It Happened One Knife (16 page)

Sharon’s face brightened; she liked playing this game. “Well, I’m a family practitioner. That way, I get to treat everyone from kids to grandparents, and I find that really rewarding.”

“That’s really interesting,” I said, voice dripping false fascination. “Do you treat pets as well?”

Her eyes fell to half-mast. “You don’t play this as well as you used to,” she said.

I put on my most innocent expression. “Used to? I thought we’d never met before.”

“Let’s go back to talking about how Les Townes is trying to kill you. It was more fun.”

I had a devastating quip to use as a retort—no really, I did—but my cell phone, in my inside jacket pocket, began to vibrate. “Uh-oh,” I said, reaching for it. “This could be Sophie. I knew I shouldn’t have left them . . .”

But the number was one I didn’t recognize, although the area code indicated it was from North Jersey. I looked at Sharon, and she nodded: go ahead. I pushed the talk button and said, “Hello?”

Harry Lillis’s voice came through my cell phone, which only week ago would have been enough to leave me speechless for an hour. Now, it was just a little scary. “I took your advice,” he said.

“Harry?” Sharon looked surprised when I said the name, and we made eye contact. “What advice?”

“About doing the show here at the Home,” he answered. “I decided to be in the one they’re having next week. Les is coming up to rehearse tomorrow.”

What did he just say? “Les?” I asked. Sharon looked even more concerned.

“Sure,” Lillis answered. “We’re a team. I invited him to come up and start working on something for the show. I imagine we’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next week. And it’s all because of you, Elliot.”

Well, I was speechless again, but for a different reason.

“I’M
afraid I haven’t shown you a very good time,” I said.

We were standing on the stoop in front of my town house, in front of the door painted (according to the bylaws of the condo association) so green it actually can bring on nausea (I’m not the owner; I rent). Sharon wasn’t standing close enough, but there would be time for that on future evenings.

“Don’t be so tough on yourself,” she said. “We had a nice dinner and we talked like adults. That’s not a bad evening for those of us on the dating scene.”

I smiled; she could still do that to me. “I spent the whole night worrying about Harry Lillis,” I reminded her. “You must have thought I was insane.”

“No more than usual. Look. You tried to explain to him that you thought it was a bad idea to reunite the team, and he didn’t want to hear it.” (That was true; I’d spent at least ten minutes trying to dissuade Lillis, who was unimpressed. ) “And just because Les Townes is a little miffed at you doesn’t mean he’ll take it out on Harry.”

“A little
miffed
? He told his son to shoot me and tried to blow me up.”

“No one tried to blow you up,” she said, voice loaded with eye rolling. “The note pointed out that if they wanted to, they
could
blow you up. That’s different. And besides, you don’t even know for sure that it was Townes.”

“Yeah, what was I worried about?”

Sharon shivered beguilingly. “It’s getting chilly.”

“Do you want to come in?” I asked, with almost no ulterior motives.

She gave me a knowing look. “Not tonight. I’m going home.” But she leaned over and kissed me very nicely, which took some of the sting out of rejection.

“Now
that
I remember,” I said when we were finished.

“You would.”

“No fair. You can’t take it back,” I told her. “That was a really good first-date kiss, and it was your idea.”

“And if you ask me on a second date, we’ll see where it goes from there.” Sharon turned and started for her car.

“I’m asking,” I said.

She turned back and smiled. I can still do that to her.

20

Never Give a Sucker an Even Break
(1941) and
Box
Office Bozo
(this week)

SOPHIE,
having recently arrived in her (beautifully) restored Prius, was busy at work organizing candy into configurations that would best dramatize the struggle of women through the centuries, which I believe meant moving the Junior Mints to the bottom shelf and the Mary Janes to the top. There is no gesture too subtle for the true believer.

She’d given up parting her long hair down the middle and letting in hang down in Goth disinterest, and instead had cut it to her jawline, adding bangs to her style. She looked like Ringo Starr in 1964, but with a smaller nose.

