Rough Cut (14 page)

    I glanced at Ab. His eyes were still downcast.

    Tommy went on. "So he asked me about it-about the rope and everything, and when I told him I hadn't ever seen it before, he got mad and said I would only make things worse by lying." Tommy's voice gained an octave. "Honest, Michael, I've never seen this rope before. Somebody put it there!"

    "Bill Malley," Ab said, speaking at last. "He saw me pull the rope out of Tommy's desk. He knows it was in there."

    "Sure it was in there, Ab," Tommy said. "But somebody put it there-planted it there, can't you see that?"

    Ab shook his head. "Aw, that's just in movies, Tommy. I saw you and Gettig arguing that day! Just tell the damn truth, that's all."

    I glanced at Tommy. "What were you and Gettig arguing about?"

    "Just because we were arguing doesn't mean I'd kill him," Tommy said, sounding very young, almost hysterical. "God, I… I couldn't kill anybody."

    The whole idea of murdering somebody sounded preposterous to Tommy-as it seemed to at that instant to Ab Levin.

    He smiled at Tommy. Suddenly. Surprisingly. "You're right."

    Tommy smiled nervously in return. "Last time I killed anybody, Ab, was in a fantasy I had a year ago when another guy took my girlfriend."

    I was glad they were getting along again, but Tommy still hadn't answered my question about Gettig and why they were arguing.

    "Ab, you mind if Tommy and I speak alone?" I asked.

    Ab's first response was suspicion. "Hey, the thing about the rope, that's all cleared up, right?"

    "Right," I said. Then I saw that he wanted me to explain why I wanted to talk to Tommy. You pay a price for having a democratic managerial style. "I want to find out why he and Ron Gettig had an argument."

    Ab said, "I'm curious myself."

    Looks like I had company.

    Tommy said, "About a week ago some videotapes Ron had wanted arrived-sample reels from various production companies. The package came and I took it in and put it on his desk. He came in and got all bent out of shape, like he was hiding something and I'd discovered it."

    "That must've been when I came in," Ab said.

    "Yeah, it was," Tommy said.

    "I thought he was going to hit you."

    "Yeah, so did I."

    
"Did
you happen to find anything in his desk?" I asked.

    "God," Tommy said, "what a day. First Ab accuses me of being a killer, and now you're calling me a thief."

    "Tommy," I said, "all I meant was did you find anything that looked suspicious lying around on his desk. He's been murdered. We're trying to find out who did it and why. I thought maybe you'd seen something that could help the police."

    Ab clapped a hand on his shoulder. "It's all right, kid. We're all just a little jumpy."

    "Yeah," Tommy said, "I guess so." He shrugged. "Nah, I didn't see anything suspicious, Michael."

    "And Gettig didn't give you any hint of what he might be trying to conceal."

    "Uh-uh."

    I sighed.

    Ab and Tommy caught the significance of the noise I made.

    "No offense," Ab said, "but you look like heck, Michael. I mean you got bags under your eyes that could hold three days' worth of laundry."

    "Thanks," I said, trying to laugh.

    The wide fatherly hand left Tommy's shoulder and came down on mine.

    "You get some rest," he said. "Otherwise you ain't going to be worth a damn to anybody."

    But I was no longer paying attention to Ab. Instead I was looking at the man in the dark raincoat and the dark fedora who stood in the doorway. The big man with the air of comic menace. My favorite private eye, Stokes.

    Ab caught the line of my gaze and quit talking. His eyes followed mine over to Stokes. He had the same reaction I had on first seeing Stokes-his eyes narrowed, trying to pinpoint the elusive reason that Stokes should exude such an air of evil.

    Maybe I was imagining things, but I thought I saw Ab shudder.

    That was when I noticed how pale Tommy had gotten.

    Stokes had fixed the kid in his gaze. Tommy danced nervously, as if on the point of a knife.

    A yellow grin twisted Stokes's mouth. If the agency was ever called on to do a poster against child molesting, I knew who we could cast in the role of the villain.

