The Man Who Cancelled Himself (43 page)

“I see,” I said, not believing one word of it. I wondered what she’d heard about Lyle’s future, and from whom. Possibly Fiona had heard it as well, and that was why she wanted to see me.

Amber turned back to Annabelle. “Call us.”

“Like, I will,” Annabelle promised.

Then she and The Munchkins departed.

Annabelle shut the door behind them, which made the tiny, airless office even tinier and more airless. “Just for a second, okay? I’m, like, it’s about your cop friend. The babe.”

“Very.”

“Fer shure,” she acknowledged, licking her lips. “But I’m, like, he’s in Lorenzo’s face, okay? About whatever got put in the chili, okay?”

“It was fluid essence of ipecac. Not available over the counter.”

“Lorenzo hasn’t worked in a pharmacy for years.”

“Then he has nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, he does,” she countered, tossing her lacquered big hair. “They wanna beam on his tax returns.”

“So?”

She lowered her eyes. “So there’s, like, something maybe a little nonkosher in them, okay? Like when he’s hard up, he shoots a little blah-blah-blah, okay?”

“Blah-blah-blah?”

“Porn. Hey, somebody’s got to do it, and they pay real money. Only it’s not a union deal, which means he gets paid under the table, and his union isn’t hip to it.”

“Is the IRS?”

“Of course,” she said defensively. “You think he’s some kind of crook?”

“I’m trying to figure out what to think.”

“I’m saying he could get thrown out of his union. That’s what I’m saying. You got to help him, Hoagy,” she pleaded, grabbing me by the lapels with her tiny fists. “He’s the one great love of my life. I’ll
die
if he gets in any kind of trouble. I won’t eat. Not a morsel of food will pass these lips. I’m a desperate woman, Hoagy. I’m, like, begging you. Please help him.”

I extricated myself from her grasp. Linen wrinkles so easily. “And what
doesn’t
the IRS know about?”

She reddened. “What makes you think there’s—?”

“I have to know, Annabelle. If you want me to help you.”

After a moment’s hesitation she caved in. “Okay, okay. So, like, maybe he’s done some other shit he hasn’t reported. Chump change, strictly to make ends meet. I’m talking eating here.”

“Such as what, dealing drugs?”

She gasped in horror. “No, never. I swear. No drugs. Not ever. Strictly legal stuff. But the IRS could wax him over it. The penalties alone would—”

“What does he do?”

“He drives a cab.”

“Ouch. That was not a good answer.”

“I’m, like, it’s the truth.”

“I’m, like, it’s still not a good answer.”

“Will you help him, Hoagy?”

There was a knock at my door, somewhat timid. She reached over and opened it. It was Bobby. He was unshaven, and he looked like he’d slept in his clothes—on the floor of Penn Station. He also seemed greatly agitated. He was blinking furiously and trembling. He clutched a script, his knuckles white. “You g-got a minute, Hoagy?”

“He’s all yours,” Annabelle answered. “Just remember, Hoagy. This woman’s heart is in your hands. Not that I’m trying to pressure you.”

“No, of course not.”

She scurried off. Bobby closed the door behind her. It was a morning for closed doors.

“What’s on your mind, Bobby?”

He smiled at me, or tried. It came out more like a grimace. “How are y-you enjoying the sitcom business?”

“It’s not dull.”

“Still, you m-must be anxious to get back to your novel.”

“I’d be a lot more anxious if I had the slightest idea what it was.”

“Yeah, b-but at least you’ll be doing what you want. A free man.”

“You just keep right on believing that, Bobby. What was it you wanted?”

“It’s this c-cop,” he sputtered. “This V-Very guy. He’s been checking up on me. As if I’d every t-try to hurt anybody. It’s absolutely n-nuts. It’s insane. It’s—”

“It’s thoroughly justified under the circumstances, Bobby. You told everyone you were in Boston seeing your shrink the morning of the bombing. You weren’t. In fact, you haven’t seen him on Tuesdays for quite some time.”

He ducked his head. “I-I know,” he admitted. “But I had n-nothing to do with bombing the set. Or killing Chad, or any of it. You have to b-believe me.”

“Why should I?” I said roughly. “You’ve been lying to everyone about your whereabouts. Plus I have no idea what you
were
doing.”

He tossed the manuscript onto my desk. “This.”

I glanced down at it. It was
The Human Dramedy,
a play in two acts, by Robert Jay Ackerman.