Having just gotten in myself, I had little to do that was urgent; we wouldn’t be opening for two hours. So I ambled over to the snack bar, friendly employer approaching trusted employee, and leaned on the glass case. Sophie gave me a dirty look, and I realized I had smudged the top, and she’d have to clean it again. I straightened abruptly.

“How’s the car?” I asked her.

“Fine.” She couldn’t be grateful for my having it repaired, because that would indicate a state of indebtedness to a man. I had noticed this didn’t stop her from cashing her paychecks, but I wasn’t going to be petty about it.

“May I ask you a question?” I said.

“That
is
a question.” I moved out of the way so Sophie could Windex the mark I’d left on the counter. She would have Windexed me if I hadn’t.

“That’s true.” No sense getting her more annoyed. “Is it all right if I ask you another question?” Then I quickly added, “After that one, of course.”

Sophie didn’t look at me. “Yeah.”

“Forgive me if this is too unenlightened, but when I saw you right after we had the damage to the theatre, you were acting very differently than when you came back to work a couple of weeks ago.” I thought that was pretty diplomatic.

“That’s not a question.”

So
don’t
nominate me for the Nobel Peace Prize. “Well, did something happen during the time away that . . . Are you acting differently than you used to?” I asked. I refrained from pointing out that this
was
, in fact, a question. No need to pat oneself on the back, you know.

“No.”

“Don’t elaborate, Sophie, you wouldn’t want to give away too much.” I started to walk away.

She called after me. “Elliot?”

I turned to face her again. “Sophie?” I said. Hey, I can do petty as well as the next fella.

“We’re low on Buncha Crunch.”

I told her I’d order more and went back to my office. Well, maybe I’d order more, and maybe I wouldn’t. We patriarchal types can be unpredictable. (Who was I kidding? Buncha Crunch was one of our better sellers when we had family films—parents bought it for their children, and then ate half the box. And wondered later why they couldn’t lose weight, as they “hadn’t eaten anything at the movies.”)

The phone was already ringing when I reached the office door, and Sergeant William Dunkowitz of the New York City Police Department (he said all that stuff—it probably killed him not to add his middle initial) was on the line.

“Mr. Freed, I wanted to call with a few more questions about the alleged incident at Mr. Townes’s home in Queens,” he said.

“
Alleged
incident? Should I get my doctor to send you some of the
alleged
shotgun pellets she took out of my butt?”

He didn’t react at all. “We questioned Mr. Townes and his son, and they were adamant in their explanations that the incident was a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding? Did I fail to understand that he was trying to shoot me when Wilson aimed a shotgun at me and pulled the trigger? What kind of misunderstanding are we talking about, Sergeant?”

“Mr. Townes, senior, said that was a joke that got out of hand,” Dunkowitz said. His tone indicated he was keeping a straight face while saying it, but I don’t have a video phone, so I can’t say for sure.

“Well, I’m a big fan of Mr. Townes, senior, but I’m not laughing,” I told him.

“I’m just letting you know what was said, Mr. Freed,” Dunkowitz said.

The guy was just doing his job. “What is it you’d like to know from me, Sergeant?” I asked.

“Your chief of police called me with information about a second incident, when someone sent you a package that might have been explosive?”

Now that I’d had a little time to get past the sound of the ticking, the “bomb” episode was just a little embarrassing. I must have reddened, but again, the lack of a video component saved any further humiliation. “It wasn’t explosive, Sergeant. It was a Goofy alarm clock with a note on it that indicated it could have been a bomb if the sender had desired it to be.”

“What was odd about the alarm clock?” Dunkowitz sounded perplexed.

I thought maybe he hadn’t understood me. “It had this note . . .” I began.

“I understand about the note. You said the alarm clock itself was ‘goofy.’ What did you mean by that?”

“I meant it had a picture of Goofy on it.” There was no response. “You know, the dog that hangs out with Mickey Mouse?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of Goofy, Mr. Freed.” There’s a sentence you don’t hear often. But I didn’t have time to savor the moment. “Now, your police chief seems to think that you believe the clock package to be related to the alleged incident in Queens. Can you tell me why you think that might be the case?”

