Some Like It Hot-Buttered (18 page)

Insisting I call him Bill, and not Tajo, Rosenblad sat on his bed under the lone remaining movie poster—from
Seven Samurai
—and closed the door to his room, to better keep his mother from eavesdropping. She, eyeing me suspiciously, had allowed me into the house but didn’t seem happy about it.

“The Tajo thing came from Tajomaru, the character played by Toshiro Mifune in
Rashomon
,” he explained, as he and Anthony were “serious (Akira) Kurosawa fans.” But he said I should call him Bill, since Tajo was “so high school.”

“Have you and Anthony kept in touch?” I asked.

“Yeah, I hear from him every couple of weeks,” Rosenblad said. “I’ve gone down there a few times and hung around for the weekend. Not as much this year as last year.”

“Did he call you after what happened at the theatre last week?”

Rosenblad shook his head. “I haven’t heard a word from him since before then. Only way I even knew about it was the story in the paper, and it took me a while to realize it was the same theatre where Anthony works. You own the place?”

I admitted that I did.

“Cool,” he said, the first person (except Anthony) I’ve met who had that response. “So where’s Anthony now?”

“Actually,” I answered, “I came here hoping you would know.”

Rosenblad made a face very much like a duck would make if he were asked the same question. He pursed his lips, then flattened them out, and his eyebrows seemed to be circling his forehead with intent to land there sometime soon. “Me?” he said. “How would I know?”

“Well, you’re a good friend of his, aren’t you?”

“In high school, I was,” Rosenblad said. “Sure, and I see him once in a while, but it’s not like we’re best friends or anything now. I spend more time in the city now. I’m more into martial arts now than movies, and Anthony, well, Anthony’s got his film.”

“You mean
films
. Anthony loves a lot of films.”

He shook his head. “No, I mean the movie he’s making. ” He must have seen the baffled look on my face, because Rosenblad went on. “You know, that thing with all the shooting.”

I regained the power of speech long enough to say, “Shooting?”

“Yeah, Anthony decided he was Quentin Tarantino, but without the skinny ties, so he wrote this script—what the hell was it called? Uh . . .
Killin’ Time
; that was it. I guess he’s shooting it now, because when I talked to him about a month ago, he said he thought the money was going to be in place soon. And that he never dreamed it would happen so fast.”

I was afraid to ask the next question. “How much money was he expecting?”

“Ah, it’s a low-budget thing, you know, unknown cast, except for Steve Buscemi, and he only has a small part. So the whole thing was only going to cost two hundred grand.”

“Yeah. It’s practically nothing, in Hollywood terms. Anthony wants to show he can work on a budget.”

“So the money was on its way?”

“Uh-huh. Anthony said a big deal was going through, and he’d have the money in a couple of weeks.”

This wasn’t good.

“Powdered sugar,” said Sergeant O’Donnell, once again mistaking my office for his own.

“Powdered sugar?” Perhaps this was some sort of new game they taught the county investigators, to get witnesses to open up. Next he would say, “vanilla extract,” and it would be my responsibility to come up with another ingredient.

“That’s what was on the popcorn,” he explained. “Powdered sugar. No poison, no chemical substance of any kind. Somebody was trying to scare you.”

“They did a very professional job,” I told him.

“You can reopen tonight,” O’Donnell said. I was starting to wonder if I really
wanted
to reopen the theatre anymore, but a man has to do
something
to occupy his time.

“Thanks.”

I must have conveyed some of what I was thinking, because he said, “Try to contain your enthusiasm.” I shook my head.

“Sorry. It’s not you. It’s me.”

“Oh dear,” O’Donnell said, standing. “Our first fight.”

He left shortly after that, and I started to get the place ready for company. But my mind kept returning to Anthony, and what possible connection he could have had to Vincent Ansella’s murder.

I’d spent a few days, since I had no theatre to run, trying to get Carla Singelese’s phone number through a directory at Montclair State. That proved to be not so easy—colleges aren’t nuts about giving out students’ phone numbers—so I called Carla’s mother and explained my predicament. She called Carla, who called me, and agreed to meet, but not right away, as she had exams.

