miniseries. Not that I’m any different. In fact, if you want to do me a big favor, you’ll arrest somebody before we open. Keep the story going, you know?”
“You were about to tell me …”
“Right, my finances. What do I stand to gain? Why did I stab Michelle, right?”
“I didn’t say you’d stabbed her.”
“I know you didn’t. I’m just kidding. I didn’t say I stabbed her, either. Because I didn’t.”
“I’m relieved to hear that,” Carella said, and sipped at his coffee, and then buttered and jammed another piece of toast.
“Although my piece of the show would seem to justify it,” Morgenstern said.
“Justify what?”
“Murder.”
“Uh-huh. What exactly is your piece of the show?”
“Which is what you asked in the first place.”
“And which you still haven’t answered.”
“In a nutshell, I get two percent of the gross, fifty percent of the profits, and office expenses.”
“What’s the gross expected to be?”
“At capacity?”
“Yes.”
“If we move it downtown, you mean. Which is what we’d do with a hit. So let’s say we move it to a five-hundred-seat theater on the Stem. Your top ticket would go for fifty bucks on a straight play, which this is. As opposed to a musical. The top on a musical is sixty-five, seventy, it depends. So let’s say a top of fifty, an average of … listen I’ve got this all broken down, what’s the sense of doing it in my head?”
“Got what all broken down?”
“My business manager made an estimate for me. In case we move to the Stem.”
“I guess you’re anticipating that.”
“Well, now I am, yes.”