I dunno; it seemed obvious to
me
. “I don’t get ticking packages all that often, Sergeant,” I said. “When I get one soon after being shot at, I tend to assume that the two incidents, alleged or not, have some relation to each other. Is that unreasonable?”

“It wouldn’t be a district attorney’s favorite piece of evidence, ” Dunkowitz suggested.

“The shoebox was for size 14EEE,” I offered. “What size does Wilson Townes wear? I don’t know anyone short of Yogi Bear who has feet that big.”

Dunkowitz let some air out. “My first question in suspected bombing interrogations is not usually, ‘What size shoes do you wear?’ I didn’t ask,” he said.

“Nonetheless. Did you ask the Towneses about the package?”

“I mentioned it.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “They said it was just a joke.”

“No. They denied any knowledge of it at all.”

Dunkowitz promised he’d keep in touch—for what that was worth—and I hung up the phone. It wasn’t three seconds later that Anthony walked in, followed by a determined-looking Vic Testalone.

This was turning out to be one of those days when it wasn’t fun to be a theatre owner.

Where Anthony had been somewhat surly in our past conversations about
Killin’ Time
and its whereabouts, this time he was more mournful than anything else. He was a parent whose child had been kidnapped, and he was now bargaining with the fiends who had perpetrated the crime, still stunned by the pure evil being exhibited.

He walked into the office with his head down, and Vic, behind him, watched in fascination.

Anthony raised his eyes just enough to look into mine, and asked in an injured voice, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

For a horrible moment, I thought Anthony had discovered the film in the storage compartment under the projector console. But then I realized what he was asking. Clearly, Vic had made some inquiries about Anthony’s state of mind, and his willingness to talk to the people at Monitor Films. He had, to coin a phrase, hung me out to dry. I looked at Vic with fire in my eyes.

“Glad to know I can trust you, Vic,” I said.

“You asked me for a couple of weeks. It’s been a couple of weeks. Where did I let you down?” Vic tried his best to look genuinely puzzled, but the smugness was bleeding through. There must be other distributors who stocked old comedies.

Anthony was still staring into my eyes. “Is that why you stole my film, Mr. Freed? To keep me from making a deal with a distributor and give me no choice but to stay in school?”

“I’m going to say this for the last time, Anthony, so listen carefully:
I did not steal your movie
. You can assume, you can accuse, and you can even try to get me arrested if you think you’re right, but I’m hurt and disappointed that you think so little of me. I didn’t take your movie. I don’t know who did take your movie. I wish I did. I would give it back to you.” That part was technically true, but I’d had to be very careful in my phrasing.

For the first time, Anthony appeared to be listening to me. His eyes widened at the idea that he’d done me wrong, and he started to stammer. “But . . . but . . . but . . .”

“But nothing,” Vic said. “It’s been a couple of weeks. You asked me for that time. Now I want the movie back, Elliot.”

“I thought we were friends, Vic.” It was a cliché, but the first thing that came to mind.

“We are,” he answered. “But this is business. You’re keeping me from a lot of money.”

Clearly, he and I had differing concepts of friendship.

“Anthony,” I said, “I want to talk to you. Come with me to the auditorium. Vic, don’t even think of following us.” And before either of them could protest, I took Anthony by the arm and led him out of the office. Vic blinked a couple of times, but did nothing else.

Anthony said nothing until we were behind the closed auditorium doors. “Mr. Testalone said you had talked to him about Monitor Films the night of the screening,” he said. “He said you didn’t want me to have the meeting. Why are you trying to stop me from starting my career?”

“You really have an inflated idea of my involvement in your life, Anthony,” I told him. “I’m just the guy you work for. I care about you, because you’re a nice guy, but I’m not your dad. It’s your father’s job to worry about your staying in school. You should talk to him; he makes sense.”

Anthony snorted. “Well, if you didn’t steal the film, I’ll bet he did. He just keeps telling me over and over that I don’t have any sense, and I’m chasing a ridiculous dream.”