A Night at the Operation (13 page)

I beamed. Another convert; I only had three billion to go. “And funny, too,” I said.

“Yes, of course,” Tovarich answered. “Mr. Freed, what you’re doing here, this theatre . . . this is a mission! Just like Sully, you, too, are performing a good work which can better the human condition!”

“Well, yeah, but there’s no point in making a big deal out of it.” You’ve got to stay humble.

“I suppose Mr. Chapman’s daughter is too sad to find the uplifting message in such a film,” Tovarich said, doing his best to look concerned.

“I guess so,” I answered. “At least she seemed upset about her father. When I met his other daughter at Sharon’s practice, she didn’t seem to care about anything but the inheritance that she thinks she’s owed.”

The adjuster’s eyebrows shot up, but he caught them in time to say, “Really!” He shook his head sadly. “It’s not good when families are like that,” he said. “A father, no matter how stern he might have been, deserves respect, if nothing else.”

“Lillian seems to respect his money,” I said. “I couldn’t tell you about Gwen.”

“It’s not right,” Tovarich reiterated.

I figured he might have some information Dutton wouldn’t have shared. “Have you heard Chapman’s body is missing?” I asked.

The insurance man’s head snapped up, and his eyes looked like they were trying to see into my skull. “Of course,” he lied.

“What do you make of it?” I asked.

“It happens in hospitals,” Gregory volunteered, as if someone had asked him. “I’ve seen things that would make your hair fall out.”

I considered his bald pate. “So that’s what happened,” I said. Sometimes, he makes it too easy.

Chapman wrote something in his notebook. “So his daughters weren’t showing much in the way of grief,” he said, effectively changing the subject before Gregory could make our hair fall out with his hospital stories. Baldness loves company.

“Like I say, Gwen seemed sad, but not what I’d call devastated,” I told him. “Lillian suggested he wasn’t a candidate for Father of the Year, and wondered aloud about financial statements.”

He didn’t seem to hear me. Tovarich looked toward the doors to the street. “That’s a shame,” he said, and his mustache twitched.

“She’s entitled to her opinion,” I ventured. “Maybe he spent so much time in the tortilla factory that he didn’t have time for his children.”

Gregory looked at me. “The tortilla factory? Is that a new Mexican restaurant?”

Neither Tovarich nor I answered him. Tovarich, his mood seemingly punctured by the thought of Chapman’s family, said good night and shuffled, head down, out of the theatre.

“Man takes his work seriously,” I said to myself.

“He’s an insurance adjuster,” Gregory said. “He doesn’t like complications.”

I decided to walk away from him, but Gregory apparently believed we were now friends, and he followed me. “It doesn’t tell us anything about where Sharon is,” he said. I kept heading to the office. “But if Chapman’s not dead, that could mean she’s off the hook in terms of liability.”

“It’s nice you’re concerned about her legal position,” I snapped at him, “but I’m still worried about whether she’s breathing or not.” It wasn’t a kind thing to say, but my emotions weren’t kind today. And if Gregory never forgave me, it probably wouldn’t keep me up nights, pacing the floor of my bedroom with regret.

Before I got to the office, though, I spotted another familiar face from the corner of my eye.

“Lennon Dickinson,” I said. “How have you been?”

“I’m fine,” Lennon said. Of course. He was always fine. When you looked like he did and you worked all day next to Betty the receptionist, what was not to be fine? Besides, Lennon was the kind of guy who could have his leg sawn off and would continue to say he’s fine. He’s like John Cleese as the Black Knight in
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
. “ ’Tis but a scratch.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked him. Lennon is allergic to comedy. It’s possible he had his sense of humor surgically removed. A lack of humor is the one flaw in his personality that keeps me from committing suicide. “Is it something with Sharon?”

“I don’t know where Sharon is,” Lennon said. “But something occurred to me that might be significant.” Talking to Lennon is like talking to Mr. Spock, but with rounder ears.

Gregory, in the meantime, was doing everything but dance the tarantella in front of me to get Lennon’s attention. Gregory likes to remind everyone he’s in the doctor club, when in fact he should be beaten with a doctor club.

