A Killing Fair (10 page)

“Problem solved,” I said. “You should be in great shape by April.”

“I'm in great shape right now.” She flexed both arms at shoulder level and the biceps looked strong enough to propel a truck, much less a wheelchair. “In fact, I might chuck this motorized job and get a self-propelled model for inside the house.”

“I'd keep the motor,” I said. “There must be days when you don't feel like Hercules.”

“Plenty of those,” she said. “But you two must have better things to do than sit here listening to my problems. You satisfied with the place next door?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “The landlord's a little sloppy with the maintenance—there's trash in the basement from the last renter—but with some fresh paint on the walls we can make it look like home.”

I heard Rosie suck in a lungful of air and I turned toward her to see her face getting red. I was about to tell her not to worry about the trash when Zhoumaya spoke.

“You think the landlord's maintenance is sloppy?”

“A little,” I said. “But we can live with that.”

“Well, good,” she said. “Then suppose you write me a check for the first and last month's rent and a damage deposit.”

“Write you a check?”

“Didn't Rosie tell you? I own this building. I'm your sloppy landlord.”

Now I sucked in a breath of air and felt the red blood rising in my face. “I'll write the check as soon as I pull my foot out of my mouth,” I said.

“You do that. And I'll make sure that the trash is gone by the time your check clears the bank.”

“It's no big deal.”

“Oh, but it is. It's not every day that I'm called sloppy.”

Martha came to my rescue with her checkbook in her hand. “How much do we owe you?”

“I should add a ten percent surcharge for the insult, but I'll let it go this time,” Zhoumaya said. She named a figure that exceeded our guess, and Martha sucked in a lungful of air and wrote the check. Zhoumaya Jones, the wheelchair marathon wannabe, was officially our landlord.

 

Chapter 12: The Play's the Thing

I
once read a newspaper review of a play that began: “Unfortu­nately, I had a very poor seat. It was facing the stage.” I had seen that play from an equally poor seat and agreed whole­heartedly with the critic.

Our seats at Parkside Players Theatre that Saturday night weren't quite that bad, but it was a performance I would rather have missed. In fact, if we hadn't promised to have drinks with the artistic director and his wife after the performance, our little group of four would not have returned to our semi-poor seats after the intermission.

I knew in advance that the script was stultifying because I had seen Waiting for Godot a few years before, and I would have stayed away but, what the hell, we had paid for season tickets. Plus there was always a chance that a talented, energetic cast would lift the production to a level of acceptable mediocrity. This was not to be. Apparently the dreariness of the script had infected both the actors and the director.

My eyes were glazed over and Al's eyes were closed, with his chin resting on his chest, before the first act ended. Luckily, he didn't snore. Martha and Carol at least pretended to be more attentive, sitting up straight and focusing on the inaction occurring a few feet in front of us.

None of us were looking forward to our after-theater date with Erik and Joyce Erickson. If Joyce was sitting somewhere behind us, she would probably be observing Al's state of lethargy. Erik surely would be looking for comments on the performance, so after the half-hearted bows had been taken to a quiescent audience and the stage lights had gone dark, we huddled together trying to think of something positive to say.

“The costumes were appropriate,” Carol said.

“The lighting wasn't bad,” Al said.

“The set was nice, what there was of it,” Martha said. It consisted of a railroad track laid on a bare stage leading to a sky cyclorama.

I thought about the static people who had played the logy characters. “The actors fit their roles,” I said. This could be interpreted in several ways, and I hoped that Erik would perceive it as complimentary.

We had broken our huddle and were trying to look casual in the center aisle of the empty theater when Erik Erickson appeared from backstage and hustled toward us. We exchanged greetings all around and Erik said his wife would meet us upstairs in the bar. “She saw the show when it opened last Thursday night and decided that once was enough,” he said. “She's been doing her own thing since then.” I thought this showed good sense on her part but I refrained from saying so.

“Wonder if he knows that her own thing includes a late dinner in a dark restaurant with a hot caller,” I whispered to Martha.

