1 Breakfast at Madeline's (17 page)

I just hoped neither of them were murderers.

Madeline, at least, was in the clear, so far as I knew. She'd told me the truth when she said Penn paid for his coffee; she didn't
realize he was blackmailing Mar
cie for the ninety-seven cents.

But Rob, on the other hand
...
He'd been after me pretty hard for The Penn's manuscript. Had The Penn been blackmailing him, too, without Marcie knowing? It didn't make sense, though, because The Penn didn't need Rob for free co
ffee; Marcie was already supply
ing it. And besides, Rob started talking about holding a memorial service for The Penn before he even knew that manuscript existed. Why would you kill someone and then want to hold a memorial service for him? Rob might be a frustrated filmmaker, but he wasn't psychotic.

While I was thinking all these things I beamed at the happy couple, my face on automatic pilot. Madeline took my hand and held it. "Jacob, keep Columbus Day weekend free. You made the list."

"I'm truly honored," I said, and I was. "Well, you guys are getting a little too sickeningly sweet, so I guess I'll leave you alone now."

I took my Colombian to the empty table and had a sip. No, not a sip, a guzzle; it was the best coffee I ever tasted. Of course, at this point even moldy Sanka would have tasted good. As the caffeine kicked in, I took The Penn's appli
cation out of my pocket. If Mar
ilyn Monroe herself came back from the dead and wrapped her legs
around me, it wouldn't have mat
tered; I was going to
finally read this damn applica
tion, right now.

But then a shadow hovered over me; Madeline, on her way to the bathroom. Was it my imagination or was she reading over my shoulder as she passed by? I gave her a friendly nod, but pulled the application closer to me.

Statement of Purpose: I am requesting $5000 to assist me in writing my three-volume work,
The History of Western Civilization Careening, as Seen through the Eyes of One of its Primary Practitioners.
After working on this book for many years, I am now nearing completion.

The book's thesis is that love can bring almost unbearable responsibility...

I was so disgusted I threw the application to the floor.
Another
version of the
preface?!
The Penn had made a fool out of m
e yet again! For this I had com
mitted burglary, almost fried to death, and come within a pubic hair o
f losing my extramarital virgin
ity? I
stood
up to go. Then, with an exasperated sigh, I reached down for the application and read on.
Dark and snowy night... live our
deepest lives isolated...
I im
patiently skimmed the key words, not even bothering anymore to hide the application from Madeline's eyes when she returned from the bathroom.
Clear sky... clister... computer...

Wait a minute.
"Computer?"
I backed up.

I have been somewhat blocked in my writing for the past couple of years.
No kidding, pal.
You see, I learned when very young the fearsome power of words. Even seemingly innocuous ones like "Have you seen my clister?" can kill. Therefore I rewrite assiduously, which has become both my joy and my bane. I have concluded that the solution to the problem of rewrites is pu
rchasing a computer. Only a com
puter, I believe, now lies between me and greatness.

Not the first time I'd heard this sentiment. The screenwriting class I taught in prison was full of guys
who were sure that if they only had a computer, they'd become the next Spike Lee.

Sure, and if I
had a tutu, I'd be the next Rudolf Nureyev.

An artist, like every man, or every woman as one must add in this pseudo-egalitarian age, will grasp for greatness by any means necessary. S
ix months ago a heartless, mali
cious bureaucracy decreased my Social Security disability income (or, as I prefer to think of it, my federal writing stipend) by $89.60 per month. Ever since then, I have taken extraordinary measures to insure that poverty will not abate my intake of Ethiopian—believing, as I do, that a steady flow of Ethiopian is imperative to my creati
ve flow. Mem
bers of the grant panel are o
nly too aware of some of the ex
traordinary measures I
have taken.

I read that one twice.
Members of the grant panel are only too aware of some of the extraordinary measures I have taken.
Like blackmail? Did Penn somehow manage to blackmail the panel members, too?

So Penn had dirt on Gretchen, the mayor, Marcie, Rob, and now maybe the grant panel. Man, this guy got around. Maybe he was a failure as a writer, but as a blackmailer he was aces.

