Sammy two shoes, p.11
Sammy Two Shoes, page 11
And because I’m supposed to be the smart one, it only took me about thirty seconds to figure it out.
‘You were in the dressing room before anybody,’ I whispered. ‘You found Emory dead. And for some reason, you thought maybe Phoebe killed Emory, so you popped a pencil in Emory’s neck to, like, distract the police.’
‘These police,’ Sammy said sympathetically, ‘they got so many crimes to deal with that they don’t really have time to explore the details of any one case. A bleeding neck wound looks pretty much like cause of death, and what with no tox screen and all, case closed right away.’
‘Yeah, but Sam,’ I objected, ‘nobody liked Emory. Could have been anybody that iced her, don’t you think?’
‘Only Phoebe was the main one getting threatening notes from Emory,’ Sammy allowed, ‘which everybody knew. The cops would have gone right to Phoebe. That was my thinking on the spur of the moment. I admit it: I wasn’t thinking right. Apparently, love does that to a person.’
‘And how could you figure on the cops being so lazy that they’d nab Phoebe because she was the one standing closest to the body when they came on the scene?’ I concluded.
‘Right,’ he told me. ‘I mean, I was going out of town anyway, and when you thought that was your idea, I also figured you’d pursue the matter while I was gone.’
‘Which I did.’
‘And Phoebe’s out.’
‘Not exactly,’ I told him. ‘I got her lawyer to do a little extra … the lawyer got a tox screen. Emory was poisoned, your fingerprints were on the pencil, and now the general consensus, I think, is that you two are both guilty of the murder, you and Phoebe.’
He glared. ‘So you made things worse.’
I nodded. ‘A little.’
‘For God’s sake, Foggy,’ Sammy began.
‘I’ll fix it,’ I said firmly.
‘How?’
‘I’ll find out who really killed Emory.’ I looked down at my hands in my lap. ‘See, Sammy, Phoebe isn’t from your world. She’s from a different reality, where people don’t just kill each other to take care of a problem. It’s my understanding that, in the theatre world, everybody in a play always wants to kill somebody else in the cast. If they don’t, you’re doing something wrong. The difference is they don’t actually do it. They don’t kill anybody. And they hug and kiss when the show is over, crying like they’re leaving home forever. So my thoughts on the subject are as follows. Phoebe didn’t kill Emory because she’s not that kind of girl. You didn’t kill Emory because Emory was already dead. I also don’t think any of the other actors killed Emory because of the aforementioned other world in which they live. So my conclusion is that Emory was mixed up in something outside of the wonderful world of theatre that got her popped. The first thing I have to do is find out what that something was.’
I turned to Sammy for his reaction. He was sound asleep.
We parted ways at LaGuardia. He got a cab to Brooklyn; I found a shuttle that would let me out at the Benjamin. It took a while. I had time to reflect. And that reflection led me to wonder why I ever thought that coming to New York was a good idea. What I wanted was to watch a pigeon eat something disgusting on a curb. What I got was being an accessory to two murders. My conclusion was that I should have stood in bed.
Still, I figured I had to play the hand I’d been dealt. I had to figure out who killed Emory. And to do that, I had to learn more about her, to find out what she’d been into. And to do that, I had to go back to the actors who knew her. At least for the span of rehearsing for Hamlet.
Emory played Ophelia. Best I could remember, after a little more reflection, was that Ophelia had the most scenes with Polonius. Then next with Hamlet. Didn’t mean that either of those actors would know Emory any better that anyone else, but I had to start somewhere. I always found that any action, even if it’s the wrong one, is better than no action at all. And even the wrong action can lead to the right conclusion. If you’re lucky.
So after a tossing-and-turning night at the Benjamin, I was up just after noon, headed back to Tisch and the dorm room where I’d talked to Polonius. On the way I pondered why I hadn’t bothered to remember the actors’ real names and was still thinking of them as their characters’ names. That wasn’t like me. My conclusion was that it meant something. Something about the play or the characters had to do with why Emory had been killed. Or did it? Was I just grasping at the proverbial straws?