“Shush,” she said. “You know the answer to that.”

The theater was in the basement of a late nineteenth-century brick building, two floors below the restaurant. There was a single exit for the audience, and every time Erik made his curtain speech and pointed to that exit I wondered how he was getting around the city fire code that called for more than one.

When Erik finally joined us, he led us up the stairs to the restaurant. Joyce Erickson had procured a table for six, and again there were greetings all around. Joyce's welcoming smile flickered as I shook her hand, but no one else saw the brief change of expression. She was wearing a low-cut black dress that set off her red hair and revealed a generous spread of cleavage. I couldn't help observing that her breasts were freckled, and wondering if the tiny flecks of tan went all the way to the nipples. Pure journalistic curiosity, of course.

We sat down. A waitress wearing a skirt that barely covered her buns appeared and we ordered drinks. As we'd feared, Erik's first words after we three men had watched the waitress walk away were, “So, how did you folks like the show?”

There was a moment of quiet as all four of us waited for somebody else to go first. Carol came to the rescue just as the silence reached the point of awkwardness. “I do a lot of sewing, so I noticed the costumes. Very nicely done.”

“As a photographer, I always check out the lighting,” Al said. “It fit the scene very nicely.”

“I thought the set went with the script very nicely,” Martha said.

“The actors fit their roles very, um, nicely,” I said.

Erik smiled. “What you're really saying is that the show sucked.”

“Well, I wouldn't go that far,” I said. “But it is a tough script to work with.”

“I would go that far,” Erik said. “The show is boring as hell. We're struggling financially so I put it in the season to save money. You know, it has a low-cost set and only involves three actors. But I can see it was a big mistake. As you must have noticed, there were a lot of empty seats out there.”

“Are you saying that the audience is staying away in droves?” Al said.

“That sums it up perfectly,” Erik said. “I was hoping our production would be so good that regulars like you would spread the word, but it's been just the opposite.”

“So the word being spread has been negative?” Carol said.

“Apparently,” Erik said. “Like your husband said, people are staying away in droves.”

“As previously noted, it is a tough script to work with,” I said.

“Paul Matheny is an excellent director and all three actors have played major roles here before,” Erik said. “I was sure they could pump some life into the show. Instead it's pretty much been a disaster.”

“Well, there's always the next show,” Martha said. “We've always enjoyed coming here and I'm sure we will again.”

“Thanks,” Erik said. “With a season opener like this, I don't know how many more shows there will be. We're losing money on this one and probably turning off some people who would have come to the next one.”

Carol had her program open to the season schedule. “The rest of your season looks good,” she said. “You should be able to fill those seats again.”

“I hope so,” Erik said. “If not, there's a guy who wants to buy us out. Cheaply, of course.”

At that point, our short-skirted waitress appeared with our drinks and Martha switched the conversation to another topic.

As our glasses neared a state of emptiness, Martha rose and excused herself for a trip to the ladies room. Joyce stood up and said she'd go along. When they returned, Erik paid the tab and Al and I took care of the tip. “We should leave enough to show our appreciation for the shortness of her skirt,” Al said.

“Her legs were probably the most interesting thing you guys saw all night,” Erik said. “I'll have to cast her if we ever do ‘A Chorus Line.'”

In Al's car, headed for our apartment, Martha told us about her trip to the ladies room with Joyce. “She told me that what we saw in the restaurant wasn't what it might have looked like.”

“Did she say what it might have looked like?” Al said.

“She didn't have to,” Martha said. “Her story is that Scott Hall wanted to discuss problems with the square dance club—she and Erik are the presidents—and that all the restaurants in St. Paul had long waiting lines.”

“The long waiting line bit is true,” I said. “That's why we were in the same place they were. Did she say what the club problems were?”

“We didn't get into that. I figured the less said about that night the better.”

“Do you suppose Joyce went home and immediately dis­cussed those square dance problems with Erik?” Al said.