At this point in time, me
re Ethiopian is no longer suffi
cient. To fulfill my destiny as official chronicler of the final years of our wobbling millen
nium, it is necessary that I re
ceive funding for a Power Book 1400 computer; an Apple LaserWriter 12/640, with accompanying toner cartridges and printer paper; and eight ballpoint pens and other items.

Panel members should k
now that if my extremely reason
able request is denied, I a
m prepared to take even more ex
traordinary measures. Be forewarned.

Penn's "Statement of Purpose" ended right there.
"Be forewarned."
Pretty impressive; Penn had gone from blackmailing peo
ple for cups of coffee to black
mailing people for expensive computers. A step up.

What was he blackmailing the grant panel about? Obviously he felt he had something juicy. But even if he did, how could they possibly award him $5000? True, in theory they were permitted to fund requests of up to five grand; but in practice they rarely gave more than twelve or fifteen hundred. The two grand that Bonnie Engels got, and the almost two grand that George Hosey and Antoinette Carlson both got, were probably the biggest grants the panel had awarded this year.

Which put the panel members in a dangerous bind. Ever since the NEA awarded money for some guy to exhibit a crucifix in a jar of piss, oversight on arts grants has gotten more rigorous. Maybe not rigorous enough to stop every littl
e conflict of interest, but def
initely enough to uncover a preposterous $5000 award to a derelict with no resume. If the panel said yes to The Penn, they'd have to face fierce questioning from both NYFA in New
York and the Arts Council Execu
tive Board in Saratoga. At best they'd come off looking like total idiots; at
worst, someone would smell some
thing shady.

On the other hand, if they said no, th
ey'd risk hav
ing Penn expose whatever nefarious deeds he'd been blackmailing them about. They were lucky that The Penn died just in the nick of time, only two days before their big meeting, so they never had to decide what to do about him.

But maybe it wasn't luck at all.
Maybe someone on the grant panel had solved the problem by killing The Penn.

Suddenly The Penn's application started shaking in my hands; then I realized it was my hands that were shaking. He had dropped dead at 9:50, less than an hour after guzzling his daily Arts Council Ethiopian. Maybe that was the Ethiopian that killed him.

One or more of the panel members could have dropped in at the Arts Council that morning between 8:45 and 9:00, after Mo
lly Otis made the coffee but be
fore The Penn picked it up, and slipped a hit of poison into his drink. It would have been as easy as making fun of Ross Perot's ears. That early in the morning the Arts Council was probably deserted, so the killer could sneak in and out the back door with no one ever seeing him.

Except, of course, for Molly.

Oh, my God.
Why hadn't I seen this before? I sipped the last dregs of my java, trying to steady myself.

Was this the rea
l reason why someone was so des
perate to shut that girl up?

If Molly Otis saw so
mebody in the Arts Council of
fice between eight for
ty-five and nine a.m. that morn
ing, then she might know, without realizing it, who killed Donald Penn.

22

I checked my watch. Eleven-twenty already; Andrea would be seriously pissed. I better haul my ass back home immediately.

But first, it was high time to give Molly Otis another call. After all, Dave was at my house holding down the fort, and I could always blame my lateness on Amtrak. So I pocketed the application and headed to the pay phone outside Uncommon Grounds.

Unfortunately, the pay phone was booked. Some Skidmore pib (perso
n in black) was having a conver
sation with either her boyfriend or her worst enemy. The way she was cussing at him, it was hard to tell which. I withdrew a few yards to give her fury some room and took out the application again, looking for further clues. I turned the page and found The Penn's
"Budget of Project,"
which started out looking like the exact same pathetic budget he'd submitted two years before.