    Tommy, clammy now, said, "Maybe I'd better be getting back to work, Michael."

    "Interrupting something, am I?" Stokes said, strolling in the room.

    Ab said, "Yeah, I better get back to it, too, Michael." He reached over, clapped Tommy on the back, and the two started away.

    So it wasn't just me. A lot of people had the same repelled response to Stokes.

    "You make friends everywhere you go," I said.

    Stokes laughed. "I quit worrying about friends when I was in second grade."

    Stokes bent down and picked up the rope. "I read in the paper where your man Gettig was strangled."

    In his black-gloved fingers, the ordinary piece of clothesline rope assumed a violent significance. "Interesting," he said.

    "What do you want, Stokes?"

    He looked at the rope then let it drop back to the floor.

    From inside his black coat he took a piece of paper. A newspaper clipping, much like the one I'd been carrying around myself these past few days, flared from his fingers.

    "I want you to come by my office tonight at ten o'clock," he said. "I think I've figured this thing out for you. I can save you some headaches-and maybe your life."

    He smiled yellowly again.

    "The way you tried to save Merle Wickes's life," I snapped. "By blackmailing him?"

    "So you peeked, huh?" he said, greatly amused that I'd looked inside the manila envelope he'd had me drop off at the duck pond the other day.

    "I had a right to see what was going on."

    "Don't get pious," he said. "You peeked just like everybody else would-just like I would." He chuckled. I had confirmed his suspicions that human beings were a sorry lot.

    "Merle didn't do it."

    "No, he didn't. But he's involved and he's got access to money-money I could use."

    "Merle?" I said. "Money? You're crazy."

    Stokes's eyes swam angrily behind his thick glasses. "I didn't say his money. I said access to money. I don't care whose money I get, I just need some."

    For the first time-a curious tone of pleading, of desperation, in his voice-Stokes sounded human. It didn't make him any more pleasant, it just took the spooky edge off him.

    "I want you at my office tonight at ten o'clock," he said. The threat had come back in his voice.

    He handed me the newspaper clipping he'd been holding.

    "See you," he said.

    

    

    She called around lunchtime. When I heard her voice, the receiver seemed to glow. All kinds of sappy lines came to mind when I started to talk, but I was afraid to say them, afraid to make myself vulnerable in case she'd been using me the way she'd been using Denny and decided to drop me.

    "I'm still thinking about last night," Cindy Traynor told me. "You're really sweet."

    "Gee," I said, "a guy likes to be told he's handsome or strong or bright, but I'm not sure he likes to be told he's sweet."

    She laughed. "If he really understands women, then he knows how much of a compliment that is."

    Now I laughed. "OK, I'll take your word for it."

    "Detective Bonnell, the one you told me about, he was here this morning."

    "Here?"

    "My home. Questioning Clay. From the little I could hear, I think he thinks Clay did it."

    "He didn't arrest Clay, did he?"

    "No, but from what Clay said, he came pretty close." She paused. "Clay's not holding up very well. He started drinking bourbon straight after Bonnell left, then he went out. I'm not sure where. I'm worried about him and-and I think he may actually have done it."

    "What makes you think so?"

    "Remember I told you about the night Gettig and Merle Wickes and Clay were here and Denny was trying to get the bag from Merle?"

    "Yes?"

    "Guess what I found?"

    "What?"

    "The bag."

    "Yeah?"

    "Yes, tossed in among some stuff to be carried out that for some reason never got carried out."

    "Anything special about the bag?"

    "Yes. There's only half of an identification tag on the handle-as if it got torn off."

    "Maybe I'd better take a look at the bag." She laughed. "What's so funny?"

    "You," she said. "Sometimes you sound so earnest. 'Maybe I'd better take a look at the bag.' Sherlock Holmes."

    "This is my day to sound earnest and pious," I said, thinking of Stokes's crack. "Can you get away for a drink around five or so?"

    "Sure," she said. "I don't expect Clay back. When he starts drinking like this, he usually winds up at his honey's. Whoever she happens to be at the moment."

