Ed McBain - Downtown (9 page)

"I am very much alive," he said to the blond man. "As you can plainly see."

"Yes, I see that," the blond man said.

"What does he mean?" the eight-year-old on the couch said. "Of _course he's alive," the six-year-old said.

"Boy oh boy," the four-year-old

123 said.

They all looked like different sizes of the little girl who played Bill Cosby's youngest daughter. Albetha was watching the screen, an enormously puzzled look on her face. "So what do you make of all this, Mr. Crandall?" the blond man asked.

"Well, if it weren't for the fact that there _is a dead man ..." "Indeed there is," the blond man said, putting on a television newscaster's solemnly grieving face. "Yes. But if it weren't for that, I'd think this was some kind of hoax."

"Ah, yes. But there _is a real corpse, Mr. Crandall. And the police found your identification on him." "Yes." "Yes." "Extraordinary." "Really. So what do you make of it?"

"I can only believe that this Michael J. Barnes person is responsible." Albetha gave Michael a sharp look. "Yes, the man whose car ..." "Yes, the body ..." "Found in the ..." "Yes." "For those of you who missed our newscast earlier tonight, I should mention that the body of a man carrying Mr. Crandall's identification ..." "Yes."

"... was found in an automobile rented by a visitor to New York ..." "Is this a series?" the four-year-old asked. "No, Glory, it's a newsbreak special," Albetha said.

"... a man named Michael Barnes, whose wallet was also found ..." "Yes," Crandall said. "In the automobile." "Yes."

"So it would appear at least _possible that the man the police are now actively seeking ..." "Are you _sure this isn't a series?" Glory asked suspiciously. "Positive," Albetha said, and gave Michael another sharp look.

"... _is, in fact, the man

125 responsible for the murder. But _why--and this is the big question, isn't it, Mr. Crandall--why would he have put _your identification in the dead man's pocket?" "I have no idea," Crandall said.

"Nor does anyone else at this moment," the blond man said hurriedly, obviously having received an off-camera signal to wrap. "Believe me when I say, however, that we're happy one of our most talented screen directors is still with us. Mr. Crandall ..."

His face taking on a sincere and solemnly heartfelt look, his voice lowering ...

"Thank you so much ... _literally ... for being here with us tonight." "After the false reports of my death," Crandall said, smiling, "I'm happy I was _able to be here." "He's so full of shit," Albetha muttered. "What?" the eight-year-old said.

"I said it'll be a while before Daddy gets home, so I want you all to go to bed now. If I hear Santa coming to drink his milk and eat the cookies you left by the tree, I'll come wake you. But you mustn't frighten him off or he won't leave any presents. All right now?"

"Who's this?" the four-year-old said, looking at Michael. "One of Daddy's friends," Albetha said. "I'm sure." Michael smiled.

"What's your name?" the six-year-old asked. "Michael," he said.

"Come on, kids, bed," Albetha said, and shooed them off down the hallway. Michael watched them go. He debated running. He decided not to. When Albetha came back some five minutes later, she said, "You still here? I thought you'd be in Alaska by now." "No," he said. "A ploy, right? Murderer sticks around, lady thinks, Gee, he can't be the murderer." "No, not a ploy." "You going to slay my children in their beds?" "No, ma'am." "You better not. And don't call me ma'am.

I'm at least five years younger than you

127 are. What size suit do you wear?" "Thirty-eight long."

"Arthur's a forty-six regular. Come along with me." "Where are we going?" "Put you in a Santa suit." He followed her up the stairs.

"Why do they think you killed somebody?" she asked. "I don't know." "But you didn't, huh?" "I didn't. It wasn't even my wallet. All they stole from me were my credit cards and my driver's license. And my library card."

They were in the master bedroom now. Four-poster bed covered with a gauzy canopy. Imitation Tiffany lamp in one corner. Plush velvet easy chair. Old mahogany dresser.

"What are you doing here?" Albetha asked. "I thought you might be able to help me." "How?" "This was before I knew your husband was still alive." "Yeah, well, that's a pity," she said. "Him still being alive."

"You're divorcing him, right?" Michael said. "Right." "Because of Jessica." "Right." "Jessica who?"

"Here, put this on," she said, and handed him a Santa Claus suit on a hanger. "I'll get some pillows." "Jessica who?" he asked again. Albetha went to the closet. He began taking off his trousers. "Wales," she said. "Why do you want to know?" "What does she look like?"