The best thing, of course, would be to ask Anthony himself, but since Rosenblad had remembered Anthony saying that his movie would have to shoot “in Ukrainia, or someplace that sounded like that; I’m not too good at geography, ” locating him might be just a little difficult.

I’ll admit, it didn’t look good that Anthony had been expecting a very large infusion of cash at the exact moment a large shipment of pirated DVDs was found in the basement at Comedy Tonight. And it didn’t look good that Anthony had the very substance that killed Ansella in his possession at the time he disappeared, which was almost immediately after the murder. And it
really
didn’t look good that Anthony was almost certainly doing his best to avoid begin seen by anyone in Midland Heights soon after both Ansella’s body and the illegal movies had been found.

It didn’t make sense: there was no connection I could see between Vincent Ansella and the pirated DVDs, but there had to be. It was too big a coincidence that the discs were discovered the day after Ansella’s death. Could Ansella have been financing the DVD operation? Was that where his huge collection came from? Did they have anything to do with his death?

Could
Anthony have killed Vincent Ansella?

“You’re thinking about Anthony,” said Leslie. She stood, in full uniform, at the door to the office. I have no idea how long she’d been there, one hand on her hip (lucky hand), watching me.

“You’re getting to be like my father,” I told her. “Wait. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. I mean, you seem to know what I’m thinking. He does that. Stop me before I speak again.”

She stood up straight and walked into the office, leaving little room for, say, oxygen. I didn’t mind. “It’s not a really hard thing to figure that you’re thinking about Anthony,” she said. “You’ve been thinking about little else for a week now.”

“Occasionally, I think about you,” I said. It probably wasn’t a wise thing to say, because Leslie’s face tightened just a bit. She looked directly into my eyes to emphasize her point.

“Don’t get attached, Elliot,” she said. “It’s much too soon.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “I’ll be sure to think of you as nothing but a sexual object for the foreseeable future.”

Leslie smiled a crooked smile that looked a little sad. “We’ve only been out a few times,” she said.

“A guy can dream,” I answered. “At other times, however, I’ll think about Anthony.” I told her what Rosenblad had told me. She listened very carefully, nodded at times, and her eyes widened at the part about the two hundred thousand dollars.

“You see, Elliot?” Officer Levant asked. “Anthony was more concerned about money than you thought he was, and he had a plan to get a large chunk of change all at once. Does this alter your thinking at all?”

“Of course not.” I shook my head. “Anthony’s a gullible kid, and anybody could take him for a ride if they wanted to. If he was at all connected to the piracy deal, he got involved through his own naïveté. I’d be willing to bet on it.”

Leslie shook her head slightly and smiled. “You only see what you want to see, don’t you?”

“It gets worse,” came an all-too-familiar voice from the doorway. “He only hears what he wants to hear, too.” Sharon, arms folded, stood in the office doorway, grinning a very irritating grin and talking to Leslie but looking at me.

I made the necessary (if awkward) introductions, noticing Sharon’s gleeful expression contrasting with Leslie’s considerably warier one. “I was on my way home, and wanted to drop off the alimony check.” Sharon beamed, offering it. I snatched it out of her hand. “I forgot to give it to you earlier,” she added, now watching Leslie for a reaction. She didn’t get one, and was clearly disappointed.

“I’ve already explained our settlement to Officer Levant, ” I told my ex-wife.

Leslie had been leaning on the corner of the desk, but now she stood. “I really need to be going,” she said. “Nice seeing you, Elliot. And nice to meet you, Doctor.” She tried to extract herself from the office, but Sharon was in the doorway.

“I’m sorry,” my ex-wife said, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m really the one who should be leaving.”

“I’m still on my shift,” Leslie countered. “I can’t stay.”

“Now I feel bad,” Sharon kept on.

“Do I get to choose?” I asked. “Because if you two are going to fight over who gets to leave first, I’d love to state my preference.” I stared at Sharon, and not in a nice way.

“Sorry,” Leslie said. “Have to go fight crime, you know.” She nodded at Sharon and walked out.

