8 Antiques Con (8 page)

“Call my cell.”

“You don’t have a coat—it’s pretty cold out.”

“Why, I’ll just whip up a hot flash, dear.”

She still had them at her age. Which meant I probably had that to look forward to.

Lucky me.

“Toodles,” Mother said, heading toward the elevators.

And then, there among costumed comic book fans and nerds of every variety, the world seemed suddenly less strange, and considerably less interesting.

“Well, Soosh,” I said, scratching her furry head, “what shall
we
do with ourselves, without Mother to entertain us?”

I couldn’t risk going back to the dealers’ room, either—I’d been seen with Mother, and I’d had some notoriety of my own in that mess surrounding Peggy Sue and Senator Clark (my father, by the way) (do try to keep up)—nor did I feel like sitting through any of the ongoing panels in meeting rooms on the sixth floor. The evolving nature of the supporting cast of
Wolverine
and the deeper meanings of
The Dark Knight Trilogy
were not topics to which I cared to subject my brain.

But there was a hospitality room somewhere on the top floor, an oasis where honored guests (and presumably their dogs) could hang out and take advantage of the free drinks and snacks. Maybe a girl could even catch a nap.

I was directed to the eighteenth floor, where I wandered around for a while until spotting a handwritten sign taped to the door of PennTop North, and went in.

Though a smaller banquet room, PennTop North was no less elegantly appointed, the sun casting in golden rays through floor-to-ceiling windows to burnish the room. Maybe a dozen guests—men and a few women, mostly in their later twenties and thirties, dressed casually but better than the fans—were seated here and there at the linen-clothed tables. They partook of bottled water, cans of soda, and cups of coffee, procured from a staff-supervised banquet table offering those freebies as well as such snacks as pretzels, chips, and M&M’s.

Though putting my hoped-for nap at risk, I helped myself to some coffee, as well as a bottled water and extra cup for Sushi.

I was heading to an empty table with a window view, when I noticed Brad Webster, Webbie on the Web himself, sitting alone at another table, a can of Diet Coke in one hand. He wore a green, white, and black plaid shirt and chinos.

I strolled over to the Fan Guest of Honor, whose slender, acned face seemed rather puffy.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he muttered, staring at the Coke can.

“I just wanted to say that was a very nice speech you gave at the opening ceremony.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m Brandy, by the way. Brandy Borne.”

He looked up, eyes red rimmed. “Oh . . . right. You and your mother brought the Superman drawing.”

“We’re also writers. Or anyway, I am.”

“Mysteries, right?”

“Yeah, uh, with antiquing and collecting as a sort of backdrop.”

“You ran across that Siegel and Shuster drawing in a disposal unit, somebody said. Some find.”

“Yes, we’re auctioning it off on Sunday. But you probably know all about that. You’re always gathering info for your web show, right?”

“Right.” Brad’s eyes drifted away.

“Mind if I join you?”

He shrugged. “Sure. Cute dog. Weird eyes.”

“She’s blind. Sushi’s her name, very nice animal. She only
looks
like she’s possessed by the devil.”

I set my drinks on the table, sat down, and removed Sushi from her pouch, putting her on my lap.

Watching this, Brad said, “You and your mother were invited by Tommy, right?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve . . . heard about that?”

I nodded glumly. “If you mean his death, yes. So awfully sad. Mother liked him a lot. They were Internet buddies.”

“Sometimes it’s easier making friends on the Net than in real life.”

“Isn’t the Net real life?” I opened the bottled water, poured some into the cup, put it under Soosh’s nose, and she began lapping it up.

“I guess,” he said. “Just not real enough.”

“Quite an honor.”

“What?”

“Being chosen Fan Guest.”

He nodded.

I went on, “Not surprising, considering your website. I mean, it’s major.”

He looked at me. My remark seemed to surprise him, coming from a grown female who was not in an anime costume. “You’ve heard of it?” he asked.

“Webbie on the Web?” I gushed. “Who
hasn’t
?”

Brad offered a small smile, but at least I’d pleased him.

I continued. “A friend turned me on to your website. I think he posts comments sometimes—Joe Lange?”

“He wouldn’t post that way. He’d use a screen name.”

“So now I get all my comics fandom news from your site.” If I’d been wearing a Pinocchio costume, would its nose be growing?

“Thank you, uh . . . Brandy.”

I took a sip of my coffee. “Horrible about Tommy. Did you know him well?”

Brad stared at his Coke can, as if something were hidden there. “We met a few years ago, when he was running Manhattan Con. We hit it off. Common interests. Even shared an apartment in the city for a while. Till I got my website up and running.”