My head still crowded with ideas like that, I found myself at the dorm room door. I tapped.
One of the roommates answered. She was wearing a T-shirt that said Exonerated and gold satin gym shorts. I’d seen her at the table when I’d talked to Polonius. I started to say something, but she got there first.
‘It’s that cop again,’ she called out.
Then, leaving the door open, she wandered back into the room. I took a step in. There had been a party. The place looked a little like Denny Bennet’s motel room only times ten.
Polonius had been in the kitchen and she waded through the debris toward me with lowered eyelids and a broken gait. She was wrapped in a green terrycloth robe. It was awful. It looked like she’d been attacked by moss.
‘I. Have the worst hangover. Ever invented.’ Her breathing attested to the honesty of her statement.
‘Cool,’ I said, ‘but I need to talk about Emory.’
‘Christ,’ she whispered.
She went back to the kitchen, got coffee in a mug nearly the size of her head, and then went to sit at the dining table by the window. I joined her. The other roommates had already split.
‘I already told you everything,’ she complained, rubbing her forehead.
‘Just looking for one more thing,’ I assured her. ‘What was Emory interested in outside of the theatre?’
She stopped rubbing her head and glared.
‘What?’ she groaned.
‘Would you happen to know what else Emory did beside act in plays and irritate people?’
‘I didn’t know her,’ Polonius said, trying to make it clear to me that I was an idiot.
‘It’s important,’ I assured her. ‘Anything she talked about or complained about or laughed about outside of the play.’
‘All she did was complain.’ She took a healthy gulp of coffee. ‘I did my best to tune her out. She hated me.’
‘You said,’ I agreed. ‘But could you really try to think back for a second?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think she was killed because of some nefarious activities not remotely involving theatre.’
She thought. ‘Nefarious. That’s bad stuff, right?’
‘Yes.’ I didn’t mean to sigh when I said it, but I did.
‘Yeah, I don’t know if this qualifies,’ Polonius told me, taking another swallow of coffee, ‘but she really had some pretty bad fights with her boyfriend. I mean, like, a black eye once, and a big cut on her arm.’
‘Happen to know her boyfriend’s name?’
She shook her head. ‘But Phoebe would know.’
‘She would?’
‘Phoebe knows everything,’ Polonius assured me. ‘Look, I’m fairly sure somebody put a squirrel inside my head last night when I wasn’t looking. I gotta take, like, fifty aspirins and go back to bed, OK?’
She stood up.
‘You know what helps a hangover,’ I began.
‘Get lost,’ she interrupted. ‘That’ll help my hangover.’
‘Right.’ I stood. ‘The thing is, Phoebe’s in jail. Hard to get to.’
She groaned. ‘Then why don’t you just ask Phoebe’s boyfriend? You know him, right? He brought you to the theatre. And he knew Emory. Better than anybody, I think.’
She stumbled her way toward what I assumed was her bedroom while I stood there with what I assumed was a stupid look on my face.
‘Sammy knew Emory?’ I asked.
‘Emory introduced him to Phoebe, Sherlock,’ she groaned.
And she was gone.
Sure, I was supposed to be the smart one, but clearly the speed of my native intelligence had been dulled by a return to the New York air. Or something. Because it wasn’t until that moment that a bigger picture came into focus. And it was a picture I did not care for.
Sammy Two Shoes took me for a ride. How was it possible that I hadn’t seen that before? Was it just that I was so hungry for New York that I let New York take advantage of me? Was it just because I missed the old days and the old pals so much that I could let them get away with murder? Literally?
I managed to walk out of the apartment. Even managed to get on to the street and hail a cab. But by the time I was sitting in the back of that cab, all I could do was worry.
‘Benjamin,’ I muttered. ‘East 50th. Make it in under twenty minutes and I double the fare.’
I eased back in the seat just as the driver floored the gas. We were there in twelve.
EIGHTEEN
I sat in my room for about an hour, dazed. Then I ordered room service, a steak and a bottle of Scotch, which you wouldn’t believe how much it cost. And when it came, I drank the bottle and stared at the steak. And when the bottle was nearly gone, I started making phone calls. It was still afternoon.