“What do you think?” I said.

“I like to give people the benefit of a doubt but in this case the doubt is bigger than the benefits,” Al said.

“I just hope those two don't do something that messes up either the square dance club or the theater,” Carol said.

“May the dancers not break a leg and the actors always be square with their partners,” Al said.

“If Joyce and the caller are careful, nothing should break up the squares,” I said. “Anyway, it's none of our business.” Silly me.

 

Chapter 13: Farewell to the Fair

M
onday was Labor Day, the last day of the Minnesota State Fair. I was at my desk, trying to think of an excuse to go to the fairgrounds on company time to snag one last Pronto Pup, when Al approached carrying two cups of coffee.

“What's happening?” I asked as he handed me one cup. With his now empty left hand, he cleared a corner of my desk wide enough to accommodate his butt before he answered.

“A bunch more e-mails from Willow is what's happening,” he said. “Including a photo of herself wearing nothing on top.”

“We're talking bare boobs?” I said.

“You're abreast of the situation,” he said.

“Are they photogenic bare boobs?”

“They're small, but I believe they're what you'd describe as ‘perky.'”

I tried to picture perky in my mind. “Does she have a reason for sending you this mammalian display?”

He took a swig of coffee before he answered. “She wants me to shoot photos of her in the nude.”

“Whoa! It's time to say thanks for the mammaries and goodbye, Willow,” I said. “This tree is starting to look like a trunk full of trouble.”

“You got that right,” Al said. “But how do I chop her off?”

“You can start by putting the nix on the nude pix. That should let Willow know she's barking up the wrong tree.”

“I don't want to hurt her feelings.”

“So tell her that her breasts are beautiful but you're not into nude photography.”

“There are a couple of nude shots in my book from a class I took before I married Carol. They only show bare butts and partial boobs but they're in there and, sure as a carp craps in the river, Willow has seen them.”

“So explain that those were shot in a previous lifetime,” I said. “She should understand that you're now a married man and can't go around shooting naked women willy-nilly.”

“Women don't have a willy,” he said. At that point, Eddy Gambrell, the assistant city editor, sitting in for Don O'Rourke on the holiday shift, yelled that he had an assignment for Al. He walked slowly to the city desk carrying his coffee and wearing a worried look.

My mind went back to thoughts of Pronto Pups, interspersed with visions of perky boobs. Voila! I had the answer. Lorrie Gardner, the State Fair's PR chief, had perky boobs. I could check out Lorrie's boobs for perkiness while I was interviewing her for a wrap-up of the fair. How was attendance compared with last year, what was the most popular food on a stick, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera?

I almost ran to the city desk and pitched this story to Eddy.

“Sounds almost as interesting as watching fudge harden,” Eddy said. “But what the hell, you're not doing anything here but keeping your chair warm.”

Twenty minutes later I was standing in front of a Pronto Pup purveyor at the State Fairgrounds. Two minutes after that, with my half-eaten, mustard-slathered treat in hand, I walked into Lorrie Gardner's office and was rewarded with an elegant view of her shorts-clad bottom. She was bending over at the waist, picking up a ballpoint pen that had rolled under her desk.

“Hey, Lorrie,” I said.

She jerked to an upright position and spun to face me. I checked out the contours of her tank top. Yes, perky was an accurate description. “Oh, god, you're eating another one of those artery cloggers,” she said.

“If it makes you feel better, I'll jog up Machinery Hill to wear off the fat and calories,” I said.

“You'd wear off a lot more running up the steps on the grandstand about twenty times. What brings you out here today?”

“The need of one last Pronto Pup and an overwhelming desire to see you one more time before you fade into that after-the-fair-is-over limbo you disappear into.”

“I take a week off and then start helping plan next year's fair. You can come see me any time.”

“It's not the same in cold weather,” I said. The temperature in the room was well into the nineties, so the aforementioned shorts were brief and her tank top was minimal.

Lorrie looked down at her partially bare perkiness. “Next year, air conditioning.”