“Were you friends with his partner, who ran Manhattan Con with him? What’s his name—Gino Moretti?”

He winced; I might have slapped him. “That bastard. He’s no friend of mine. Anyway, not since he forced Tommy out of Manhattan Con. Don’t get me wrong, Tommy had his ruthless side, too . . . and he could be really, well . . .
insensitive
.”

His emphasis made me wonder if he and Tommy had been more than friends.

Brad tore his eyes away from that fascinating Coke can to look at me. “There’s a rumor that you and your mother found the body.”

News travelled fast in these circles.

“That’s true. But the police asked us not to advertise it.”

“Do you know how he died?”

I shrugged. “He died in that service elevator.”

How evasive was that?

He was squinting at me, trying to bring me into focus. “An accident, you mean? Like . . . the doors malfunctioned, or there was an electrical-system fire? Dear God, tell me Tommy didn’t step into an empty shaft!” His red-rimmed eyes grew large in horror.

“All I can say is that the police are calling it a suspicious death.”

“But you
did
find the body. You and your mother.”

“We found him on the floor of the elevator and ran for help. We were just two of a lot of people who were interviewed, who happened to be around the service elevator behind the Gold Ballroom around that time.”

Brad sneered. “I bet that
wasn’t
any accident. Whatever happened, I will
bet
you that Gino Moretti had something to do with it.”

“What makes you think that?”

He shrugged forcefully. “First of all, because of their history. But, mostly? Because I saw that son of a bitch hanging around while Tommy was at the podium, waiting there for him.”

“To talk to Tommy?”

“Confront him is more like it.”

“And
did
Moretti confront Tommy?”

Brad shrugged, not so forceful now, and sighed. “I don’t know, because, after that, I was giving my speech, and when I finished . . . they were both gone.”

I sat forward. “You’ll need to tell this to the police. There’s a detective named Cassato you need to talk to.”

Brad snorted. “Well, I wish New York’s finest a lotta luck finding Gino. You can bet he’s scurried back to Jersey, where his Mafia buddies are keeping him safely under wraps.”

“Still,” I said, “the police need to know what you’ve seen, and what you know—really, I’m surprised they haven’t interviewed you yet.”

He gestured around him. “I’ve been up here in the hospitality suite since I heard about it—just couldn’t face anyone, you know?” His eyes were beginning to tear.

“Yeah. I know. It’s hard to lose somebody you’re close to, and even harder in circumstances like these. I’m sorry you lost your friend, Brad.”

He swallowed, and dabbed his eyes with a knuckle. “This Detective Cassato—is he still around?”

“Yes,” I said, and gave him our room number.

Outside the PennTop North, I was retrieving my lip gloss from my fanny pack when I came across two room keycards in there. Did I have Mother’s?

Then I recalled seeing Mother take her card, which meant I should have only one.

And it occurred to me that when we’d exchanged rooms with Tommy, we must have given him only
one
of our two cards.

And this extra card was to our original room.

In order to test my theory, I took the elevator down to the fourteenth floor, then proceeded down the hallway toward 1421.

Halfway there, I stopped short.

Coming out of that room was Robert Sipcowski.

Which didn’t arouse my suspicion, exactly; the security chief would quite naturally want to secure Tommy’s room for the police investigation. Nor did I question his wearing latex gloves, an understandable precaution—he wouldn’t want to mix his prints with any others left behind.

What
did
arouse my suspicion, though, was the security chief’s nervous manner, as he sneaked out of the room, including furtive glances to the left and right.

One of those glances almost caught me, but I ducked into a vending machine alcove, where I pretended to get a snack, until the man had walked by. Sushi looked up at me irritably—this herky-jerky journey I was taking her on was starting to be no fun.

Then I approached our old room, and tried the keycard. It was possible the lock had been changed by now.

But no—I was able to open the door.

The lights were off and the curtains closed—dark but for some sunlight bleed around the window edges. Using my elbow on a wall switch, I turned on a lamp, illuminating the room, which was one unholy mess.

I had a hunch that while the stereotype of comic book fans as notorious slobs might have a certain basis in fact, this case was different: drawers opened, their contents strewn; sheets torn from the bed; suitcases dumped upside down. Someone had been looking for something.

As they said in the old detective movies, somebody had tossed the joint.

Had Robert Sipcowski done this? Or had he discovered the room this way?

Stepping over one of Tommy’s discarded Hawaiian shirts, I crossed to the closet, its door yawning open, revealing more tropical shirts puddled on the floor, having been pulled rudely off hangers.

