The Renewable Virgin (2 page)

Thus Rudy Benedict was doing oddjob rewrites for Nathan Pinking while all of what he called his true creative energies went into the Great American Mellydrammer about television, a subject on which everybody in the world considers themselves, ah, himself or herself, or whatever, an expert. But Rudy really was an expert, or as close to being one as anyone who works
for
the medium can be. As opposed to those who make the medium work for them, owners and execs and such. Rudy'd been around almost since the day he'd left college, fifteen, sixteen years maybe. That's a lot of television scripts. Rudy had survived writer burn-out by working only half of each year.

The night after I'd sent him home with a headache, Rudy had failed to show up for a poker game in the same building where he lived. Since Rudy was supposed to bring the chips, an annoyed host had gone up and pounded on the door. There'd been no answer, but the host could hear the radio playing in Rudy's apartment. So he got the super to open up, and the two of them found Rudy crumpled up on the floor.

Rudy Benedict was dead, and he'd been poisoned—the police weren't saying what kind of poison or how it had been administered. It was a hell of a shock. Rudy wasn't what you'd call a threatening man—he was more like, well, like a
supplicant
, a petitioner. Trying to crash the inner circles, you know, that kind of person. He was a moderately successful man within his own field of expertise, but the field was kind of narrow and Rudy was beginning to feel squeezed. That's one reason he wanted to write a real honest-to-God play, I think. Not to get into the theater so much as to get out of television. Although theater has its own inner circle Rudy would have loved to crash. Not the money and muscle you find in TV and the movies, but there were compensations in belonging to that particular club. Poor Rudy never even got close.

Shock's funny, everybody doesn't react the same. For me it was like pulling back to a kind of platform and looking at the world from that slight distance. Things were a different color, too, a kind of yellow around the edges, I don't know why. That faded after a couple of days. Rudy Benedict and I were not close, had never been close. But the potential for
getting
close had come up and that made all the difference.

LeFever
was shooting exteriors at the UN Building when the police came around to talk to me. I was waiting for a new camera set-up when the questions started.

‘He was writing an exposé of the television industry,' I told the policewoman who was questioning me. ‘A play.'

‘Gawdalmighty,' she groaned. ‘That's the first thing everybody says.' I let my surprise show, so she dropped the other shoe. ‘And it wasn't even true.'

‘Whoa, wait a minute.' I thought a moment. ‘First of all, who's “everybody”? Rudy didn't tell
everybody
.'

‘He might have missed a few people in Manhattan,' she said sardonically, ‘but not many.' The policewoman was Detective Second Grade M. Larch, her ID had said; she had a gray potato face and was tired and fed-up-looking. Either a long day or a frustrating one, probably both. ‘Rudy Benedict told everybody he knew—in strictest confidence, of course—that he was writing a play about television.'

‘But he wasn't?'

‘Not really—just piddling around. He'd made some notes about the story, but he hadn't gotten very far. He didn't even have names for his characters yet. Just called them A and B and C and like that.'

‘Maybe that's all you found …'

Detective Larch shook her head. ‘That's all there
was
. He did more talking about that play than he did writing. Writer's block, maybe?'

I shrugged. ‘Maybe. I thought he really was working on it. How can you be sure there wasn't anything else? Research notes, incriminating letters, all that stuff? Maybe somebody stole them. The same somebody who killed him.'

She smiled, the first time. ‘You want it to be an exposé, don't you? All you folks in television, everyone I've talked to wants it to be an exposé. Sorry to disappoint you, but what notes Rudy Benedict left indicate his play was going to be one of those crisis-of-conscience things. Moment-of-truth stuff for the hero. The hero was to be a television writer who was afraid something he'd written might be harmful to young viewers. Autobiographical?'

I answered with a question of my own. ‘Something the hero had written? Like what? Maybe that—'

‘Benedict hadn't even figured out
what
yet. He was just doodling. He was writing no exposé, Ms Ingram, believe me.'

‘Call me Kelly,' I said absently. ‘So he wasn't killed because of his play?'

