Some Like It Hot-Buttered Read online

  “I usually do, when everyone who walks in walks out after the movie is over. I’m not used to the police knowing the Mel Brooks oeuvre so well. Officer, I really didn’t notice anything unusual about . . .”

  Patel, who had put on latex gloves and approached the body, was reading the driver’s license from the wallet he’d extracted from my deceased guest’s side pocket. “Mr. Vincent Ansella,” he said.

  “. . . about Mr. Ansella at all, until Anthony told me something was wrong.” I gestured toward Anthony, who was seated in row R, seat 2. He looked like, well, like he’d been in the same room with a dead body too long, and he was staring at Officer Levant in a way that made me notice how well she filled out her uniform. I’d never seen Anthony look like that at anyone before. I turned toward Levant again. “Any way we can get Mr. Ansella out of here now? I think my staff is getting a little spooked.”

  Levant shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Freed,” she said. “We’ll have to wait until the detectives have been through.”

  I sat down. Row U, seat 1. “There have to be detectives, even when it’s, um, natural causes?”

  Levant nodded. “Procedure. We’re never sure about anything until the autopsy, so then if anything looks suspicious, the detectives have seen the scene.”

  “They’ve seen the scene?” I smiled at Levant with the left side of my mouth. I’m told that’s my rakish grin. Okay, so I’m not really told that, but nobody’s ever specifically told me it isn’t rakish.

  “You’d prefer if I said they’ve surveyed the area of the myocardial infarction?” Levant responded.

  I didn’t have the time (or the wit, to be honest) to retort in an amusing manner, because the rear door opened wide, and a very large African-American man who looked like Colin Powell’s stunt double walked in, dressed in jeans and a denim shirt. Behind him, Sophie slipped through the half-opened door with another uniformed cop behind her. She looked even paler than usual, which, for Sophie, is saying a lot. There are polar bears with more pigment in their faces than Sophie.

  Levant noticed the plainclothes guy immediately, and her face lost its playful expression. “Chief,” she said.

  Okay, so he was the head of the Midland Heights Police Department. He walked up to me and put out his hand. “Barry Dutton,” he said.

  “No,” I told him. “Elliot Freed. But I get that a lot.”

  The chief smiled. He reminded me of someone, I thought someone from television, but I couldn’t remember who. “I’m Barry Dutton,” he said. “I’m the chief of police. Sorry for your trouble tonight.”

  “More his trouble than mine,” I said, indicating the guest of honor.

  Chief Dutton surveyed the scene: the man’s body was now slumped to one side in his seat, the popcorn box at a forty-five-degree angle in a hand that was only going to clamp more severely around it, his mouth wide open, his eyes the same, staring at a gigantic Teri Garr who wasn’t there. “Heart attack?” he asked Officer Levant.

  “EMT says it looks like,” she answered. “Mr. Freed here says nobody noticed anything unusual during the movie, except that the man wasn’t laughing.”

  “The first movie or the second?” Dutton asked.

  “We’re showing Count Bubba, Down-Home Vampire, so I try not to be in the auditorium during the second movie,” I said. “I noticed he wasn’t laughing at the first.”

  Dutton suddenly looked interested. “What movie?” he asked.

  “Young Frankenstein,” Levant told him.

  The younger EMT’s eyes narrowed, as if someone had told him something mentally taxing. “Isn’t that old?” he asked.

  “It was followed by the new Rob Schneider,” I explained. “If you come for the classic, you can stay for the new comedy for free.” The truth is, one ticket buys you admission to both films, since we show the classic first, but it sounds better if you say something’s free. People like that. In theory.

  “Now, Rob Schneider is funny,” the EMT said. “But why go to a theatre to see some old movie you can get on DVD?”

  Since there was a dead man in the room, I decided against explaining the communal experience of watching a comedy among others who might laugh. Levant stifled a grin.

  Dutton gave the EMT a look that said “Less Roger Ebert, more Dr. House,” then turned to me. “You noticed him not laughing during the first movie and you didn’t do anything?”