The room safe was open, with nothing inside.

My stomach grumbled, and I wondered if any of the fruit I’d left behind in the small refrigerator would still be there. After all, it
was
ours, and certainly wouldn’t be of any interest in the investigation. And, anyway, when did anybody ever get busted for eating evidence?

I opened the fridge. The apples and oranges and grapes were just as I’d left them on a little tray.

But something else had been added: a file folder, beneath that tray.

I withdrew the folder, and was about to look inside, when I heard the front door lock click.

Shoving the thing up in my blouse, behind Sushi’s carrier, I dashed to the closet and closed the door.

Sushi whined and I shushed her.

She was a good little girl and stayed shushed.

I could hear someone moving around out there and wished I’d left the door open a crack so I could see who it was.

And that was when Sushi sneezed.

After which somebody opened the closet door.

And Detective Cassato glared at me.

And I smiled weakly. “Just looking for skeletons,” I said cheerfully.

But he was not amused.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Don’t buy anything but an ironclad steal on the first day of a comic book convention. Many dealers discount their items with each passing day. Of course, if you wait too long, what you want may already be gone. Or, you could be standing in line when the convention’s final bell rings, as happened to Mother, waiting to buy a Munchkin doll for a little-person pal of hers, only to get turned away empty-handed. Even when she protested that the doll in question was for “a personal friend of Billy Barty,” no exception had been made.

Y
ou are in luck!

This chapter is penned by none other than myself, Vivian Borne, about to regale you, dear reader, with the amazing adventure that transpired after I took my leave of Brandy and Sushi, following a certain unfortunate truncated press conference, a debacle for which I can only say: my bad.

The tale you are about to hear (read) is one I might not believe myself, had I not experienced it. This is the case even though I’ve had many (adventures) and told many (tales) (I do hope you appreciate a creative use of parentheses), and perhaps I risk building up your expectations too much—like the trolley stories I’ve shared in previous volumes. But I must first make use of my unfortunately limited space herein to bring up a few issues and/or set the record straight.

Firstly, several readers (not many—two or three) (well, perhaps four or five) (six tops) wrote to complain about my most recent Serenity trolley story. The delightful anecdote in question concerns a spinster who dressed her pet chimpanzee as Goldilocks in order to sneak it onto the gas-powered trolley, after which an elderly man with cataracts mistook the animal for a little girl, affectionately pinched its cheek, and got his finger bitten off. This relative handful of readers felt my account to be more grotesque than amusing, though, in my defense, I must point out that I didn’t claim that the story was funny.

This was not one of those “you had to be there” instances, because I
was
there and it actually was fairly grotesque. Amusement came later, upon reflection. And besides, the bitten-off digit was found, immersed in ice water, and sewn back onto the poor fellow, good as new. No charges were pressed, perhaps because chimps aren’t subject to any law but that of nature, or possibly because the elderly gentleman felt he did not wish to risk ridicule in court. He had already been subjected to a certain amount of joshing from his peers, who made such tasteless remarks as, “When you’re at the market, Homer, does that finger quiver near bananas?” and “Why, you old monkey masher, you.”

Where was I?

Ah!
Secondly!

Secondly, my sincere thanks to those of you who have written to our editor to request that my literary contributions to these nonfiction accounts be expanded. Brandy has consented to make it at least two chapters, and our editor (such a lovely woman!) has agreed, though placing certain limitations on word length (not the length of individual words, but the length of words strung together) that require me to stay on point and avoid needless digression. So I am holding a tight rein on things, my dear ones, and if you keep the pressure on my editor, you may see me advance to three chapters per book!

Fingers crossed.

Thirdly, I have a correction to make in the material written by Brandy that you’ve read thus far. Truth be told, I could make many corrections, but I am holding myself to a single particularly troubling blunder of hers. Let it be known that in my all-too-short career some years ago as a thespian trodding the Broadway boards (Broadway in the loosest sense, I grant you), I
never
played Hoboken, despite what Brandy said. Newark, yes. Hoboken, no.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled mystery.

My first stop after leaving the Hotel Pennsylvania was Coppola’s restaurant, which I reached by cab. There I ordered a large to-go order consisting of baked ziti, linguine with clams, chicken Parmesan, veal piccata, garlic bread, and desserts of cannoli and tiramisu. This took a while, because they make all their delicious foods fresh.

A nice waiter packed the food compactly in a box, then hailed me another cab, and helped me into the backseat with my order.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked in a rather charming Middle Eastern accent.