‘Doesn't look like it, although we're keeping that door open. Who were his enemies, Ms Ingram?'

Okay, if she didn't want to call me Kelly, that was her business, what did I care. ‘I don't really know,
Detective Larch
, ma'am. I hadn't seen Rudy for a couple of years until I ran into him again a few weeks ago.'

She sniffed at me. ‘You've got to have an idea or two. Give me some names.'

‘You want me to
guess
?'

Detective Larch looked tireder than ever. ‘Yes, Miss Kelly Ingram, guess, if you have to. Give me some names. I've got to have something to report.'

She didn't give a damn what I said, just so I said
something
. Terrific police work. ‘His ex-wife, maybe,' I said reluctantly—not out of concern for the former Mrs. Benedict (didn't even know her) but because I hate being bullied. ‘But I understood she and Rudy were on good terms. But then,
I
thought Rudy was writing an exposé of television, so what do I know. She's remarried, living in Connecticut. I don't think Rudy ever told me her married name—pretty sure he never mentioned it.'

‘Turrell, Mrs. Roger Turrell. She was home in bed with Mr. Roger Turrell the night Benedict was killed. Guess somebody else. Somebody he might have been on
bad
terms with.'

I lifted my shoulders. ‘Just about any producer or director he worked with. Writers are always crying about how their scripts are butchered.'

‘Name one.'

I looked around; nobody within earshot. ‘Start with the one who's running this show. Nathan Pinking.'

‘Pinking was a bad enemy of Benedict's? Ruined his scripts, did he?'

‘I don't know if Nathan Pinking was any kind of enemy. You said name somebody and I did. Nathan's no worse, no better than other producers. Maybe a little better than most because he's so careless.'

Bloodshot eyes in a potato face, blinking at me. ‘How's that?'

‘Nathan's always in a hurry, which makes him careless, which keeps him from interfering too much. He's not even here most of the time—just shows up once in a while to make sure we aren't all off playing hookey on his time.'

‘Is he here now?'

‘No. Just a couple of his lackeys.'

‘Who are they?'

I was pointing them out to her when the word came the cameras were ready. All I had to do in the scene was get out of a cab, run up some steps, and hand an envelope to the actor named Nick Quinlan who played LeFever. The first time we did it he dropped the envelope.

Nick Quinlan was a big, hunk-style male with the right haircut and the right mustache. He looked as if he was showing off his bare chest even when he was dressed to the teeth—really gorgeous to look at, if you didn't mind obviousness. But he couldn't talk. ‘Hey, make sure I got aholt fore y'leggo, woncha?'

‘Ask for some stickum for your fingertips,' I smiled.

I'd only recently got to the point where I'd started complaining out loud about Nick. When we first started shooting
LeFever
, that ox had stepped on just about every line I had. If I had a speech made up of more than one sentence, I had to run them together in a breathy attempt to get everything said before Nick came butting in with his line. But when he did interrupt before I'd finished, I didn't say anything to the director. I just smiled and kept a stiff upper lip and refused to complain. I was being professional, I was being a trouper, blah blah blah. Until I realized that nobody cared. Nobody even
noticed
. So from then on, every time Nick cut off one of my lines, I hollered. I hollered loud.

Right then the director was doing some hollering of his own, so I went back and got in the cab. Out the door, up the steps, hand over the envelope. Look concerned.

Nick had a line. It was supposed to be, ‘You'd think he'd know better than to write something like this, wouldn't you?' It came out, ‘Y'd thank he'd write sumpin bettern this, wooden chew?'

Flubbed lines are redone in television only if they are flagrantly wrong, like changing the meaning as Nick's misreading had just done. By then the director had worked with Nick enough to know that once his leading man started out blowing a line in that particular fashion, he'd never get it right. So right then and there the line was changed to read, ‘I wish he hadn't written this.' Nick could handle that. In television, everybody was used to disposable writing.

The next time we tried it somebody who wasn't supposed to be there wandered into the scene. The fourth attempt was ruined when Nick stumbled as he stepped forward to take the envelope and grabbed my arm to keep from falling—making me fall instead. But the fifth time we got it. Five tries to get what should have been a one-take sequence. Normal for
LeFever
.