"She looks like a bimbo," Albetha said. Her back was to Michael. She was reaching up for a pair of pillows on the closet shelf. The trousers were much too large for him. He suspected they'd be too large even with pillows in them. "What color hair does she have?"

"The same color hair _all bimbos have," Albetha said. "Blonde. Even _black bimbos have blonde hair." "Is she black then?"

"No," Albetha said. "Here.

129 Stuff these in your pants." He accepted the pillows. "She's white?" "Yes. Even as the driven snow."

"I need something to fasten these pillows with," he said. "I'll get one of Arthur's straps." She went to the closet again. "Are her eyes blue?" he asked. "No. Brown."

Which eliminated the woman in the bar. Whose star sapphire ring he hadn't stolen. And who'd called herself Helen Parrish. "How does your husband happen to know her?" he asked. "Intimately," Albetha said, and came back with a very large brown belt. He took the belt, wrapped it around the pillows, and buckled it. He fastened the trousers at the waist. They felt good and snug now.

"How do you know she wears red panties?" he asked. "Don't ask me about her goddamn panties. Goddamn blonde bimbo with her red panties. God knows what I may have caught from her panties." "What do you mean?" "I had her panties on once." "How'd that happen?" "They were in my dresser drawer. Can you imagine that? He hides his bimbo's panties in my dresser drawer, mixed in with all my own panties. So I go to put on a pair of red panties, I put on _her panties instead. I got out of them the second I realized I'd made a mistake. But who knows what I may have caught from them?"

"Well, you only had them on for a second." "Even so. That's why they won't let you return panties, you know. Department stores. I wanted to call her and ask who she'd been intimate with lately. Besides my husband. You can get trichinosis from just eating the gravy," she said. "You can?"

"Sure. From the pork. So don't tell me about only a second. Who _knows what was in her panties?" "Well, there's no sense worrying about it

now," Michael said.

131

"Sure, _you don't have to worry, you're not the one who was in her panties. Do you think I can get them analyzed? Put them in a paper bag and take them to a lab and get them analyzed?" "For what?"

"For whatever she may have. I really _would like to call her, I mean it. Hey, Jessie, how are you? Listen, do you remember those red silk panties Arthur left in my dresser drawer? They're walking across the room all by themselves, who've you been with lately, Jess?"

"I'm sure she wouldn't tell a perfect stranger who ..." "I'm not such a perfect stranger, I had her panties on. Also, she's no stranger to my husband, believe me." "Does she work for him or something?" "She's an actress," Albetha said. "She's in his new movie."

"I didn't know there _was a new movie." "How would you know there was any movie at _all?" Albetha asked, and looked at him suspiciously.

"A person who said he was your husband told me all about _War _and _Solitude." "When was this?"

"Earlier tonight. In a bar. Before he stole my car," Michael said, and put on the Santa Claus jacket.

"Was this person five-feet eight-inches tall, chunky, going bald, with brown eyes, a pot belly, and a Phi Beta Kappa key on his vest? From Wisconsin U?" "No, he was ..." "Then he wasn't Arthur."

"I know he wasn't. _Now I know. But he was very credible at the time. Told me all about your husband's work, gave me his business card ..." "Arthur's business card?" "Yes." "Well, anyone could have that. Arthur hands them out all over the place."

"Does the name Helen Parrish mean anything to you?" "No." "She's not an actress or ...?was "No." "Or anyone with whom your husband may have worked?"

"My husband has worked with a lot of

133 women over the years, but I don't remember anyone named Helen Parrish. He was in television before he made _Solly's _War, and in television ..." "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"We called it _Solly's _War. Because the man who put up the money was named Solomon Gruber, and he was always yelling about budget, and about frittering away time, that was his favorite expression, `Arthur, you're frittering away time.` Arthur hated him." "What does _he look like?" "Gruber? An Orthodox rabbi." "He wouldn't be a big, burly guy with a crew cut and a beard stubble, and hard blue eyes, would he?" "No, he's tall and thin and hairy." "Solomon Gruber." "Yes." "Who put up the money for _War _and _Solitude."

"Yes. And lost it all. Or most of it." "How much, would you say?"