The first call was to the public defender who was supposed to be handling Phoebe’s case, Helen Baker. She answered on the second ring.
‘What?’ That’s all she wanted to know.
‘It’s Foggy Moscowitz,’ I told her. ‘I have to talk with Phoebe.’
Silence.
‘Ms Baker?’ I prompted.
‘Why?’ That was her next question.
‘She knew Emory pretty well, I’m told. I need to find out what Emory was up to besides theatre.’
‘Why?’ Again.
‘Because I think Emory was involved in some sort of criminal activity that got her killed.’
‘Criminal activity.’ She snorted. ‘You mean besides acting in lesbian Hamlet? Which, excuse me, sounds like a felony.’
‘It wasn’t lesbian Hamlet. Look. Nobody liked Emory. She was mean-spirited, kept an offensive journal, and shot up somebody’s door in a terrific example of overreaction.’
‘Maybe she was just overacting,’ Ms Baker interrupted.
‘Far as I could tell,’ I said right back, ‘she wasn’t capable of any kind of acting at all, but that’s not the point.’
‘So what is the point?’
‘I’m trying to find Emory’s murderer,’ I snapped. ‘Why are you in a mood?’
‘A mood?’ Her voice was three times louder than it had been. ‘I’m working on sixteen cases at the moment. Sixteen! And for this particular one, there’s not much I can do! So if you don’t mind, fuck off, Mr Jenkins!’
‘It’s … Moscowitz,’ I began.
‘I know who it is!’
‘Wait,’ I said slowly. ‘There’s someone there at your desk with you.’
‘Of course there is,’ she said, maintaining her ire.
‘And you can’t really talk to me now,’ I went on.
‘I don’t have time for this!’
‘OK, but you should know I found Sammy Cohen. And I brought him back with me. He’s in Brooklyn as we speak. And also, I found out he knew Emory better than I thought he did. Emory introduced Phoebe to Sammy.’
‘I’m hanging up now!’
‘Can you meet me at the bar at the Benjamin for a late lunch?’ I suggested.
‘That’s right!’ And with that, she slammed down the phone.
So that took care of my lunch date. The next call was to my mother. Or really, to my aunt, and that’s who answered the phone.
‘Hello,’ Shayna said, deliberately sounding weak and timid.
‘Shayna, it’s me.’
‘Ah.’ A little more like her normal voice. ‘You’ve been thinking.’
One of the disconcerting things about my aunt Shayna was the speed of her observations. She could tell in three words that I was disconcerted. And like lightning, she knew why.
‘Yes.’ I wanted to see how much she would tell me. And how much she would withhold.
‘This is not something we can talk about in a telephone conversation,’ she said.
‘Well, I’m not coming over to Brooklyn right now. I have a lunch date.’ I was hoping she could tell that I was mad.
‘You want to come for dinner?’ Like it was a light, casual family thing.
‘The current man with two shoes,’ I began, a little more harshly than maybe I should have, ‘is not the person I left behind several years ago.’
‘He is not,’ she agreed. ‘He was kind of a boy then. He’s a man now.’
‘Not how I’d put it.’
‘How would you put it?’ she asked.
‘When I left, he was dangling his toes in the kiddie pool,’ I said. ‘Since then, you threw him in the deep end.’
‘Luckily, he’s a good swimmer.’
That was it. No denial, no apology.
‘Look, he pulled me into this. And you pulled just as hard. What the hell, Shayna? What’s going on?’
‘What’s going on?’ Her voice was an octave higher than it had been. ‘You took a powder. You went to Florida. You got straight. Now you’re supposed to be some kind of a do-gooder. And now, here you are, up from Florida out of the blue, unannounced, acting like some kind of bigshot.’
‘Hang on,’ I interrupted. ‘Hang on. You’re turning this around. You’re putting this on me. I didn’t … you got me involved in murder!’
‘Florida made you soft. You would never complain about a thing like that if you’d stayed in Brooklyn like you were supposed to.’
