The Dead Side of the Mike (13 page)

Apart from any emotions it might raise in him, Steve's revelation also provided Mark with an alibi for the night of Klinger's death. Which was inconvenient, because Charles had been working on a theory that Mark had killed Andrea to prevent her from revealing their affair to his wife, and then, following the threat in his letter, had killed Klinger because of his involvement with Andrea.

Mind you, that still required the premise that Klinger had got involved with Andrea. Which was by no means certain. Since they had only been in New York at the same time for four days, they'd have had to work pretty fast. And, since there was no proof that they'd ever even met, and since Mark now had an alibi for the time of the second death, the whole theory began to look pretty tenuous.

Unless Steve and Mark were in league. Maybe the alibi she had supplied for the Tuesday night was a lie, maybe she was just covering up for him. But why? He found it difficult to cast Steve in the role of villain. He was fairly sensitive to real and false emotion and Steve's distress at her friend's death had been genuine.

Then there was Andrea's husband, Keith, the BBC malcontent. But again, why should he be involved in his wife's death? Charles didn't even know if he had been in Broadcasting House at the time. Though that could be checked.

No, probably the true solution was the obvious one. Andrea Gower had committed suicide for reasons of her own which outsiders could only guess at.

And yet . . . And yet . . . Why did he think it was murder? Only really from what Steve had said about her friend and from his own brief meeting with her. Through all the confusion, he couldn't believe that Andrea Gower had deliberately killed herself.

Various other unlikely combinations of circumstances circled through his mind. He must have dozed off. He was wakened by Frances nudging him to do up his seat belt as they approached Kennedy Airport.

The hotel had been described by the travel agent as ‘budget', but Charles was still impressed by the presence of a colour television in their room. (Somehow, there had been no question of Frances not sharing a room with him. Equally, it had been with mutual, almost desperate, fervour that they had made love on the evening of their arrival.) The funeral was to be at twelve and they would get there in good time. In the morning he lazed happily in his dressing gown, channel-hopping with glee from the confessional mania of breakfast-time evangelists to patronising children's programmes and endless cartoons. Frances had to chide him into showering and getting dressed in his one suit (believed by archaeologists to date from circa 1965 A.D.), reminding him of the seriousness of the occasion.

They met Juliet, pursing her lips with impatience, in the coffee shop downstairs. She said they'd be late for the bus out to New Jersey, from long experience blaming her father for the delay. Frances calmed her, pointing out that they had plenty of time to get to the Port Authority Bus Terminal by ten o'clock. (She retained her ability to understand and memorise the bus system of any town within minutes of arrival.) The funeral was to be at twelve and they would get there in good time. Rob was going to meet them at the bus terminal in Summit. He had offered to drive into Manhattan to pick them up, but Frances had vetoed the suggestion, knowing that he'd have plenty of other things to cope with.

The waiter in the coffee shop was a jolly Italian, who recognised them as English and, as he served pancakes and sausages to Charles, asked which sights they were going to see that day. ‘You should try the World Trade Center. Get up to the top. Amazing view there. You'll really enjoy it.'

‘Another time, maybe,' said Charles. ‘Today we have to go to a funeral.'

‘Oh, well, have a nice day.'

The funeral was decorously conducted in Summit. None of the excesses of which Charles had read in articles on American funerals were in evidence. There was no open coffin, nor was he treated to the sight of his mother-in-law made up and dressed in her favourite ball-gown.

But it all seemed unreal to him, like something out of a television series. He kept expecting the proceedings to be interrupted by commercials. Partly, it was the modem discretion of the surroundings, the reticence of muted lights, lush curtains, bright stained-glass and flowers. He missed the anachronism of English churches, like those where both his parents had had their farewells said. Death stirred in him an atavistic need for ancient ceremony.