I could only see the back of his head, but his I.D. with photo (why would such a nice-looking young man not get a closer shave before having his picture taken?) had a name that I feared was a typographical error.

“The Badda-Bing!” I instructed, then corrected myself. “I
should
say, the Badda-Boom.”

He showed me his profile—he was frowning, rather in irritation or confusion, I could not say.

“Madam, do you know what this place is?”

“I believe it’s a nightclub, but I understand it’s open during the day as well.”

“That’s what you call a strip joint, madam.”

“Of course, young man,” I said. He was in his midthirties, but it never hurts to flatter a person in service. “Never fear. I am on a sociological expedition to the outer reaches.”

He frowned, shook his head as if to clear it, then sighed as if he were Atlas with the globe on his slight shoulders—or the Big Apple, anyway. “Badda-Boom strip club is not in Manhattan, madam.”

“Of course not. It’s in New Jersey. That’s what I meant by outer reaches.”

“I drive over there, I won’t get return fare. Madam, I take you to bus station, instead. Cheaper.”

I leaned forward and gave him my most charming smile. “What if you, I believe the expression is, leave your flag up? And we negotiate a flat rate?”

“Possible. This is possible.”

“I assure you, I have the funds.”

“Madam, dangerous in this city to carry too much money in your purse.”

“I feel safe with you, young man.” Anyway, I kept the bulk of my paper money pinned inside my brassiere. “And I’m a good tipper, to boot—if you don’t drive recklessly or too fast.”

“Madam, you got a deal.”

He swung out into traffic, and I settled back to enjoy the ride.

The cab turned right onto West Thirty-first Street, heading for the Lincoln Tunnel, where we found traffic busy but not rush-hour crushing. The trip—most of it on the New Jersey Turnpike and finally good old Interstate 80—took under half an hour, during which the delicious aromas of the boxed food kept me company, though they did clash somewhat with a certain incense fragrance in the vehicle. The final leg of our journey was Route 17, taking us to Lodi.

The cab pulled into the parking lot of a large building with white siding, where a tall black stand-alone sign bore bold red letters reading B
ADDA-
B
OOM
G
O-
G
O
G
IRLS,
the
i
in Girls dotted with a star. Good touch.

I paid the nice cabbie—there was enough in my purse to take care of it, no need to dip into the bra bank—and he said, “Good luck, madam. You may need.”

That was thoughtful, though I confess it struck me a real gentleman would have helped me in with the box of food. Instead, he left rather quickly, the cab’s tires kicking up gravel.

Struggling against a chill wind, I managed to make it to the club’s entrance, where I stood, flummoxed on how to open the door while laden down with that food box.

Then a rather brawny-looking biker wheeled in, got off his motorcycle, and came to my rescue.

“Let me help you with that, ma’am,” he said politely.

He was bald and had a colorful snake tattoo across his face, one of the snake’s eyes his own; he wore torn blue jeans and a black leather jacket, chains hanging from the shoulders. Quite colorful.

Then, taking my box, he balanced it in one hand while opening the door with his other.

“It’s nice to know,” I said, “that there are a few real gentlemen left in this crazy old world.”

“Hey, no problem. I was a Boy Scout once.”

“And I was a Girl Scout! What a lovely coincidence.”

We were just two strangers, sharing a quiet moment of bonding.

Let that be a lesson to you, gentle reader: don’t judge a book by its cover. Here’s another one: when in the presence of colorful individuals, keep your rape whistle handy. That goes for you, too, fellas.

As I stepped inside, loud electronic dance music assaulted me—a
thump, thump, thump
reverberating off the walls. The lighting was minimal and for theatrical effect, but sunlight filtered in through several high windows, allowing me to take a good gander at the place.

The room was large, its periphery dotted with small tables and chairs, glowing beer signs hanging on the walls. In the center was an elevated, rectangular stage surrounded by the bar, a sort of moat swimming with burly bartenders (at the moment, only two) positioned to protect the girls (one dancer presently) from any patron’s unwanted attention.

About a half-dozen male customers with bored expressions perched on the stools around the rectangular counter, appearing more interested in their beers than the charms of the suspiciously busty woman dancing just a few feet away. Her hair was a long mane a shade of red that you might find in Sherwin-Williams, if not in nature, and she had excellent muscle tone. Little of that tone was concealed—her panties were scant, but I’m afraid so was her sense of rhythm. Of course, it would be difficult to dance well in those spiked heels. Her breasts were bare and gravity defying, and she was working a pole like a fireman reluctant to slide down and answer an alarm.