“My n-newest,” he explained. “I’ve been writing it l-longhand on the plane, flying back and forth every weekend. T-Tuesday mornings, I type it up in my apartment. Okay, s-so I lied to people. But it was the only way I could set aside a little work time for myself. T-To preserve my sanity.” He swallowed. “It’s p-partly based on this show—it’s
The Front Page,
except about a p-prime time sitcom, and with a tragic side. Amber’s b-been giving me notes all along. Go ahead and ask her. She’s read it.”

“I’d like to read it, too.”

“You can’t.” He snatched it back from me possessively. “Not yet. It’s not done. But this is what I was d-doing the morning of the bombing. I was home writing. You have to tell Very, Hoagy. He has to know—I’m n-no killer.”

“You are, however, extremely good with your hands.”

“So are lots of people.”

“Like who?”

“Lots of p-people,” he repeated vaguely.

There was another knock on the door.

Katrina. She was crying, eyes red, nose running. And her chest was heaving, which was cause for tremendous awe and wonderment. At least it was for Bobby. He stood there gaping at her zoomers as they thrust back and forth through the doorway at him in her scant little
bustier.
I thought the poor kid was going to swallow his tongue.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Hoagy,” she blubbered, barely noticing him. “But I just have to talk to you. Right away.”

“N-No problem,” Bobby assured her hastily. “No problem at all.” He slipped past her in the doorway, somehow, and fled down the hallway.

She lingered there, sniffling. “I’ve just been sitting in my office sobbing like a baby girl,” she squeaked. “I don’t know what to do.”

I gave her my linen handkerchief. I get them by the dozen. Then I ushered her in and closed the door behind her. There was barely enough room in there for the two of us, and the two of them. The smell of her lily of the valley perfume hung heavy in the air. Right away, it started to get a lot warmer.

“What’s wrong, Katrina?” I asked her, my cup abrim with concern and kindness.

“I have to know, Hoagy. I just have to.”

“Know what?”

“What went on in there after I left. Between Lyle and Naomi.”

“Nothing went on, Katrina.”

“Then why did he ask to see her?” she wondered plaintively. “Was he just trying to make me jealous or what?”

“Nothing went on, Katrina,” I said, a little less convincingly this time. A lot less convincingly.

“You’re lying to me!” she cried. “I know you are. I can tell. He’s dicking her behind my back, isn’t he?”

I gathered her hands in mine. They were hot to the touch. I looked deeply into her red-rimmed blue eyes, the left one gradually drifting from my gaze. “Look, the truth is I don’t want to get caught in the middle of this.”

“Why not?” She whispered it, breathlessly. Her eyes, or eye, searching my face.

“Because it’s not part of my job description, okay?”

No, it wasn’t okay. She needed to hear more. She edged closer to me, her hot hands squeezing mine tightly. I could feel her breath on my face, and her breasts pressing against my chest. Her mouth seemed to grow softer and heavier, her lips flowering. The cunning and sensual beast in action. “Are you sure that’s the only reason?” she asked, her cotton candy voice throaty and intimate.

“Of course. What other reason would there be?”

She gave me an up-from-under look. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

An invitation. This one even less subtle and more humid than the last one. If I wore glasses, they’d be steamed up. She was feeling threatened now. Seriously threatened. From all sides. She was vulnerable. She was eager. Or so she wanted me to believe:

Yet another knock on the door. Now who, Rusty? I let go of Katrina’s hands and opened it.

Marjorie.

She looked somewhat less poised and composed than usual. Ill at ease, in fact. And when she spotted Katrina there next to me wiping her eyes, she turned positively chilly. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were occupied.”

Katrina gave her an equally chilly look back. Then she squeaked, “Excuse me,” and brushed past Marjorie and out the door.

Marjorie watched her go, back arched, claws out.

“I thought you’d left with God.”

“Clearly,” she observed tartly.

“That was nothing. Just me doing what I do.”

“I’m not so sure I like what you do.”

“That’s only because you don’t know enough about it. When you’ve had a chance to examine it from all sides, up close, you’ll be positive you don’t like it.”

“I came back to sound out Lyle on his feelings about this morning’s meeting.” She turned stiff and networky on me. “Only he wouldn’t see me. He’s hiding in his office. Unless he’s gone. Has he gone? Do you know?”

“I don’t know.” I smiled at her. “How are the knees?”