EXPENSES, MONTHLY

Rent including utilities
             
             
$350

Food—daily consumption o
f 1 can chunk tuna, 8 oz. milk,

2 cups Tastee-O's breakfast cer
eal, 8 oz. frozen orange juice,

4 slices day-old bread, and 2 TBS butter
             
             
62.40

Notebooks, pens of various colors, pencils,
erasers,

and other writing material
             
             
             
14.36

Entertainment—1 movie matinee
             
             
             
 
4.75

Toothpaste, miscellaneous
             
             
             
 
4.75

Safety-deposit box
             
             
             
  1.25

Transportation—bus to and from mall for movie
             
             
 
1.20

Telephone, clothing, shoes
             
             
             
  0

Coffee, 3 or more cups daily, at various

establishments (necessary for creativity)
             
             
 
0

             
(donations)

I stopped and rerea
d the last entry. That
"0 (dona
tions)"
business was new. I guess "donations" was The Penn's cute way of saying "blackmail money." And I was pretty sure
"3 or more cups"
was new too; it used to be just
"3 cups."
Was
an increased caffeine intake re
sponsible for The Penn's increasingly grandiose schemes?

Those schemes were very much in evidence in the next budget item:

Computer (PC
portable PowerBook 1400, with RAM expanded to

64MB, 1.0GB
hard disk, and added CD-Rom drive)
             
$2458

             
(includes
shipping
charges)

A damn nice computer. The same type of machine I used to use at Madeline's, back when I was writing, but about three levels fancier. The Penn may have been thinking portable, but he definitely wasn't thinking small.

Printer and supplies (Apple LaserWriter
             
12/6
40; one year's supply

of toner
cartridges—i.e., four cartridges; and
printer paper)
             
$2207.96

             
             
(includes shipping charges)

Once again, the same type of machine I used to use; but once again, a lot fancier. I put the application down for a moment, intri
gued that The Penn was both mim
icking me and one-upping me at the same time. Just coincidence? Or was he jealous of my sudden success? I had gone from fellow
unsuccessful writer to million
aire in one stroke of a Hollywood producer's pen. Maybe The Penn thought if he got himself a computer that was more expensive than mine, it would sort of even the score.

Also, I was willing to bet the guy convinced himself the only reason I bro
ke through and he didn't was be
cause I had a compu
ter. It scared me how well I un
derstood this guy. I guess that was one dubious benefit of my many unsuccessfu
l years as a screenwriter: I un
derstood failure.

And I felt like I understood his blackmailing, too. It wasn't just about the money or the free java. No, it was about all the bitterness, rage, and despair that had built up inside him du
ring his three decades as an un
successful artist, until he finally exploded.

I wondered, since I never brought my printer to Madeline's, how did The Penn know what kind I had? He must have eavesdropped on me talking about it. Or maybe he was even
spying
on me, looking for stuff to blackmail me about. What a creepy thought. This guy Penn was a sick fuck. Of course, if I hadn't gotten lucky with
Gas,
and if I'd kept writing unproduced screenplays for another fifteen years, no doubt I would have turned into a pretty sick fuck myself. I turned the page.

Software, disks
             
330

Eight ballpoint pens (for revising hard copy of manuscript)
             
  
4.04

I had to smile about those eight ballpoint pens. The old Donald Penn poking through. He poked through later too, in the
"Income"
section, where he still listed $7.75/month from bottle and can returns.

But when I turned the page again, my smile froze. Under
"Additional Comments,"
The Penn had written:
Thank you, but I've said all I need to say. The threats that have been made against my life do not frighten me. I may be killed, but I will not be silenced.

After those ominous words, there was nothing but extremely aggravating blank white space.

Goddamn it,
who? Who
had threatened The Penn's life?

I stood there starin
g at the whiteness, perhaps hop
ing that the answer would mysteriously reveal itself there, but my thoughts were interrupted by a loud shout of "You prick!"
It was the Skidmore girl, slam
ming down the phone. She glared at me and snapped, "You, too!" and then stormed off. Oh well, at least now the phone was free. Ho
pefully I'd get a friendlier re
sponse from the Skidmore girl I was about to call. I dialed the operator
and asked for Molly Otis's num
ber.

"Unlisted at the customer's request," some woman with a lisp informed me.

"No, that's not possible. I got her number from the operator just two days ago."

"The number has been changed since then, sir."

"Let me talk to your supervisor," I began, but she hung up. Terrific.

What were my chances of g
etting Molly's new num
ber from her overprotective father? Probably about as good as the Mets' chances of winning the pennant.