I gave Sharon my best jaundiced look, which probably looked like I had a bad head cold. “We don’t work and play well with others,” I finally said, my voice sounding like a rusty bicycle gear (and believe me, I know what that sounds like).

Sharon exhaled, and leaned on the side of the desk. “We do fine with others; it’s each other we can’t seem to work and play well with,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m actually happy you’re getting past, you know . . . me, and making forays.”

“Is that what I’m making? Forays?” I looked around. “I knew it wasn’t money.”

“Not to worry,” said my ex. “I have that department covered for you.”

I scowled. If you’ve never scowled, trust me when I say that you’re not missing anything. “Thanks. I really needed another reminder that you’re footing a good number of the bills.”

“Aw, Elliot, you know that’s not what I meant.” Sharon looked truly concerned that she’d hurt my feelings, and—
damn it!
—I started to remember why I’d fallen in love with her to begin with. “I don’t mind it. I really don’t. I just want to stop feeling like I ruined your life all by myself.”

“Not
all
by yourself,” I admitted. And I could see that she was starting to remember why she had fallen out of love with me.

“That’s right,” she said pointedly. “
You
were a big help.” Sharon stood, with the clear intention of huffing out the door, but to do that she’d have to turn around first, and in this closet, that wouldn’t be easy. I stood, since all that required was a little vertical space, and put my hands on her shoulders.

“I’m sorry.”

Her eyes softened a little as she looked at me, since she could tell I meant it. “Honestly. That’s not what I meant,” I added. “Well, yes it is, but I was wrong.”

“I know. We really have to stop bickering like we’re still married.” Sharon stared into my eyes, and I remembered other things about our relationship.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’d rather remember how we used to make up.” And on what can only be described as an impulse, I leaned over (although I didn’t have to lean very far) and kissed her.

She didn’t stop me, and I didn’t go any farther than that, but we shared a puzzled look with each other when we were done. Sharon made some noise about having to get home and order dinner, and I mumbled something about cleaning up before the show, and she left without looking into my eyes again. I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or relieved.

The elves had once again spooled up the reel when I got to the projection booth, but this time, I didn’t even bother looking for Anthony. For all I knew, my projectors were now being run by the benevolent ghosts of deceased projectionists. Like in
Topper
, only probably not as suave as Cary Grant, and definitely more technologically proficient.

What the hell. It was one less thing for me to do.

There was a decent crowd for a Tuesday night, less than half full, but not so few that I considered having “the Guy in the Third Row Buys Everyone Popcorn Night.” I’d given that serious consideration a few times before (except that the only guy I could count on being there every night was Leo, and he never sits in the third row). The shows went without incident, although I almost mixed up reels accidentally and avoided by seconds a segue from Myrna Loy to Carmen Electra in the blink of an eye, a switch that might actually have caused some people in the audience motion sickness.

Things didn’t get really freaky until I started riding home.

It had been raining, but now the air was just a little clammy; it was cool but not cold, and the streets were damp, not soggy. This time of night, there was almost no traffic, and it should have been a calm, mind-clearing ride home.

It wasn’t.

I didn’t notice the silver Lexus behind me until I was almost into Highland Park, heading for the Albany Street Bridge, where I would cross the Raritan River into New Brunswick. Maybe ten minutes to my extremely green door.

Tonight, at one in the morning, I wasn’t being especially careful. While there is some traffic on Raritan Avenue at virtually any hour of the day, it’s not exactly Forty-second Street and Broadway. If there were cars coming, I’d hear them well in advance.

I don’t have a rearview mirror on the bike, although I’ve seen some that do. To me, that’s just a little too carlike, and besides, I figure if I don’t hear it coming, it’s probably not there.

And I did hear the Lexus, which I noted with a quick look over my left shoulder. It was a generic luxury car, nothing special about it, and could have been a Hyundai or a Toyota for all its expense. Luxury car buyers get ripped off, in my opinion. If the car gets you where you’re going, and brings you back, who really cares if the seats are leather and you can go from zero to sixty miles per hour in two fewer tenths of a second?