  I blinked. “He’s allowed to have bad taste.”

  “What about between movies? Anybody notice if he got up, talked to other people, moved?”

  “We run a series of trailers and reminders to go out to the snack bar during the break,” I told him. “We barely raise the lights between movies, so it’s possible nobody would have noticed.”

  “Why don’t you shut down in between shows?” Dutton didn’t seem suspicious so much as curious.

  “Frankly, we’re not always sure we’ll be able to get the projector started again after we turn it off,” I told him honestly. “We like to keep it going.”

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “No, but I didn’t even sell him the ticket.”

  “Who did?”

  I gestured toward Sophie, who looked like a Goth deer caught in Goth headlights. Her eyes were wider than I’d ever seen them, at least in the three months I’d known her, and she seemed awfully scared. I walked to her side. “Sophie sells the tickets,” I told Dutton, and then turned to her. “You didn’t know the man, did you, Sophie?”

  She shook her head a little and looked like she might cry. I had a sudden urge to adopt her, which might or might not have been met with her parents’ approval.

  “Don’t worry,” Dutton told her. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

  “Can we move away from . . . him?” Sophie asked in a tiny voice, pointing at the audience member least likely to return for another visit.

  “Of course,” Dutton said. We shuffled up the aisle toward the auditorium doors, and stopped about thirty feet from the EMTs and their patient. On the way, I saw Dutton take Officer Levant aside and say something to her quietly. Maybe he thought Sophie might be more comfortable talking to a woman, because Levant stepped between us and smiled gently at Sophie. “Did you notice if the man was alone or with somebody when he bought his ticket, Sophie? ” she asked.

  Sophie shook her head a little. “I don’t really remember, but I think he was alone,” she said.

  I gestured to Anthony, who had been avidly watching the EMTs put Mr. Ansella in a body bag, no doubt filing it away for use in a movie one day. Anthony’s a nice kid, but nothing has ever happened to him that he wouldn’t someday write into a script. He walked over to us with his hands in his pockets, staring at Officer Levant with an odd expression I took to be lust. She looked discouragingly at him, and I felt for the kid. Looking at the officer under different circumstances, I might have had the same expression. On Anthony, it was strangely touching in its hopelessness.

  “Anthony is the usher, and he keeps an eye on the house during the show,” I told Levant and Chief Dutton. “Was Mr. Ansella sitting with anyone, Anthony?”

  Anthony seemed to be considering the question, or maybe he was thinking about the incredible leap forward in special effects technology that The Lord of the Rings trilogy represented. All I know for sure is that he furrowed his brow. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I mean, I wasn’t paying special attention to the guy, but I think I remember a woman sitting next to him during the first movie, but not the second one. Blond, I think.”

  “Just sitting next to him, or with him?” Dutton asked.

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention to them, and it’s really dark in here during the movie. I see most of it from the projection booth,” Anthony told her.

  The taller EMT walked over to Dutton. “I think we’ve about done it, Chief. Can we take him out of here?”

  “How long’s he been dead?” Dutton asked.

  “I’m not the ME, but I’d say two or three hours.�
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  Dutton nodded, and said, “Take him. But tell the ME to take a look right away. I want to be able to tell Mr. Ansella’s next of kin what happened to him for sure.”

  The EMT popped a stick of gum into his mouth and walked away, giving Dutton a mock salute. I hoped it was sugary gum. Anyone who thinks Rob Schneider is funnier than Gene Wilder deserves tooth decay.

  Officer Patel walked over carrying a sealed plastic bag. “I’ve got his personal effects, Chief,” he said. “Wallet, cell phone, keys, a couple of ATM receipts. No prescriptions that would indicate a medical condition; nothing special.”

  Dutton nodded. “Bag some of the popcorn,” he told Patel. “It was the last thing he ate. Maybe got some stuck in his throat or something; the ME might want to see if it matches what he finds.” Patel took another plastic bag from his pocket and walked back to row S.

  Dutton looked at me, then at the area where Mr. Ansella had been seated. He turned to me and asked, “Do you sell cheddar popcorn?”