“Oh, hello, Gregory,” Lennon said, when he couldn’t logically ignore the man anymore.

“Lennon,” Gregory said, as if just noticing he was there.

“What did you remember, Lennon?” I asked. I understand parents sometimes have problems keeping four-year-olds on topic, as well.

“All I know is that there had been some suspicion that Mr. Chapman had brain cancer, but Thursday afternoon, Sharon told me she’d gotten the results that the lesion in his head was benign.”

“So Sharon knew Chapman wasn’t cancerous before she left Thursday evening,” Gregory said, in a desperate attempt to restate the obvious.

“That’s right,” Lennon answered. “It was my understanding that she told him so during his appointment.”

“Why have the appointment? Why not tell him on the phone?” Gregory asked.

Lennon shrugged. “No idea.”

“Did you see Chapman when he left? Did he look like a man with a weight lifted from his shoulders?” I asked him.

“Sorry, Elliot. I was in with a patient and I didn’t see him when he left.”

“Any idea why Sharon wouldn’t have a nurse in the room with her when she had the conference with Chapman?” I asked.

Lennon’s face took on a “deep thought” expression, and then he shook his head. “I can’t think of why, but it’s not an absolute necessity. Some patients don’t like to be given test results with anyone but their doctor in the room. In case it gets . . . emotional.” Vulcan that he is, Gregory said the word “emotional” with obvious distaste.

“Did you know Chapman? Was he like that?”

Again, Lennon shook his head. “I didn’t really know him,” he said. “Sharon had pointed him out once or twice, you know, ‘that’s the guy who invented a new tortilla,’ but that was about it.”

“A new tortilla?” Gregory asked. We ignored him again. I was starting to enjoy it.

“Thanks, Lennon,” I said. “You want to stay for the next movie?” I just said that to see how he’d react. It’s a minor compulsion. I can deal with it if I want to.

Lennon Dickinson shook his head. “No, thank you. I’m a little busy tonight.” Liar. He was probably going home to read Dostoyevsky and ponder the meaninglessness of life. I’ll stick with Preston Sturges, myself.

I offered my hand. “Well, the invitation stands for whenever you’d like. Let me know if you hear anything.”

“I will. You do the same.” He turned and started for the door before he called over his shoulder, “Good night, Gregory.”

Gregory beamed. He said his good nights and went in search of the perfect apple to polish and bring to Lennon’s office in the morning. I managed to hold down my lunch, but only because I hadn’t eaten any.

I opened the door to the office, but never made it inside. From behind me, I heard Jonathan call, “Mr. Freed,” and I turned to see what the current problem might be.

“What’s leaking now, Jonathan?” I asked.

He assessed my face, trying to determine if this was some kind of new code he was being expected to decipher. “Um, nothing, I think,” he said.

He was a nice kid; I shouldn’t do stuff like that to him. “What is it, Jonathan?”

The house lights in the auditorium never go completely on during the break between movies, but Anthony does bring them up just a bit when the first feature ends, and then lowers them again after showing some trailers and a few vintage drive-in-movie promos for the snack bar. Now, the lights went back down. Anthony was starting this week’s contemporary comedy,
Train Trippin’
, a road movie about two guys who get stoned and fall asleep on a train to Juneau, Alaska. Don’t ask me.

“I was walking through the theatre, you know, during intermission,” Jonathan began. “There’s something strange.”

“You’re going to have to be way more specific than that, Jonathan. Pretty much everything about this theatre is strange.”

“Well, it’s Leo,” he said.

I tensed. Leo Munson, our one-and-only steady customer, had been to Comedy Tonight for every showing since I’d opened the place almost a year before. Leo was a veteran of the merchant marine, and could be Popeye the Sailor’s tougher, older brother. I had no idea how old Leo might be, aside from the fact that he probably had seen Abraham Lincoln live at Gettysburg. I didn’t want to think about what could be wrong with Leo.

“What’s wrong with Leo?” I asked.

“That’s just it,” Jonathan answered. “He’s not here.”

We cherish our friends not for their ability to amuse us, but
for ours to amuse them.

—EVELYN WAUGH

He deserves Paradise who makes his companions laugh.