The other false note was struck by the fact that the minister had an American accent. Charles knew he was being very naive, that, if he rationalised it, he would realise that in America everyone had an American accent. But, like most British people, his main contact with the United States had been through the country's enormous exports of films and television series. These produced a reflex reaction that anyone with an American accent must be acting. So the minister, with his neatly-trimmed silver-grey hair and the deep sincerity of his voice, looked to Charles like one of those very skilled character actors who turn up in every other American television series. By the end of the ceremony, he could almost put a name to him.

Charles realised that a lifetime of hearing about the States and not being there had filled him with a lot of silly prejudices.

After the ceremony, all the mourners went back to Rob's house for a party. Perhaps a more dignified word should be used, like ‘wake' or ‘memorial reception', but in fact this one was a party.

It wasn't that they forgot the occasion that caused it. It was just that they had not met for some time and were all agreed that Frances's mother would have preferred to go quickly than return home to be constantly aware of her invalid status. Also, Rob was the only one for whom she had been a daily presence and even he had been weaned from such dependence by her stay in hospital. So, while there was no lack of respect or love for the deceased, it was still possible for them all to have a good time.

Charles certainly did. He was already disembodied with jet lag and a couple of drinks put him into a state of euphoria, triumphantly excited at just being in America.

He also met some very nice people and quickly revised his opinion that all Americans are character actors from soap operas and police thrillers. He got on particularly well with the twenty-seven-year-old daughter of Rob's first marriage, who was called Pattie. There was no sexual attraction (which was just as well, because it would have been singularly inappropriate under the circumstances), they just had similar senses of humour. Everything Charles said seemed to amuse her. She kept giggling and saying, ‘Hey, that's neat'.

Charles didn't know what she meant. But he didn't think she was talking about his suit.

The following day Frances had to go and see her mother's lawyer. Charles offered to accompany her, but his lack of enthusiasm was transparent and she willingly released him from the chore. In fact, she was relieved. She didn't like official occasions when she had to define the lack of definition about their marital status.

So she set off in a cab from the hotel after breakfast, looking very businesslike. The night before, as they were going to bed, she had finally broken down, undamming the flood of emotion she had contained for so long. Charles was glad he was there when it happened and she seemed glad of his presence. He knew he was good at comforting her and at such moments he felt useful, a tower of strength, in command of their relationship. It was really the only time – well, then and when they were making love. If marriage were all making love and comforting wives when they cried, he would have been very good at it. But that was only a small part; there was all the waking up in the morning and going shopping and washing up and paying the mortgage and replacing fuses in plugs and spending evenings when there was nothing on the television watching it. Those were the bits that killed.

With his wife recovered and bound for a smart address on the Upper East Side, Charles was left with his daughter. Juliet didn't want to do any sightseeing yet, but was very keen to buy some children's clothes in Macy's and Bloomingdale's and some toys in F.A.O. Schwarz. Charles tagged along dutifully, giving what he thought to be a reasonable impression of a properly interested grandfather, but it was an audition he failed. Juliet grew increasingly exasperated with his obvious lack of interest in dungarees and Spiderman T-shirts and soon dismissed him, arranging to meet up at one o'clock in Bloomingdale's children's clothes department, where they already had a tryst with Frances.

So he was free. Free to see a sight, go up a tall building, do whatever took his fancy. He walked up Broadway, while he decided how to use this precious bonus of time.

Just walking up Broadway he found exhilarating, just being there. He ambled along, unashamedly tourist, head bent back, fascinated by the height and unexpected peaks of the buildings.

It wasn't how he had hoped to come to Broadway. As an actor and playwright, his ambitions had been starrier. And when his one successful play,
The Ratepayer
, had been running in the West End, there had been talk of a transfer to Broadway.

Talk. Always talk, never action. And always talk to other people, never to Charles. He sometimes felt that all his life he had been in some sort of antechamber, an annexe to the real room where real things happened. All he ever did was hear talk through the door. But he had never passed through it. Or perhaps he had never had the nerve to try the handle. So he just knew there was talk. And with
The Ratepayer
's transfer, as with so many other projects, the talk had gone on for a bit, and then they had all stopped talking about it.