  It took me a moment to realize he was serious. “No,” I told him. “We pop our own. It’s butter or nothing.”

  Dutton took another look at the scene as the ambulance personnel prepared to roll Ansella’s body up the aisle. Sophie looked absolutely horrified, and Anthony, fascinated. With Dutton’s approval, I told them they could go home, that I’d close up. I don’t think it took an entire second before Sophie was out the door. She was only a few moments behind Mr. Ansella’s body.

  Patel gave row S one last examination, taking the rest of the popcorn box with him in another plastic bag as an afterthought.

  Dutton looked up at the balcony. “Was there anybody up there?” he asked.

  “No. The balcony is a little shaky, and I don’t keep it open. Besides, we didn’t have what you’d call an overflow crowd tonight,” I told him. Dutton took that in, and then stuck out his hand and smiled.

  “Sorry again for the trouble,” he said. “Good night, Mr. Freed.” He turned toward Levant. “Officer.” Patel walked up the aisle behind Dutton, checking at the door to make sure they hadn’t overlooked a Junior Mints box that might be evidence in Ansella’s heart attack. They hadn’t, so he exited, too.

  Levant watched as I got the broom from the lobby and swept up what was left of the popcorn.

  “This bothers you,” she said. “You put on a good show, but it bothers you.”

  “Of course it bothers me. I bought the theatre because I wanted people to have a good time. I wasn’t prepared for one of them to have his last time here. How many people have a heart attack while watching Cloris Leachman?”

  Levant raised her left eyebrow. “It’s not your fault the man died.”

  “I know, Officer Levant—”

  “It’s Leslie.”

  “I know it’s not my fault, Leslie. I’d just prefer the guy died of natural causes somewhere else.”

  She nodded, and turned to walk up the aisle. “I have to go file my report, Mr. Freed.”

  “Elliot. And thanks. Sorry we didn’t get to meet under less morbid circumstances.”

  “I’m sure we’ll meet again, Elliot,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was watching Chief Dutton,” she said, as if that explained things.

  I nodded, but I’m sure I looked puzzled.

  “He saw something,” Levant said. “I’m willing to bet you that was no heart attack tonight.”

  2

  I went up to the projection booth, rewound the films, and then finished cleaning up the theatre quickly; I admit, it was a little spooky being there by myself. I turned out the light on the marquee, which I should have done an hour before, and locked the front door when I left. I’d come in early tomorrow to clean up behind the snack bar.

  My bike was chained up to a strong water pipe in the alley next to the theatre. I carried the front wheel, which I keep in the office of the theatre, and attached it once I unlocked the bicycle. I checked my watch before I got on; it was twelve fifteen in the morning.

  I’m probably the only New Jerseyan left who doesn’t drive a car. It’s not that I don’t see the utility of it—I have a driver’s license, and make sure I keep it current—but I don’t own a car, and I don’t want one. They cost a lot of money, they break down often, they have to be parked on a regular basis, and they pollute what’s left of our air. Everybody talks about doing something to help the environment; I’m doing what I can. Mostly.

  There were few cars on Route 27 going south this time of night, but I stuck to the sidewalk on the Albany Street Bridge into New Brunswick. I guess a bike lane is too much to ask for in a state where people hop into their cars to go from one room to another. Besides, the bridge is too narrow as it is, so adding a space for bikes would make it impossible for people to drive the Hummers they so desperately need in case New Jersey is attacked by the Visigoths.

  It was cool but not cold out, and I was glad I had my Split Personality crew jacket on, although I don’t like to be reminded of the experience that went into making that movie. Not that I was actually involved. I sold the book to the producers, the producers hired the writers, the writers changed the characters, the plot, and the title, and then the producers put in a credit that the resulting abomination was “based on the novel Woman at Risk by Elliot Freed.” Which I suppose it was. It says so on IMDb. It also said so on the check, and I cashed it.