—THE KORAN

THERE
was no possible explanation for Leo Munson missing a showing at Comedy Tonight short of his being dead. Leo had once broken his foot kicking a rock in his backyard (it’s a long story) and still made it to the theatre that night, on crutches, to see a showing of
A Guide for the Married Man
(1967), a movie he had seen the night before (and the night before that) and didn’t especially like.

I called Leo’s home (I have his number in my Rolodex in case we have to close the theatre on short notice, which seems to happen more often than you might think), and it simply rang. Leo doesn’t have an answering machine; his philosophy is that “if I’m not home, I can’t talk to you.” The lack of an answer
really
freaked me out, so I called Chief Dutton, but he said that a man not going to the movies on a Saturday night wasn’t an incident the police necessarily had to investigate.

“Lots of people aren’t in your theatre tonight, Elliot,” he said. “If I look for all of them, I won’t have time for the odd cat up a tree.”

“I thought the fire department handled those.”

“We cooperate with our fellow public servants,” Dutton answered. Then his voice deepened a bit, as he indicated concern. “Believe me, if there’s any reason to think Mr. Munson is at all in trouble, we’ll look into it. I’ll have someone go by his house in the morning if you haven’t heard from him.”

“In the morning! Chief, by then he could be . . .”

“If you’re so concerned, why don’t you go over there?” Jonathan asked over my shoulder.

“I already know he’s not there, or at least not answering his phone,” I said. “If I can’t get into the apartment, it won’t do me any good. He’s a customer, not my ex-wife. Besides, I don’t have a key.” It felt like everyone I knew was missing. Sharon, now Leo. I’d never met Russell Chapman, and his body was missing. I made a mental note to call my parents and make sure they were still in Manalapan, New Jersey.

“Please call me if you hear anything,” I asked, and Dutton agreed he would.

The screening of
Train Trippin’
went as you’d expect: Though I kept a vigilant watch, there was nevertheless a distinctly pungent odor—attributable to the audience
en masse
—in the auditorium by the time our two “heroes” arrived in Alaska and discovered, to their dismay, that the local drug of choice was bourbon, and besides, there were no munchies to be had. But the upside was that, within an hour and a half the movie was over. And Sophie had sold out of every item in the snack bar. Coincidence? I think not.

Riding home on the bicycle gave me time to assess (as well as to freeze my assess off), which was exactly what I didn’t need: Another full day had gone by without word from Sharon or any sign that she was alive and well. That most certainly wasn’t good, but it also wasn’t all. I had met both of Russell Chapman’s daughters, and couldn’t understand either one of them.

I kept to the sidewalk on the Albany Street Bridge into New Brunswick. I liked having a concrete barrier between my bike and the few cars on the bridge at one in the morning. Getting closer to the town house reminded me of the break-in, and the one at Gregory’s house. Who besides Sharon could have managed to get into both our homes without leaving a sign of forced entry, and what could they possibly have been looking for? I barely owned anything aside from the comedy collection, and that had obviously been a target of some contempt from the burglar. Sharon would never have done that, not even during our divorce proceedings. And she liked me better now.

It didn’t make me feel better to think of the job I had ahead of me, restoring the collection to its previously well-catalogued, categorized and displayed state. I only hoped none of the irreplaceable discs were damaged beyond repair.

Add to all that Leo’s disappearance coming on top of Sharon’s, and I was approaching my “home” with more trepidation than I’d had when I left. That wasn’t the sign of a good day.

They could have the comedy collection; they could have Chapman (if they could find him) and his estate; Leo forgive me, but they could have Leo; if only Sharon were returned safe and sound.

Climbing up the steps to the outrageously green door of my town house (don’t blame me—I rent), I was ashamed of myself for thinking so little of everything else, but it didn’t dampen my dread that something truly awful might have befallen my ex-wife.

Did she know I still loved her?

I reached for my keys, my left hand holding the bicycle. When I managed to drag my keys out of my right-hand pocket, I fumbled for a few seconds to find the front-door key, which is sad, since I don’t have a large collection of keys to confuse me. The only others on my ring are the front door keys to my parents’ house, the theatre, and Sharon’s. I reached out with the key and touched the door.