    There was faded anger and regret in her voice. For a second I was jealous. I didn't want her to feel anything for Clay, even if the emotion was faded.

    "Around five, then?" she said.

    I named a place.

    

    

    Three hours later I was sitting in my office going through storyboards when the phone buzzed.

    Sarah said, "Mr. Hauser from Hauser Accountants is on the line."

    "Fine," I said. I punched him in immediately. "Hello," I said.

    "How about this weather?" he said. "I think I'm heading for Florida."

    Great, just what I wanted. He was charging me two hundred dollars an hour to audit my profit-and-loss sheets and he was spending his time on the most banal of amenities.

    I realized, of course, that I was overreacting-I was too eager to find out what was going on.

    "Well," I said, "did you find out anything?"

    "Maybe I have," he said.

    Then again, I thought, maybe you haven't.

    I said, after he said nothing, "Care to tell me about it?"

    "Are you familiar with Eagle Productions?"

    "Eagle? No, I don't think so."

    "Apparently they produce TV commercials. They're located in Kansas City."

    I thought hard. We used a variety of production houses for our commercials and product songs, including production houses in Kansas City. But I'd never heard of Eagle Productions and, as creative director, I was the logical one to know the name.

    "Why are you asking me about them?" I said.

    "Well," he said, "I'd rather finish running some things down before I say."

    "Wonderful," I said, "just what I need. A clifrhanger."

    "Beg pardon?" he said.

    "Nothing. Call me back when you're ready to talk."

    "You bet I will," he said, all enthusiasm. "Thanks for your time."

    As I hung up, there was a timid knock on my door. I called out for whoever to come in. Tommy Byrnes entered.

    "I talk to you a minute?" he said.

    "Sure," I said.

    He nodded to the door behind him. "All right if I close the door?"

    "Sure."

    He came over to a chair and set himself down. In the fading light of the gray day he did not look so young, and certainly not so happy.

    For the first time since I'd known him, I saw him fidget with his long, slender fingers.

    "That guy in the black overcoat who came in," he began.

    "Yes?" I said. Then I remembered his particularly violent reaction to Stokes-the way he'd gone pale and seemed to lose his composure.

    "I saw him one night with Ron Gettig-one night in the Cove. There was something about him…" Tommy shook his head. "I mean, I'm not saying he had something to do with all this but-"

    "Kind of a creep, isn't he?" I said.

    "Yeah. He scares me. He-I wouldn't put nothin' past him. Nothin'."

    I leaned forward on my desk. "Is there something you want to tell me, Tommy?"

    "Yeah. Kinda. You remember when Denny broke his leg and I kinda had to chauffeur him around?"

    I nodded.

    "Well, one day he asked me to drive him out to this place-this mansion, actually-and I saw the guy in the black overcoat there, too."

    The word mansion reminded me of the clipping Stokes had handed me. Though it was from a different newspaper than the clipping I had, it detailed the same robbery at Mrs. Bradford Amis's.

    He stood up. "I was kind of scared to tell you. The way that guy looked at me this afternoon-"

    "You should have told me before, Tommy."

    "I didn't think it was important, I guess." He nodded to the door. "Well, I've got a class in a couple hours. Copywriting. I've gotta get ready for it." He stared at me. "You, uh, you aren't mad, are you?"

    "No," I said. "No, I'm not, Tommy."

    He smiled. Up in heaven, Norman Rockwell would be very pleased. "Good," he said, and pulled his stocking cap on his head.

    "Well," he said, "guess I'll take off, then."

    "Fine," I said, scarcely aware of him. He went out.

    

    

    The Devon was a bar in the downstairs of a hotel that had been fashionable thirty years ago. Somehow management had kept the bar in good shape while letting rats and winos roam the upper floors. It was possible, in the dim glow showing racks of liquor bottles, in the brocaded wallpaper that gave the bar a British feel, to hear the echoes of big-band music, and to hear excited men talk about Musial's latest home run while they puffed on Chesterfields.