  I’d spent two years of my life writing that book, and before that, another two years researching it: talks with private investigators, police detectives, victim rights advocates, psychologists, and prosecutors. Hollywood turned it into what they like to call an “erotic thriller,” which meant that the main character was naked a good deal of the time for very little reason. I have nothing against naked women (damn it!), and as I said, I had—as my grandfather used to say—“no kicks coming.” I had indeed cashed the check.

  Once I had gone through the novel-to-film process one time, I was not anxious to do so again, and didn’t feel like I had another book in me, anyway. Despite the movie, sales of the first book hadn’t exactly set Oprah’s heart aflame, and publishers were resisting the temptation to break down my door with offers of a fat advance on the next one. Which was just as well, since I didn’t have a burning desire to sit myself down and start typing ten hours a day again.

  Also, the movie deal had provided me with something I’d never had before: money. Enough of it that I didn’t have to work very hard for quite some time. Enough that I could evaluate exactly what it was I wanted to do with the time I have remaining on this planet. And writing more novels that people didn’t want to read wasn’t it. Unfortunately, it was a lot easier to determine what I didn’t want than what I did.

  I’ve always loved the movies. Well, not including the Split Personality experience, but I was trying hard to block that out.

  Specifically, I’d always loved comedies. The Marx Brothers. Mel Brooks. Billy Wilder. Gene Wilder. Laurel and Hardy. Buster Keaton. Woody Allen, before he decided he was Ingmar Bergman. Did I happen to mention the Marx Brothers?

  But I couldn’t do anything for the movies. Not after seeing how the writers on Split Personality were treated. (I’d say they were treated like shit, but in Los Angeles, with all the colonics they’re into out there, they treat shit a lot better than screenwriters.) So that was out.

  Since I’d never had the dream of being a director or an actor, and I was as adept at technical skills as I was at seducing women, working in the film business from the creative side was beyond my reach. And the business side of virtually anything had never interested me. Add to this the fact that almost any job in the movie business would have required a move three thousand miles west, and it seemed smarter to take my Hollywood-based windfall, invest wisely (as soon as I hired someone to invest it for me), and live a life of modest means off those investments and whatever commercial writing work I could get. After all, my ex-wife was actually paying me alimony (that would teach her to go to medical school!), and I
had inherited my parents’ house in Midland Heights, mortgage free, when they moved to an “active adult community” in Manalapan. They’d saved enough to give me the house and still put a down payment on the condo they bought. You’d think this would teach me something about the value of savings. At least, you’d think that if you didn’t know me very well.

  But I had gotten restless in the four-bedroom, two-bath Victorian with the wraparound porch. If Sharon and I had stayed married and had children, it would have been a perfect place to live. But we hadn’t, and I didn’t even have a dog to use the fenced-in backyard. It seemed greedy to deprive some lovely family of their dream house, so I put the place on the market, insisted the broker sell it to people who had at least two children, and rented myself a town house on the Raritan River in New Brunswick.

  It seems that some ambitious real estate developers had noticed that New Brunswick, a city in decline in the 1970s and ’80s, was turning into a hub for theatre, restaurants, and health care. Figuring people would now want to live here, they built a good number of luxury condominiums right on the river to cater to the postgraduate crowd from Rutgers University, as well as the professors and support staff who work there. Unfortunately, the people who bought the condos, like the person from whom I was renting, soon discovered that New Brunswick school funding hadn’t improved much since the 1970s and ’80s, the city still had the same crime as any urban center, and whaddaya know, even with theatres, it wasn’t Broadway. So they moved out and rented to people like me, who didn’t care and liked the city just the way it was. Living in New Brunswick, an unattached single person like myself can walk to the train that goes into Manhattan, eat well without cooking, and admire a view of an extremely muddy and smelly river outside his window whenever the mood strikes.

  The money from the sale of the house and the book left me with quite a bank account (since my parents refused to take the half of the proceeds I offered), and renting meant the lack of a large mortgage payment every month. So I suppose it was only a matter of time before I inquired about the availability of the Rialto, the lone, long-abandoned movie theatre in Midland Heights.