It was the last shot of the day, so we were free to go. Detective Larch was waiting where I'd left her, leaning against one of the camera vans. She was staring at Nick Quinlan as he stood talking to the director. ‘What's wrong with him today?'

‘Nothing. He's always like that.'

She shook her head disbelievingly but made no comment. She started asking me about the last time I saw Rudy Benedict, the night before he died.

‘He went home early, with a headache,' I fudged a little.

‘You didn't see him the next day at all?'

‘No. Detective Larch, when did he die exactly? The papers didn't say.'

‘About an hour before his poker buddy found him. You're sure you didn't see him that day at all?'

‘Of course I'm sure. The last I saw of him was about ten o'clock the night before.'

‘What did he talk about?'

‘His play. The one you say he wasn't writing.'

She sighed. ‘I gave you the wrong impression, didn't I? I meant he hadn't really got started on it, he was still doodling around. But he was planning a play, getting ready to write.'

‘And you know for a fact that it wasn't going to be an exposé of any sort. You're
really
sure of that, are you?'

‘The Captain is sure. He's told us to look elsewhere for a motive.'

The
Captain, as if there was only one in the entire world. ‘Captain who?'

‘Captain Michaels. He's in charge of the investigation. How did Benedict seem that last time? Upset, nervous …?'

‘Just a little headachy. And that wasn't bad. He'd recently started smoking a pipe, and I think that sometimes bothered him.'

Detective Larch's bloodshot eyes stared straight into mine. ‘Headache. You said that before. My God, I must be tireder than I thought. Did he take anything for it?'

I thought back. ‘No, he—wait a minute. I gave him some, ah, Bromo-Seltzer.'

At that the policewoman's entire appearance changed—her face came to life, her body woke up. ‘Bromo-Seltzer. You're sure it was Bromo-Seltzer?'

I stared at her, horrified. ‘You mean the stuff I gave him … you're saying I gave him the poison?' I could hear my voice rising.

‘Take it easy, take it easy,' Detective Larch said hastily, her own voice rising. ‘Let's get it straight first. Are you absolutely positive it was Bromo-Seltzer you gave him? Take your time. Think back.'

I took my time and I thought back. I remembered the sample coming in the mail, in a box that was …
yellow
, not blue. ‘No, it wasn't Bromo-Seltzer! It was some new product, something for headache and upset stomach. I don't remember what it's called, it was just something that came in the mail. A sample.'

‘Did you take any of it?'

‘No, it just came that day. Was that it? Was—'

‘Ms Ingram, try to remember the brand name. Take your time.'

I looked at her closely. She knew the brand but was being very careful not to tell me. Trying not to damage her evidence by putting words in my mouth, I suppose. Evidence for what?

‘Think,' the detective said.

It came to me. ‘Lysco-Seltzer,' I said. ‘Rhymes with disco. Detective Larch. Give me a straight answer—please. Was that what killed Rudy?'

The expression on her face told me the answer before she could say anything. She reached out and touched my arm. ‘I'm sorry. You all right?'

‘No, I am not all right,' I said numbly. ‘
I
was the one who gave Rudy … somebody wanted
me
to take that…' I just stood there and shuddered. ‘My God, it's like the Tylenol murders all over again! Some nut out to poison the whole world—'

‘No, wait a minute, it can't be the same as that,' she scowled. ‘The Tylenol killer substituted capsules full of poison for the headache medicine and then put the bottles back on drugstore shelves. That's entirely different from getting hold of sample bottles going through the mail. Besides, we've got all these new safety packaging regulations now. Your Lysco-Seltzer—there was a seal over the mouth of the bottle, wasn't there?'

‘I don't know, I never opened it. It just came in the mail.'

‘Well, did it have a—what do they call it—a film-sealed cap? Or one of those plastic envelope-type things around the whole bottle?'

I visualized the bottle. ‘No. No, it didn't have anything like that. But if there wasn't any seal inside, Rudy would have noticed, he must have.'