Some Like It Hot-Buttered Page 5

  I’d bought the Rialto slightly less than a year ago, and for six months after the transaction closed, I had prevailed upon friends, called in every marker I’d ever issued, downright blackmailed a few people, and when absolutely necessary, paid others to help renovate the place. I’d been intelligent enough to have a structural engineer come through before the closing, and while there were a few questions here or there (chiefly in the balcony), I was assured in writing that the place wasn’t likely to slide off its foundation anytime soon, and probably wouldn’t need much beyond the kind of cosmetic work you might expect in a seventy-year-old structure that hadn’t undergone much maintenance in the past decade.

  There had been beams in the ceiling that needed replacing; cracked (and, in some cases, missing) plaster facades; floors that needed to be sanded, filled, and refinished; seats that flat-out needed to be replaced; and the entire lobby (except the snack bar), from carpet to art deco ceiling, had needed to be completely redone, thanks to Hurricane Floyd’s trip through the area in 1999.

  My father, freshly retired practically at the moment I bought the theatre, was always there supervising, since the union workmen wouldn’t let him up on the scaffolds to do the work himself. He had spent forty years with painters, wallpaperers, carpenters, and contractors, and he had spent the same forty years owning a home that practically had to be rebuilt on the day he purchased it. My mother had complained about his constant work on the house when I was a boy, but never missed an opportunity to point out his handiwork to visitors. It was never fancy, but it showed craftsmanship and imagination. I was sure the family living there now appreciated his efforts.

  Maybe that was part of what had attracted me to the Rialto. Today’s theatres look like large college dormitory rooms: they’re square, functional, and impersonal. It’s a good thing they have a screen and seats, or you’d think you’d entered the largest police interrogation room in the world.

  The Rialto was built during a more creative age. Movies were being made by people who wanted to make movies, and were happy with the money that came in. Today, movies are made by people who want to make money, and are happy with the movies they make to achieve that end. There’s a difference, and it shows in the theatres as well.

  The over-the-top architecture evident in the Rialto wasn’t terribly unique in its day, but in today’s world, it is nothing short of astonishing. Plaster moldings and appointments around the auditorium (a uniplex) were only part of the deal. Lighting was discreet but impeccably placed to highlight the impressive features of the room, and there was a real, huge chandelier (which I’d had to have reinforced, as we were not planning on a nightly showing of The Phantom of the Opera), and a cupola that held it, as well as paintings on the ceiling reminiscent of the frescoes of Rome, only less religious. Cleaning the paintings themselves had taken two whole weeks. You can’t just go up there with a huge bottle of Windex and expect that kind of thing to survive intact. I know that now.

  I unlocked the utility closet and started removing the painting supplies: ladders, drop cloths, brushes, rollers, buckets, and so on. My father pitched in with the smaller items, since I gave him a stern look that said “Remember your heart” whenever he reached for a ladder or a five-gallon bucket of paint. I’d have stopped him from reaching for anything at all, but whenever I did, he gave me a look that said “Remember your head, because I’ll hit it with a hammer if you treat me like an old man.” Every relationship has its give-and-take.

  Setting up the ten-foot ladder under a green exit sign over a side door, I assessed the room. Besides the painting, which would take weeks, if not months, to complete, there was still the matter of a new sound system (what was state-of-the-art in 1954 sounded very much like two tin cans and a string today); various patches in various walls; many, many new seats; and about six miles of new carpeting, of which we currently had none.

  My father studied my face closely. “Stop looking at the negative,” he said. “Think about how much you’ve already done. Think about what it looked like when you bought the place.”

  “How can you tell what I’m thinking?”

  “What are we, strangers? I lived with you for more than twenty years; you pick stuff up.” He kneeled to stir a large bucket of paint. “But something else is bothering you. You want to tell me about it?”

  “Not really.”