“No way. Your hot weather costumes are a permanent exhibit.”

She tried to look offended but failed. “Surely the editor didn't send you to the fair merely to eat junk food and harass the help.”

I explained my skeletal story idea and we talked about the fair for the next fifteen minutes. Among the things I learned was that food on a stick sales dropped sharply the day after Vinnie Luciano's death but recovered in time to threaten the record twelve-day high.

When Lorrie ran out of numbers and laudatory adjectives, she asked about the Luciano murder investigation. I told her about my battle for information with Detective K.G. Barnes and said I'd developed some suspects on my own.

“I hope they catch the killer,” Lorrie said. “Watching Vinnie lying there twisting and jerking was the worst moment of my life.”

“Vinnie's, too,” I said.

 

* * *

Holiday or not, my AA group met that night, and I had my usual follow-up chitchat with Jayne Halvorson in Herbie's Bar. Jayne nodded along as I poured out another commiseration over the official police silence on the Vinnie Luciano murder case. I expected sympathy and advice in return, but instead she changed the subject.

“Tell me something good that's happened to you recently,” she said.

I thought a minute. “I had two Pronto Pups at the State Fair today.” I chose not mention the additional pleasure of seeing Lorrie's perky boobs and provocative butt.

“See, life isn't all bad. Anything else good going on in your life outside the newsroom?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “We found a new apartment. Actually Martha found it, but I went along to look at it and help make the decision. Diplomat that I am, I also managed to insult the landlord.”

“How'd you do that?” Jayne said.

I told her my comment about sloppy maintenance and the surprising response I'd received. “Zhoumaya took it amazingly well,” I said. “Lucky for me, she seems to have a sense of humor.”

“Her name is Zhoumaya?”

“Believe it or not. It's Zhoumaya Jones.”

“You're kidding?” Jayne said. “You're renting from Zhoumaya Jones?”

“You know her?”

“Everybody in City Hall knows who she is.” Jayne works in City Hall for the Parks and Recreation Department. “Her husband was a major agitator for immigrants' rights, from the mayor's office down to the janitorial staff. He was killed in some freak motorcycle accident a couple of years ago. I'm surprised you didn't know about his work. His name was D.B. Jones.”

In fact, I had heard of D.B. Jones. Our City Hall reporter had written about his immigrant rights campaign several times and Al had photographed him. “Of course,” I said. “Zhoumaya told me her husband's name was Deli . . . something Jones. I never made the connection to D.B.”

“Well, Zhoumaya has made some connections in City Hall since D.B.'s death. She's picked up where he left off on the immigrants' rights thing. She has to work mostly by phone and e-mail because she doesn't drive, but she knows what's going on. Check out her Facebook page.”

“I don't do Facebook, but this sounds like a connection I should make in person. Maybe our man in City Hall isn't getting all the news.”

“You probably won't get much more. From what I hear, Zhoumaya likes to be anonymous and work behind the scenes—unlike her husband, who loved to take his issues to reporters.”

“Whatever,” I said. “I'm glad I mentioned her name to you. It would be stupid for me to live next door to her and not try to pick up some stories.”

“See, life isn't all bad,” Jayne said. “Now go ahead and bitch some more about the Luciano case if you want to.”

“I'm pretty much bitched out. I don't know what the Falcon Heights cops are thinking, but right now my leading suspect is Cousin Vito, who inherited the restaurant after Vinnie made a recent change in his will. Problem is I don't know how to approach him. If call him up and ask for his reaction to the family's lawsuit he'll give me the standard ‘no comment' and hang up.”

“How about a story on whether he plans to make any changes at the restaurant. New menu, redecorate, things like that. You could start by quizzing him on his plans, then broaden it to how he felt about Vinnie and family stuff like that. You might get an inkling about his guilt feelings, if he has any.”

“Jayne, you're in the wrong business,” I said. “You should have been a city editor. I'll run that one by Don O'Rourke first thing tomorrow morning.”