That was the wrong thing to ask. All of the color drained from her face. She came in and shut the door firmly behind her. Then she faced me, wringing her hands. “Look, I’d rather people around here not …” She trailed off. Her eyes avoided mine. “I don’t want them to know about what happened last night. Between you and me.”

“Nothing happened. You went to bed, I went home. Remember?”

She stood there wringing her hands some more. Then she sat down in my chair. Then she noticed the lobsters there by her feet and jumped right back up again. She was very skittish. “Godfrey just said something very disturbing when he and Jeff were getting into their limousine.”

“Oh, what was that?”

“Jeff said, ‘I can’t believe we have to pay rent on this whole building when we have three perfectly good sound-stages sitting empty on the Panorama lot.’ And Godfrey replied, ‘Don’t worry, Jeff. You won’t have to for long.’ ”

“Meaning what?”

“One of two things,” she replied glumly. “He’s planning to either move
Uncle Chubby
to Los Angeles or cancel it outright.”

“I see,” I said, wondering if this was what Amber had heard on the rumor mill.

“Which is a lose-lose scenario for me,” she said fretfully. “And the fact that Godfrey hasn’t shared his plans with me can only mean one thing—I’m out of the loop. Perhaps because he feels I’ve been too closely associated with Lyle. I don’t know. I only know that I may be out of a job.”

“Is that why you’re so upset?”

“What makes you think I’m upset?” she demanded, her eyes stubbornly avoiding mine.

“It’s about last night, isn’t it?”

Reluctantly, she gave me the briefest of nods.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No,” she said curtly.

“Nothing happened, Marjorie,” I reminded her.

“You keep
saying
that!” she cried, erupting suddenly. “And you’re so full of shit!”

“You finally noticed, huh?”

“Sex
didn’t happen, but all of the feelings did. I didn’t sleep more than thirty minutes all night, Hoagy. I had to get up in the middle of the night and put in my bite guard, because I was clenching my jaw so tight. I’m angry, okay? I’m angry that you called me. I’m angry that you got me interested in you. I’m angry that it’s not ever going to happen between us. Maybe I’m just not very sophisticated about these things. I picked up the newspaper this morning and saw the picture of you and her together and
that
made me angry. Everything about you makes me so angry I could punch you!”

“How do you think I feel?”

“I actually don’t care!”

“I’m sorry, Marjorie.”

“I don’t want you to say you’re sorry.”

“What do you want?”

She leveled her large, liquid green eyes at me. I felt a jolt, this one all the way down to my toenails. “I want all of this to make some kind of sense,” she replied gravely.

“The things that matter most in life never make any kind of sense. Sorry to be the one to break it to you.”

She gazed at me. “Are you saying this matters to you?”

“I’m saying I didn’t sleep last night, either.”

She seemed surprised by this. “Really?”

“Really.”

She looked away. “I-I threw out my Harry Connick, Jr., tapes this morning.”

“You won’t regret it.”

“I don’t regret any of it. After all …” She gave me a quick, fleeting smile. “Nothing happened, remember?”

“Like it was yesterday.”

She kissed me once, lightly, on the mouth, and opened the door. “Thanks again, Hoagy.”

“For what?”

“For Bobby Short. And for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome, Marjorie.”

She hurried out the door before either of us could say anything more.

I stared at the empty corridor thinking it was probably just as well it wasn’t going to happen. She was too normal for me. I wasn’t accustomed to dealing with someone who expected life to make sense. Merilee … Merilee
would
have punched me. And then we’d have ended up on the floor together with the lobsters. Then sworn our undying love for each other. Then broken up for three months. Not this. This was weird.

I was starting down the corridor toward Fiona’s dressing room when Tommy intercepted me outside The Boys’ office. “Hoagmeister, just the man I wanted to see.”

Inside, Marty was dodging a reporter’s questions over the telephone. “I can’t speak to you on or off the record, John. You’ll have to go through official channels. Try two, or four, or seven …”

Tommy closed the door and stood there, shoulders hunched, blocking my path. “Chuckles have any news?”

“No news.”

“Then what did she want?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at me.

“None of your business.”

“You banging her?”

“What do you want, Tommy?” I said impatiently. “No, wait. Don’t tell me. I’ll tell you. It’s about my friend Very, who is not, by the way, my friend. He’s been asking about you at the Deuce Theater, where you are a regular customer, and been snooping around at your hotel. He’s even been talking to one Dolly Mae Bramble, whose clothing you enjoy wearing. And jerking off into.”