  He gave me another look, and I told him the whole story. He knew about Vincent Ansella’s unfortunate (and apparently premeditated) demise from yesterday’s newspaper, and was upset I hadn’t told him myself. Now I explained about the discovery of myriad copies of a Rob Schneider movie, months before they would become $9.99 specials in the cutout rack. My father listened with careful attention, but still managed to get the paint ready, as well as a three-inch brush for my use at the top of the ladder.

  I climbed up, a roller tray full of paint balanced in my left hand, my right tightly gripping the ladder. I’m not crazy about heights, even low ones, and since this ladder was not new, it wasn’t at the top of my confidence chart.

  “So, what do you think I should do?” I asked Dad as I reached the top of the ladder and the end of the story simultaneously.

  “Do? Why do you have to do anything? Aren’t the cops working on this?”

  I nodded, not looking at him, but at the small gargoyle over the exit door, which was the target of my paintbrush today. “Sure, but once Anthony went MIA, they probably decided that he’s guilty, so even if he shows up today, they’re not going to look at anybody else. And with the discovery of the pirated copies coming so close to a murder in the theatre, they’re going to look for a connection as hard as they can, and find one whether it’s there or not.”

  My father got to work on some baseboards. Dad is a meticulous man, and he spread newspaper on the floor where he’d be working, despite the fact that he has never spilled a drop in my presence for as long as I can remember. “So you believe this boy isn’t involved, is that it?”

  “It’s not in his character. He doesn’t care enough about money, and if he did, he’d find another way to make it. Anthony isn’t the type.”

  “So why do you think the cops won’t figure that out?”

  “Because they’re cops, and they’re going to look for the simplest answer. I don’t blame them; they don’t know Anthony, and all the circumstantial evidence seems to point to him. What throws me is his running away; it’s not what I would have expected.” I had to reach over a bit to get the gargoyle’s nose, and I stopped talking. I have to concentrate when I’m leaning off a ladder.

  My father took this as an indication that he should talk. He doesn’t know me that well. “You’ve known this kid what, five months? And already you think you can guess what he’ll do in any situation? Talk to his parents; I’ll bet they have something to say about it that you won’t see coming.”

  I leaned back and caught my breath, the gargoyle’s nose now a lovely clean shade of white. “So you think I should ask questions? Get involved?”

  “I didn’t say that. But knowing you, and knowing the way you feel about this poor man dying in your theatre, you’re going to get involved, so you might as well do it right.” Dad wields a paintbrush like Carlos Santana plays a guitar: there is no wasted movement, and a finger is never put in the wrong place.

  “The cops will be pissed,” I said.

  “Don’t underestimate the cops,” he admonished. “And don’t let your mother hear you talk like that.”

  “Oh, for pete’s sake, Dad.”

  “The cops will figure it out, Elliot,” he said slowly, concentrating on the impeccably straight line he was painting. “Anything you do will be strictly to make yourself feel better. Hey.” Dad stood up, holding something between two fingers. “What’s this?”

  “What’s what?” I started down the ladder, happy for the excuse.

  “It’s evidence,” said a voice behind us. Sergeant O’Donnell was standing halfway up the aisle. “That looks very much like a drug vial, Mr
. Freed.” Swell. Maybe the next time O’Donnell showed up, I could arrange to be holding a bloodstained carving knife.

  My father stared at the small glass tube in his hand. “Really!” he said. “How did you know my name?”

  O’Donnell walked toward Dad. “I didn’t,” O’Donnell said. “I was talking to him.” He pointed at me.

  “My son,” said Dad. He finds the oddest times to exhibit fatherly pride.

  “Please hand me the vial without touching it any more than you already have,” said O’Donnell, holding out his hand, which was now gloved. “I don’t want to lose any prints it might have on it.”

  I walked to Dad’s side. “What do you think this has to do with anything, O’Donnell?” I asked.

  “Sergeant . . .” O’Donnell began, and then gave it up. “I don’t know anything yet,” he answered after a moment, taking the vial and putting it in a plastic bag. “It depends on what that white powder inside might be. If it’s your average recreational drug, I’d just assume someone in your audience felt the movie needed a little help.”