I took a beat because I didn’t want to explode. And in that beat, I reflected. And that reflection made me realize that Shayna had never in her life talked to me like that. Never. So maybe something was wrong. Really wrong.
‘You’re scared,’ I said after that moment of silence.
And at that, my aunt Shayna burst into tears. Another first. I’d never heard her cry.
‘It’s Sammy,’ she whispered.
‘OK.’ I let out a breath. ‘I have to see this person at this lunch. And then I’ll be over, right?’
‘Thanks, kiddo,’ she sniffled. ‘I … OK, I love you.’
And she hung up.
I sat in my room for a minute, trying to figure out what the hell was really going on. Then I gave up, took a shower, put on the powder-blue suit, and went downstairs for lunch.
Helen Baker was already there, sitting at the bar.
I approached. She started shaking her head.
‘You found Sammy Cohen and you brought him back from where?’ she demanded.
‘Does it matter?’ I sat down beside her. ‘You asked me to fetch him. Mission accomplished.’
‘I asked you to find the real murderer, too,’ she mumbled, turning toward her martini.
‘But to do that, I really have to talk with Phoebe.’
She roared. ‘I made you my official investigator for the case! You can go down to the station and just tell them you want to see her any time you want!’
‘I can?’ I blinked. ‘OK. The thing is, I know your world more from the other side of the bars. I just waltz in there and ask?’
‘I wouldn’t waltz, but yeah.’ She took a healthy swig of her drink. ‘What is it you’re hoping to find out?’
‘I think Emory was into something of a troubling nature.’
‘Such as?’ She was staring at the lunch menu.
‘Cocaine. I’m pretty sure there was coke residue on her mirror in the dressing room. And a person has to be in deep to do lines like that in the middle of a show, don’t you think?’
There were extra menus on the bar. I slid one my way.
She nodded. ‘It kind of fits. Her weird journal, the whole shooting up somebody’s door thing. Now that you mention it, it does sound like coke.’
‘Right. I’m having the burger.’
The bartender appeared. ‘Burger for the gentleman,’ he intoned.
‘Caesar Salad for me,’ Ms Baker said. ‘With grilled chicken.’
‘Anything else?’ the bartender asked.
‘Could you bring me a little soda water and lime?’ I asked.
‘On the house,’ he said, smiling.
‘I love this place,’ I told him. ‘I’m thinking of buying it.’
‘I’ll alert the staff,’ he said, and then he turned to go.
‘Better bring me some fries with my salad,’ Ms Baker said softly.
‘Of course,’ the bartender said, and then he was gone.
And when he was gone, Ms Baker said, ‘What makes you think Phoebe would know anything about Emory’s drug habits, or any other habits for that matter?’
‘I’ve been given to understand that a stage manager, in the world of the theatre,’ I explained, ‘knows everything. They’re not like us, these stage manager types. They’re supernatural creatures.’
She only thought about it for a second. ‘OK. So, after lunch you’ll go with me to the station house where she is, I’ll sign you in, because it will be quicker that way, and you’ll talk to her, but in my presence.’
‘OK, but why?’
‘Why what?
‘Why do I have to talk with her in your presence?’
‘Because,’ she said, picking up her martini, ‘I have to know everything. Get used to it.’
The bartender brought my soda water, and I drank some of it just to keep from cracking wise with Ms Baker. Because I didn’t want to alert her to the fact that I liked her. Sometimes if a person knows you like them, they can take advantage of you. Like Sammy took advantage of me.
So we sat there in silence for a moment.
Then she said, ‘You’ve come to a satisfactory conclusion in a hundred percent of your cases down in Florida. A hundred percent. That’s impressive.’
‘I guess it depends on what you mean by a satisfactory conclusion,’ I said.
‘You protected a kid. It’s in the name of your employing organization. You helped. Every time.’
‘OK.’ I took another conversation-avoiding sip of soda water.
‘Don’t you want to know why I looked up your record?’ she asked.
‘Why did you look up my record?’ I obliged.
