Some Like It Hot-Buttered (34 page)

“Is that standard procedure around here? Dupe the civilian?”

Dutton frowned. “You’ll recall, this is a small department, and I don’t have many detectives. And all I expected was that you might be able to tell me, much later on, a few things about Officer Levant’s lifestyle, not about a crime. I never anticipated there being any danger to you, or I wouldn’t have asked.”

“You figured I could find out, even without knowing that I was trying to, whether Leslie’s upscale purchases were due to her terrific savings plan or something else,” I said, thinking out loud. “You figured someone who knew about the movie business might notice things that would tie her to video piracy, and so you stole my bicycle wheel.”

“I just wanted her to drive you home that night, that’s all.”

“Well,” I said, standing up, “she did.”

“I’m sorry,” Dutton told me, and I think he meant it.

“So am I,” I said.

49

“He saw us kiss,” Sharon said.

It was a lovely warm day in late May, and we were sitting at an outdoor table at C’est Moi!, having a bleu cheese burger and fries (Sharon) and a Caesar salad with low-fat dressing (not Sharon). My fork stopped halfway to my mouth, and I looked at her, my eyes sending question marks out at regular intervals.

“Gregory. He came to the theatre that day because he saw my car outside on his way home, and he walked in just when we . . . kissed that time. That’s what made him so crazy.”

“I think what made him crazy was spending all that time inhaling gases meant to knock people out,” I said. “After a while, it has to do
something
to your brain.”

“Don’t be mean.”

I flashed a look at her. “Don’t expect me to be diplomatic about Gregory,” I said.

“I don’t.” She took a sip of iced tea, and then a deep breath. “We’re separating.”

This time my fork actually hit the salad bowl and stayed there. “You and Gregory?”

Sharon nodded. “Yes. He’s moved out of the house.”

Wow. After fantasizing about such a thing out of sheer spite for all this time, it was weird to have it really happen. I sat quiet for a long moment. “Because of me?” I asked her.

“Elliot, he tried to kill you with his car. I can’t live with a man who would do a thing like that. To
anybody
.”

"Still ...”

“It’s not about
you
; everything isn’t about
you
, Elliot. It’s about the fact that Gregory was upset with me, and didn’t talk to me about it. Instead, he tried to run you down with his car and then told me he’d scraped it against a concrete barrier.”

“Well, that last part was true,” I said. “After he scraped it against me, he hit the barrier.”

“You’re missing the point, and you’re missing it on purpose. ”

“Either way,” I told her. “When our marriage broke up, I tried to blame it on Gregory. I thought that without him, we would have stayed together. Now I know that’s not true, that if you had been happy with me, Gregory wouldn’t have happened. I don’t want your separation to happen because Gregory was jealous of me. Because maybe your marriage has problems that would have been there if neither of those things had happened. If it’s about me, you should stay together.”

Sharon pushed her plate away with half a burger and a healthy number of fries on it, which I believed meant that the food automatically became community property. But I didn’t reach for her plate.

“That’s very mature of you, Elliot. And it’s true, Gregory and I have problems that would be there whether all this had happened, or not. We’re going to go to a couples therapist and try to work them out.”

“What does this separation mean for us?” I asked.

“I’m still married,” she said, and I exhibited even more maturity in not remarking that she and I were still married when the Gregory thing began. I was just oozing maturity today. “You and I can go back to seeing each other for lunch when we want. It was stupid of me to stop being friends with you because Gregory didn’t like it.”

“And beyond that? Beyond being friends?”

“You said it yourself, Elliot. We had problems before Gregory. We’d have the same problems if we got together again. Right now, I’m committed to trying to make my current marriage work. Until that’s resolved one way or the other, you and I are going to be friends, and that’s all. I hope that’s enough for you.”

“It’s not enough, but I can certainly live with it,” I said.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and smiled sadly, something I’ve never seen anyone else do successfully. “You’re really growing up, aren’t you,” Sharon said.