I'd have to leave Molly for the morning. Right now I figured I better not push my luck with Andrea, so I got in the Camry and drove home. Oh no,
11:45.
I'd tell
Andrea and Dave the train got stuck for an extra hour near Albany. Unless they had called Amtrak for info, in which case I'd have to come up with something else. But what? I had a feeling that "I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I was busy almost getting seduced" wouldn't play too well in Peoria.

I opened the door and called out, "Hi, guys."

No one answered. "Hi, guys!" I called again, louder.

Still no answer. I went in the living room. Dave wasn't there.

My heart raced, and I did too, frantically dashing upstairs and opening my bedroom door. There was Andrea, sprawled on the bed, not moving.

I gasped, sure she was dead. But then she gave out a loud snore.

I sat down and listen
ed. Funny, I'd never noticed be
fore how truly beautiful Andrea's snore was.

I took off my clothes and snuggled into her, with my nose next to her right armpit. Her post-workout odor was still clinging to her, and I lay there inhaling her, letting her smells flo
w into my muddled brain, cleans
ing it of Marcie's smoke and all the other events of the night.

I did have one la
st mental image of Marcie, a mo
mentary flash of red from her skimpy dress. But the red quickly faded into darkness and slipped away into the night.

Then I relaxed and fell asleep.

Andrea and I were in
the west of Ireland on our hon
eymoon. We slipped into an abandoned medieval fort, threw off our clot
hes, and were about to make pas
sionate love when I happened to notice that Donald Penn was dead on the ground next to us. A pair of cross-country skis lay on his body, forming an X. I woke up.

Donald fucking Penn.

So far as I could f
igure it out, something had hap
pened to him "one dark and snowy night" when he was young. Something involving his father, clister, and cross-country skiing. This event was so traumatic that he spent every single day of his entire adult life trying to put it into words. And failing.

I got out of bed, went to the study, and turned on my trusty, if slightly outdated, Powerbook. Maybe the miracles of modern technology would help me get to the bottom of this strange, obsessed man who had somehow taken over my life.

Through her work at the community college, my wife had access to a database called Nexis that I vaguely knew how to use. Unfortunately I didn't know the first names of Penn's parents. I didn't even know if Penn was his real name, or just a "pen" name. But in any case, I searched for "Donald Penn" and got a grand total of zero hits. Then I widened my search to "Penn" and got more than five hundred hits. I settled into my chair. There were probably ways to speed up this search, but I did
n't know them, and I doubted An
drea would appreciate it if I woke her up to ask her.

The first hit was from the
Seattle Post-Intelligencer,
about a Doris Penn from Spokane who won first prize for a coffee cake recipe. Hardly the sort of traumatic event a son would spend his whole life obsessed about. Though come to think of it, my grandmother used to make an incredible chocolate cake that none of her six children was ever able to replicate after she died, and it's haunted them for decades.

I got umpteen hits for William Penn, the seventeenth
-
century Quaker. There were three more hits for Doris's coffee cake, fro
m as far away as Birmingham, Al
abama; maybe I should print out that recipe. Up in Minnesota, a man named Joe Penn ran for Congress as
a Republican, and lost. Served him right. A Buffalo man named Elmer Penn died in 1992, survived by his wife and three daughters, none of whom was named Donald.

I started to recognize a pattern; none of these hits came from before 1970, and most of them were from no earlier than 1988 or
so. Evidently Nexis hadn't got
ten around to incorporating older newspapers and magazines into their database.

Which probably made my whole search useless. Since Penn was fifty-three when he died, and a child when the traumatic thing happened, that meant my search needed to cover the period from about 1948 to 1958.

I looked up a few Wi
lliam Penn hits for further evi
dence that Nexis didn't go back that far... and was surprised to find a
New York Times
hit from 1949. Hmm. Apparently the nation's "newspaper of record" was considered sufficiently important that Nexis had gone to the trouble of incorporating their older issues.

Personally I'd always found this "newspaper of record" business ridiculous. Or I'd felt that way ever since they began reporting on the making of
The Gas that Ate San Francisco,
and I noticed there were at least three factual inaccuracies in every article they wrote. But what the heck. Right now the newspaper of record was my last hope. I figured out how to search the
Times
for other articles about the Penns of the world
...
and on my very first hit I got lucky.