"Did the film cost? Cheap by today's standards. Cheap even by the standards twelve years ago, when it was shot." "How much?" "Twelve million." "That's cheap?" "Here's the beard," Albetha said. He put on the beard. "And the hat," she said. He put on the hat. She studied him. "The kids think _Arthur is Santa Claus, but you'll have to do," she said. "Come on downstairs and drink your milk and eat your cookies. If you keep your back to them ..." "Tell me about your husband's new picture."

"Strictly commercial," she said. "Solly _hopes. He financed this one, too." "What's it called?" "_Winter's _Chill. It's a suspense film. What the British call a thriller." "I don't think I've seen it." "It doesn't open till the second." "Here in New York?"

"_Everywhere. As we say in the trade, it is

opening _wide--which does not have sexual

135 connotations, by the way. The expression refers to opening on thousands of screens simultaneously, as opposed to two or three dozen. The ads should break in Friday's papers. Arthur's giving it six days' lead time. He's hoping to make a killing, you see. Which may be the way to do it, who knows?" Albetha shrugged.

"His last film was a class act. This is crap. But maybe the public wants crap. I find it ironic. In television, Arthur was doing crap. He left television to do a really fantastic film that didn't make a nickel. Now he's back to doing crap again."

He looked at her for a moment. She seemed to be searching his eyes for answers, but he had none for her. "How do I find your husband's mother?" he asked. "You don't," she said. "He was supposed to call her yesterday. Maybe if I can learn what they talked about ..." "He didn't call her yesterday." "It was on his calendar. Call Mama." "His mother's been dead for ten years." "Oh."

"May she rest in peace, the old bitch. And he didn't call _my mama either 'cause they don't get along."

"Do you have Jessica Wales's address?" "Yes. Why do you want it?" "I want to talk to her." "How do you know I won't call the police the minute you leave here?" "I don't think you will." "Why not? You're wanted for murder." "Yes, but I'm Santa Claus," he said, and smiled behind the beard. Albetha smiled with him.

"Have you ever been Santa before?" she asked.

"No. But I was Joseph a long time ago. In elementary school in Boston." "When the world was still holy and silent," Albetha said. He looked at her. Tears were suddenly brimming in her eyes. "Come," she said softly. "Be Santa for my little girls." 137

6 It was bitterly cold when he left the Crandall apartment. He had changed out of the Santa Claus suit and back into the clothes he'd been wearing to Bos--oh my God, he still hadn't called his mother!

She was probably suspecting the worst by now. His plane had crashed over Hartford, Connecticut. He was lying in a heap of wreckage, her Christmas gift smoldering beside him. If he knew his mother at all, and he thought he did, she'd be more concerned about her smoldering gift than his smoldering body. When he'd got back from the war, she'd seemed enormously surprised to see him. As if she'd already chalked him off. Later, when he began having the nightmares, an analyst told him this had probably been his mother's defense mechanism. Telling herself he was already dead, so that she'd be prepared for it when she found out he really _was dead. "But I was _alive," Michael told the shrink. "I came home alive." "Yes, but she didn't know you would."

"But there I was. Hi, Mom, it's _me!" "She must have been surprised." "That's just what I've been telling you." "You're lucky she didn't have a heart attack."

"She gave away all my clothes while I was gone. My civilian clothes." "Yes, her defense mechanism." "My blue jacket," Michael said. "What?" "My best blue jacket." "Poor woman," the analyst said. Well, maybe so. Poor woman had grieved for years after his father died. Poor woman had sold the hardware store and loaned Michael the money to buy the groves in Florida. A _loan, she'd said, stressing the word. Paid her back every nickel, plus interest. He'd asked her to come live down there in Florida with him, she'd said, No, she wanted to keep living right there in Boston, even if the neighborhood _was going to the dogs. She meant it was turning black. Michael's best friend in Vietnam had been black. Andrew. Died in his arms. Blood bubbling up onto his lips. Michael had held

him close. First and only time he'd ever

139 cried in Vietnam. He wondered later if Andrew's mother had given away _his clothes while he was gone. He wondered if Andrew's mother had told herself he was dead in preparation for the Defense Department telegram that would confirm her worst fears. Michael wished he could forgive his mother for looking so surprised to see him alive. Surprised and perhaps a trifle disappointed. He wished he could forgive the poor woman for giving away his blue jacket. He turned up the collar on his coat.

He had twenty dollars in his pocket, the money Connie had given him. "A loan," she'd said.