“Yes,” I answered. “Someday, I might be a real live boy.”

50

“This is going to take more than Spackle,” Dad said.

We were eating lunch in the auditorium at Comedy Tonight, sitting beneath the hole in the balcony, which gave one the uncanny feeling that he should see stars if he looked up long enough. Most of the debris had been cleared away, some of it bagged by the dogged Officer Patel himself, and the rest was just a dustpan—okay, a Dumpster—away from being forever out of my life.

Obviously, the theatre was not going to be open for business tonight, or the next night, or in all probability for ten or fifteen nights to come. I’d personally called Leo and told him not to show up until further notice. The lobby was a mess of what had once been our snack bar, although the glass had also been removed. There were bullet holes in various walls, some of which I’d already plastered once. There was blood on areas of carpet.

In short, this was not something that your average cleaning lady could handle in an afternoon.

“What do you think we need to do?” I asked my father.

He stood up and looked at the hole from another angle. “That balcony wasn’t much to begin with. If you were going to do it
right
, you’d probably need to remove the whole thing and replace it, but that could take months.”

“And cost a year’s receipts,” I added.

“Yeah. So let’s examine our alternatives. You can just fix the hole, keep the balcony closed for the time being, and concentrate on the snack bar. You can fix the snack bar
and
the balcony to the point that you’d be able to send people up there on nights when it’s crowded . . .”

“Which would be twice since I opened the place, both times after a crime was committed on the premises . . .”

“Any way you look at it,” Dad said, “this is more than we can do ourselves. You’re going to have to call in carpenters, and maybe get a structural analysis of the balcony done to see if it can be saved.”

“
If?
I’ve been climbing up those steps every night to get to the projection booth. What do you mean,
if
?”

“I mean, you’ve been really lucky.”

“If this is what lucky feels like, I don’t want to buck the odds. Call some of your contractor friends.”

Dad nodded. I checked my watch, and walked out of the auditorium and into my office. I had to field some phone calls responding to my ad for more theatre help, which seemed a little . . . superfluous, considering that the only help the theatre needed at the moment was in not falling down.

Even when it hadn’t been clear if I’d ever see Anthony again, I hadn’t advertised for a replacement—maybe I was being sentimental. Maybe I was being cheap. Maybe I just thought that after it was all said and done, Anthony would be back trying to thread up films that probably hadn’t been unspooled in twenty years.

But after a woman with a gun had fallen through the ceiling practically on their daughter’s head, Sophie’s parents had refused to allow her back into Comedy Tonight. So I placed an ad in the
Press-Tribune
for a replacement, despite the fact that the theatre would be closed until the repairs could be made. After all, I’d already paid for ads in the
Press-Tribune
for a week, and I couldn’t advertise a movie. Might as well put the money to use.

Anthony had agreed to come back when we reopened, which was a huge relief, since only he and I (and Bender and Leslie, but they would be tied up for a while) knew how to keep the projector from blowing up on any given evening, and I wasn’t that sure about myself. I promised him that if he could get a rough cut together, the first film on our return would be a one-night-only showing of
Killin’ Time
. It wasn’t a comedy, but there was no guarantee an invited audience would be able to tell that, and it was only one night. Anthony was editing fiercely, trying to make a deadline that I couldn’t set yet. But I made him promise he’d bring Carla to the premiere. The kid shouldn’t give up on something good, even if he doesn’t see it himself.

Things changed a few days later, when Sophie showed up at the theatre to collect her last paycheck, and her parents were with her.

“I hope you know what you put her through,” Ilsa Beringer told me. “The poor girl is traumatized.”

“I am not,” Sophie mumbled.

“Don’t be brave, honey,” her father said. His jaw was so tight you couldn’t pry it open with a crowbar. “You don’t have to impress us. We already love you.”

Ilsa went on as if Ron hadn’t spoken. “You create an environment where all
sorts
of things happen, and you don’t think for a moment about what an impact that will have on an impressionable little girl, do you, Mr. Freed?”