I set the heavy box down on the bar, and watched as she hung upside down, the red mane swaying, her legs in the air,
V
for victory.
V
for something!

“
Dear!
” I called out over the music. “
Less is more! Don’t give away the store! Do leave
something
to the imagination!
”

It’s all been downhill since the bikini was invented.

The dancer responded, but the music drowned it out, though I am fairly sure it was a negative reaction, judging by her facial expression. Still, she was hanging upside down at the time, and with my chronic earwax buildup, I’m afraid I couldn’t be sure.

Well, if my constructive criticism was going to be ignored, I might as well get to it. I collected my food box and headed back to a pair of swinging doors.

Behind me, a bartender yelled, “Hey, you!
Lady!
You can’t go in there!”

But he was too far away, and rather trapped within his own fortress, and not quick enough to keep me from entering the back room, pushing through like Matt Dillon entering the Long Branch Saloon.

Once through the swinging doors, I froze, the way a perp does on TV when a cop yells, “Freeze!”

Four guns were trained on me.

Four guns brandished (isn’t that a wonderful word?) by a quartet of tough-looking men, who had simultaneously jumped to their feet from an oversize wooden card table, where carefully arranged stacks of poker chips went tumbling over.

I hauled out my most dazzling smile. “Good afternoon, gentlemen! I’m Vivian Borne, and I’ve come all the way from Iowa to bring you some delicious Italian food.”

The men, guns still on me, exchanged puzzled looks.

“Don’t worry,” I said, almost giddily. “I didn’t bring the food with me
from
Iowa. It was prepared by one of the finest bistros in Manhattan.”

Now, before I go any further, dear reader, I will not be using these gentlemen’s real names, in an effort to protect the innocent (
moi
). But I will assure you that their real, actual names are prominently featured in FBI documentation of racketeering in New Jersey. And for that reason I will not describe them in detail, either, although I will admit that I was rather astounded by their resemblance to a number of major players on that old HBO series
The Sopranos
. Why, they could have been stand-ins for the actors portraying characters on that excellent if violent program.

I wish I could just nickname these individuals by the names of those characters, but—like the elderly gent whose finger was bitten off by a chimp on the Serenity trolley—I would prefer not to go to court.

So I’ll just call them Johnny Contralto, Fabio, Petey Pecans, and Big Kitty.

Now, you may think I was intimidated by such dangerous company. And perhaps I would have been, had I not watched all six seasons of
The Sopranos
and felt I was among old, dear friends, not to mention knowing quite a lot about the Mafia in New Jersey. Television can be so educational!

Behind me, the beefy bartender, who had somehow found his way out of his self-imposed barricade, pushed through the swinging doors, letting in briefly the thumping music.

“I tried to stop the old bat, boss,” he said apologetically. “Want me to throw her ass out?”

“
Really!
” I said. “That kind of talk is most uncalled for! ‘Bat’ indeed.”

Smiling, his gun in hand at half-mast, Johnny Contralto said, “That’s okay, Vinnie. We got this. You go back to work.”

(I’m going to risk using Vinnie’s real first name, since I don’t know his last name, and also he didn’t remind me of anybody in particular on any TV show.)

Vinnie shrugged and left, taking the music with him.

Petey Pecans turned his bullet-hard eyes on me; he had weird white streaks in his carefully coiffed hair, reminiscent of Elsa Lanchester in
The Bride of Frankenstein
.

Petey demanded, “Now, why should you wanna bring us food?” He wore dark slacks and a short-sleeved black-and-gray-striped bowling shirt.

I said, “This box is awfully heavy—may I set it down on the table? Can you boys make room?”

Johnny Contralto made a quick gesture with his gun. “Yeah, okay, lady,” he said, adding, “But make it slow.”

I placed the box in the middle of the table—they must have been between hands, because no money was piled there—careful not to disturb their cards (it was too late for the poker chips).

And, as I had anticipated, the tantalizing aroma of the food wafting toward the men caused them to lower their guard, and their weapons.

“Do you have a microwave?” I asked. “It was a half-hour ride here from the city, and you may wish to heat this up a skosh. But the box still feels warm.”

Big Kitty, his shark eyes seeing a potential meal, stepped toward the box. “What did ya bring us, honey?” He had on sweatpants and a too-tight baseball jacket.

Fabio, under a dizzying pompadour, said, “Take it easy, Kitty. This might be the craziest hit that ever went down—she might have hardware in there.” He was wearing a black leather jacket unzipped over a white t-shirt, a gold chain around his neck.