  “Come on. Rob Schneider needing help from drugs? That’s crazy talk.”

  He didn’t even smile. “But if it’s whatever was found on Vincent Ansella’s popcorn, that would be another story,” O’Donnell continued. “I’m hoping that your father’s prints aren’t the only ones on the vial.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Dad said.

  “Nobody thinks you did, Mr. Freed.” O’Donnell looked at me as a couple of uniformed cops entered through the auditorium doors. “You’ll stay closed until we know more,” he said. “This place continues to be a crime scene.”

  “Swell,” I answered. “We’ll put that in the ads.”

  7

  The cops threw Dad and me out on the street with a comment about “contaminating the crime scene,” so we had a quick lunch then parted ways. I was covered with speckles of paint, and Dad looked like he could be teeing off at Augusta. Some guys have it, and then there’s the rest of us.

  I rode home and took a shower. Small white dots fell off me, giving the strange impression that I had a weird skin rash I could wash off, but I felt better when I was done.

  O’Donnell had actually ordered me not to return to my own place of business without asking his permission first, which was both insulting and understandable. But what he expected to find there was a mystery. Another one I could add to my list.

  This left me with remarkably little to do. I had eaten already. Most people I knew were at work. The two young people I worked with on a daily basis were either at school or missing and presumed guilty. My wife was married to someone else. Daytime television can be hazardous to your mental health and, worse, didn’t include baseball this afternoon.

  I considered calling the Midland Heights Police Department, but I couldn’t think of a plausible reason to ask if Officer Levant was on shift right now. She wasn’t listed in the New Brunswick area phone book, which meant nothing. But calling the cops as a dating technique was a little too blatant a tactic for a guy just sticking a toe back in the pool after a divorce.

  So I turned on the computer, scoured through my address book, and came up with the number for Margaret Vidal, which I dialed carefully, on the assumption that she would know if I misdialed her number the first time. She’s a stickler for accuracy.

  “Homicide. Sergeant Vidal.”

  “Ah, Meg, you charmer,” I said. “The very sound of your voice is enough to thrill me down to my socks.”

  That voice added a growl now. “Is this my ex-husband?”

  “Not yet. Meg, it’s Elliot Freed.”

  I could hear the relief spread through the phone. “Jesus, Elliot! Stop sounding like my ex-husband. You practically gave me an embolism. What’s up? Working on a new book?”

  Meg had been my most reliable source of cop info when I was writing Woman at Risk. The first female detective on the Camden, New Jersey, police force, she let me follow her through a homicide investigation that I’d rather not describe, as it interferes with my digestion when I think about it. She’d answered every question, and had only gotten testy when I did something unbearably stupid—which was about once an hour—and we eventually achieved the kind of closeness that two people who know they’re going to drift apart in a very short time can have. We held nothing back.

  I’d seen her divorce coming, and if she’d seen mine, Meg had been kind enough not to point it out. If she hadn’t been six years older than me and endowed with good taste (and if we hadn’t both been married to other people), we might have been an item, but we weren’t, and never considered it. That gives a man and a woman a real freedom to be themselves.

  “If I ever tell you I’m writing another novel, Meg, you have my permission—no, my sincere request—to come and blow my brains out with your service revolver.”

  “I’d never do that, Elliot,” she said warmly. “They’d catch me.”

  “You could plant another gun in my hand, make it self-defense, ” I suggested.

  “It’s sweet how you’re always looking out for me,” Meg answered. “So, you’ve called me for the first time in two years, and we’ve bantered. What do you want?”

  I gave her a very quick rundown on my activities, my ownership of Comedy Tonight, and Vincent Ansella’s untimely departure from this earth. “So here’s what I want to know, Meg: how do you investigate a homicide?”

  I could hear her brow furrow. “Okay. Get a pencil and paper, and write this down, because it’s complicated.”

  What could I do but comply? “Okay. I’m all set, Meg. What do I do?”