The four of us jammed into my office, where I’d been trying to write Sophie a check for $262.47, was uncomfortable enough, but being blamed for not taking Sophie into account when someone was trying to shoot me—especially since I
had
taken Sophie into account, and that’s why I almost got killed—was making things just a hair less enjoyable. But I didn’t want to get Sophie in more trouble by defending myself. If that’s what they wanted to believe . . .

“I’m not a little girl,
mother
,” Sophie said, slightly more audibly than before.

Ilsa, having built up a head of steam, kept rolling. “We’re considering legal action against you, for the pain and suffering you’ve caused our poor little . . .”

My mouth dropped open, but I never got the chance to say a word. “You’re doing no such thing!” Sophie scolded, her eyes wide open and something approaching color actually showing in her cheeks. “It’s not Elliot’s fault that all this stuff happened, and I’m not even a
little
traumatized.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Ron attempted, his voice sounding suspiciously like air being let out of a balloon. “Now Sophie, you know Mom is just trying to . . .”

“She’s trying to control everything, like she always does,” his daughter answered. “She’s trying to make this all about what a good mother she is, but I’m telling you no. I’m
not
quitting my job and I’m
not
traumatized. I’m
not
changing the way I dress,” (this was definitely aimed directly between Ilsa’s eyes) “and I’m
not
going to private school next year.”

Ilsa, of course, looked away from her daughter, and her face took on a very Margaret Hamilton-in-full-makeup hue when she said, “What have you done to her?”

It took me a moment to realize she meant me. “What have I . . . ?”

“He treated me like a
person
,” Sophie answered on my behalf, which was fortunate, since I had no idea what to say after “What have I . . . ?” She went on: “He lets me call him Elliot, not Mr. Freed, and he asks me to do stuff that’s important, and he trusts me to do it right. He doesn’t stand over my shoulder and point out every little mistake I make before I have a chance to see it myself. And he doesn’t call me a silly little girl. I’m his employee, and he treats me like that. I wouldn’t give up this job for
anything
.”

There was a silence that might have lasted ten seconds, or an hour and a half; I’m not sure. But while Ilsa’s mouth opened and closed without any sound coming out, I kept my hand on the checkbook, where Sophie’s paycheck was ripped halfway out. I couldn’t seem to summon enough muscle power to finish the motion. And Ron Beringer simply disappeared. I think he might have dissolved into a powder that I’d have to vacuum off the rug later.

“Go wait for me outside,” Sophie said to her mother and the powder. They left wordlessly, with looks on both faces I’m sure neither had seen before. I woke myself up and pulled on the check, which tore in two.

“Another one,” I said. Suddenly, I was capable of English only at the Tonto level.

“You can give it to me when the theatre reopens,” she said. “Do you need me during the renovations?”

I shook my head. “Nothing to do,” I said, slowly regaining the power of speech.

“Okay. You’ll call me?”

I nodded, and Sophie turned to leave. I called to her before she made it out the door. “Sophie. Thank you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, let’s not get all
dramatic
, okay?” she said.

After they left, I walked back into the auditorium. The workmen were just beginning on the balcony, and that meant they were tearing most of it down right now. (I had prevailed—mainly by pleading and begging—in getting them to retain the existing projection booth, thus saving me and my insurance company a small fortune.) There was a lot of nothing where something once had been.

On the other hand, I thought, this was also a place where something would once again
be
. I tried to picture Comedy Tonight the way it would look when all the work was done in a few weeks (hopefully): a new, sturdy balcony, new seats in much of the rear of the theatre, new snack bar, new carpet in many places.

Still not perfect, but closer to perfect than it had been before. In fact, right now, it looked worse than when I’d first bought the place. But, eventually, when I could get the business running the way I had always dreamed, it would be perfect, I was sure.

Like Ginger Rogers. In
Swing Time
.

FURTHER FUNNY FILM FACTS FOR FANATICS

Young Frankenstein
(1974)