But he didn't let the memory spoil his mood. The elusive quality of major success was now for him a fact of life, not a constant source of disappointment. And here he was in New York, with a million sights to see, some of the most amazing feats of architecture in the world, an unrivalled selection of galleries, museums and exhibitions, all there and ready for him. He had only to decide which of them he should go to and hail a cab.

He decided to have a drink and went into a bar.

His first choice proved somewhat uncomfortable. He had sat down and ordered a beer before he noticed the askance looks of the two other customers and the barman's fishnet tights. He downed his drink quickly and left.

It was very hot outside and bright. Nearly August, the sun had gained power during his brief dive indoors. Maybe another drink was a good idea. But how was he to know the proclivities of the many different bars? He had a guidebook. Frances had thrust one into his pocket, convinced that he'd get lost on his own. He fished it out and waited at an intersection, obedient to the ‘Don't Walk' light. Now where was he? Broadway and . . .? He looked up at the yellow sign on the traffic-light post. West 44th Street. Now why did that ring a bell?

Of course, that was the address of Musimotive, the source of the odd man out among Andrea Gower's cassettes.

It seemed criminal to come so far, to be presented with the opportunity for a little investigation, and not to take it.

The building was extremely tall by British standards, but now dwarfed in a constantly aspiring New York. When it had been built it may well have been the last word in efficiency and sophistication, but sixty years had passed since then and its smartness, like its height, had yielded to newer buildings. It carried an apologetic air of neglect.

Charles pushed through the revolving door and went up to the security desk. The uniform behind it had, like the building, once been smart, but suffered from the same lack of maintenance. It gave the impression of having had many incumbents, but its current owner was Puerto Rican. He looked up at Charles with surly interrogation.

‘Good morning, I've come to see someone in Musimotive.' Charles indicated the name on the board behind the security man's head.

‘Not here now.' The Spanish intonation was so heavy, Charles half expected the man to add ‘gringo'.

‘What, you mean, the office has moved?'

‘No. Gone, finished, busted.'

‘Is that because of Mr Klinger's death?'

The doorman shrugged. He didn't know who Mr Klinger was. He hadn't been there long. It wasn't his business what the people in the building actually did.

‘So there's no one in the office now?' A shake of the head.

‘And you have no contact with anyone else from the firm?'

Again the head moved decidedly from side to side.

‘What about post?'

‘Post?'

The man's bewilderment reminded Charles that he was in a foreign country and should speak the local language. ‘I mean “mail”. What about mail? Isn't there someone you redirect the letters to?'

The head started its movement, but stopped in mid-shake. ‘Oh, mail. Fat Otto picks that up.' He said it as if it were self-evident, that everyone should know it was Fat Otto's job.

‘Did he work for Musimotive?'

‘Sure. Still does bits for other outfits in the building. Music publishers, you know.'

‘Do you know where I can contact him?'

The doorman looked at his large gold watch. ‘Most mornings Fat Otto's in Motti's Bar. Two blocks down on the left.'

Motti's was not a gay bar, but Charles still had the feeling he was trespassing. It wasn't a tourist bar and it didn't want to be; the customers all had reserved seats. Charles went up to the bar and ordered a beer.

The barman produced one sourly. He didn't want to extend his clientèle.

Charles decided to speak while he still had a modicum of the man's attention. ‘I'm looking for Fat Otto.'

The barman wasn't going to waste words on a newcomer. He nodded to a corner table and turned abruptly away. Charles decided not to say thank you; he didn't think he'd get a ‘You're welcome' back.

He could have worked it out for himself. Fat Otto was fat. His belly and buttocks were so big that he couldn't sit in the normal upright position, but subsided like a sack against a wall. His legs, crossed beneath him, looked incongruously small, too weak to support their owner's bulk. He was dressed in a marquee of a tartan shirt which bowed out between the buttons to reveal pod-shapes of black sweatshirt. Sweat glistened on his brow. His dyed black hair seemed to grow only on the very top of his head, an optical illusion created by the opulence of his chins. Eyes, nose and mouth looked unnaturally close together, three dots in the big circle of a child's drawing.