  “Let. The. Cops. Handle. It.”

  I’d actually written down Let the before I stopped. “That doesn’t help me.”

  “Yes, it does. Professionals will find the answers. You won’t. Don’t get in their way. Do you trust the detective on the case?”

  I thought about Dutton, then O’Donnell. “One seems good, but he’s an administrator, the local police chief. The county guy might know what he’s doing, but I can’t tell. He irritates me.”

  “He irritates you?” Meg is a riot when she wants to be.

  “Imagine such a thing,” I said.

  “Elliot, I’m not kidding. You’re not the guy for this. You’re intuitive, and you have a good eye for what’s wrong at a crime scene; I know that. But you’re not as smart as you think you are, and you have no practice. You can get yourself in trouble.”

  “They’ve already closed my business. How much bigger can the trouble get?” I asked.

  “Suppose you find something out—by accident,” she said. “You could piss off somebody who knows where you work and has access to poison. Is that worse than your movie theatre getting closed for a couple of days?”

  “I dunno. We were showing Young Frankenstein. It’s practically a crime against humanity to shut that down.”

  Meg sighed, which is not an uncommon sound when I’m talking to women. I consider it a plus, so long as the sigh doesn’t become a groan. “What does Sharon say?” she asked.

  “We, um . . . that is, Sharon and I . . .”

  Her voice got very quiet and low. “I’m so sorry, Elliot,” Meg said.

  We caught up for a while longer, she admonished me a time or two more, and I hung up, promising to call sometime when I didn’t have police questions. We both knew I was lying, but it was a sincere lie, if such a thing were possible.

  I knew Meg was right: I shouldn’t investigate Ansella’s murder. But maybe investigating film piracy was exactly the job for a theatre owner. Sure: I had a background in movies. I’d have knowledge and abilities that those trained in crime detection wouldn’t have. I’d be invaluable to . . .

  Nah. That argument didn’t even sound convincing to me.

  This left me with few options for the rest of my day, so I read the newspaper.

  I won’t comment on the national headlines, as some people think that I’m a . . . what’s the term? Oh yes, a throwback/liberal/bleeding-heart/ta
x-and-spend/pansy/ unpatriotic/left-wing fanatic. Which is ridiculous. I’ve never taxed anyone in my life, unless you count my ex-wife’s patience.

  Locally, Midland Heights mayor Sam Olszowy was resigning his office to “spend more time with his family,” which meant that the Middlesex County prosecutor was about to indict him for tax fraud. A special election was being quickly organized, but candidates hadn’t been selected yet. In Midland Heights, whoever wins the Democratic primary will win the election, but in this case, there wasn’t going to be a primary. Therefore, whichever candidate the Democratic Party decided to nominate would take the prize—which was by my count a part-time job whose only benefit was a parking space with your name on it in the municipal parking lot, where no one ever parks unless they’re interested in being mayor. It’s cyclical.

  The entertainment section boasted a number of ads for new movies, and my tiny one for “Comedy Tonight: The Only All-Comedy Movie Theatre in New Jersey!” (I could have also listed it as the only all-comedy movie theatre in the Western Hemisphere, or on Earth. I’m only limiting myself because I have no idea if there are any all-comedy movie theatres on Jupiter.) Of course, I couldn’t pull the ads in time to make a difference, and the two dozen people who were planning on attending tonight would become disappointed ex-almost-customers. Even my only “regular, ” a guy named Leo who showed up every night no matter what was playing, would probably desert me out of a sense of abandonment. My business plan was not exactly being executed with colossal skill. As if I had a business plan.

  In the sports section, a good number of teams had beaten other teams in games. I didn’t especially care which, but it’s always fun to watch some baseball when you can. It’s the only sport that can’t exist without elegance.

  That left the obituary page, and I found myself reading it, something I very rarely do. I told myself it was out of boredom, but the item at the bottom left-hand side of the page was the real reason I was scanning the newspaper at all.