Reminds me of something George Carlin said: “Don’t give your money to the church. They should be giving their money to you.” That’s more like it.
We’re meeting the Elvins for dinner tonight at the Chappaqua Tavern.
I’m in a damned-near good mood, basking in what I heard from Barb yesterday. Diane and Joe are already at the bar when we get there, so we order a beverage to catch up: Ketel One, soda, lime for me, and a glass of chardonnay for Jean.
The TV’s on over the bar. Chuck Esposito from NBC is on camera, in front of the agency. I hear him say:
—murder at the Marterelli and Partners advertising agency in lower Manhattan. One of their employees, Ramon Manuel Martinez, of Brooklyn, was found dead early Friday morning up on the roof of the Marterelli offices, with a bullet to the back of the head. Police and city detectives continue to look for clues. Thus far, they have none. This is Chuck Esposito reporting from downtown Manhattan. Back to you, Stacy…
“Unbelievable,” Joe says, shaking his head. “So they really don’t know anything about it yet?”
“Far as I know,” I say. “They’ve got the roof off limits while they continue to search for any clues. And of course they’re talking to everyone at the agency, including me.”
“Sure hope they find this guy,” Joe says. “So what else is going on, anything?”
“Yeah, actually, there is. Between us folk, I’m getting some great feedback on a job I’m after, a really great job.”
“Fantastic,” says Diane, and Jean puts her arm around my back with a loving squeeze.
“Yeah. Don’t want to jinx it, but it could be good.”
We’re seated for dinner, and the conversation flowers among us friends, budding into lighter subjects, thank goodness. Imagine. Life could be good, if only…
Diane orders their oven-baked penne, Joe likes the grilled skirt steak, Jean splurges with fish and chips, and for me, the drunken salmon with bourbon cream sauce.
To go with the drunken salmon I order a bottle of limited edition Seyval blanc from St. George, a local winery up in Mohegan Lake. After the server pours it all around, I offer a toast.
“Here’s to good friends and the wonderful lives we share,” I pronounce, with a great deal of hope against hope.
“Hear! Hear!” and soon dinner is served, in the midst of animated chatter all around.
After dinner we share a round of vintage port and I ask for the check.
“Let’s split it, Tim,” Joe offers.
“Nah. Let me, I’ve got it.” I hand the server my MasterCard.
She’s back in five minutes and tries to be discreet. “I’m sorry, sir. Your card is refusing this charge.”
Jesus! It’s that bad.…
I get a look from Jean.
“Must be because I’ve been traveling. Sometimes the banks go overboard with their security precautions.”
Yeah, right.
“Hey, Tim, no sweat. I’m sure it’s a tech malfunction or something. Let me get it,” and Joe hands her his card.
Is there no escaping this shit? Well, actually, no, there isn’t.
Chapter 13
Monday morning…and I’m back at it. 7:20 express, gets me in to Grand Central at 8:08, time enough to read the New York Times on the way in. Then I grab the 6 train downtown to 14th Street and walk over to the office.
In I go, and the weekend has not helped anybody calm down much. The office is still in a state of jangled nerves, preoccupied would-be workers, and general chaos.
Mo’s at the front desk. “Hey, Tim, good morning! Welcome back.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say.
“Those detectives, the two of them, were back. Waiting at the front door when I got here to open up. They’re all over it. And us. Interviewing everybody,” she tells me.
“Turns out they’ve been in the area most of the weekend.…”
“Well, there’s been a murder. I’m grateful they’re here. Did they talk to you, Mo?”
“Sure. Asked me all about Ramon, what I knew about him, his personal life. His family. Who he hung out with here at the agency. All I could tell them was how much we all loved him.”
I head up to my cubicle. Quinn’s at the top of the stairs…waiting for me? Well-dressed, mid-forties, close-cropped, graying hair. Fit.
“Mr. MacGhee, sorry we didn’t get to talk on Friday. We hear you’re the man. Got a few minutes?”
“Absolutely. Why don’t you step into my…cubicle? And please, call me Tim.”
“And call me Pete.…”
He spots my Marine eagle, globe, and anchor plaque on the wall before he can sit down.
“Seriously? Semper fi?”
“Damn straight! You?”
“Hell, yes! Desert Storm. 2nd Marines. Purple Heart.”
“Amazing, my brother. You beat me by a few years. But who’s counting? Here we are! And thank God, I didn’t win a Purple Heart. Please, have a seat, Pete, let’s talk.” He settles into the couch.
“Thanks, Tim. So, this is a tough one. Not a random murder out on the streets. This one’s in a place of business, in downtown Manhattan, full of what seem like good, professional people who care about each other. The victim is someone who is clearly well respected by everybody, near as we can tell. It just doesn’t make any sense. Not that most murders do, but still…”
“I get it, Pete. Please, how can I help?”
“So far, nobody we’ve talked to knows anything, not really. Or at least they’re not willing to say they do, yet. And they all say the same thing: Talk to Tim. He knows more about the agency than anybody else here.
“But I’ve got to tell you, so far we’re getting nowhere. I’m hoping you can help.”
“Absolutely. Anything.”
“What can you tell me about Ramon?” he asks.
“Well, he’s one of those self-made guys. Started in the old mailroom we still had. But every free minute he was on somebody’s computer. Got good at it. Soon enough he was our tech guy. A self-taught tech expert, monitoring computers, making sure everybody had the latest software, figuring out how to reboot when they crashed. All that stuff…
“I didn’t see him that much, day to day, but he sure made himself irreplaceable.”
“Did Ramon have any enemies that you know about?”
“Oh, man,” I tell him, “I cannot imagine anybody here having anything against Ramon. Zero. He would probably be voted most popular guy in the agency.”
“Damn. Sure makes you wonder who would murder this guy—and why—and how they would get up to the roof after hours,” Quinn says.
Sure does, I’m thinking.
“Understand completely, Detective,” I tell him.
“Look,” he says, “just do us all a favor and keep your eyes and ears open. Everybody talks about you like you’re the one most likely to hear anything. Here’s my card. Please call me if you do.”
“Absolutely. You have my word.”
I have a feeling I’ll see Peter Quinn again.
Chapter 14
“Yo…dude!”
Jesus, it’s Lenny Shapiro, poking his unkempt head into my space. Creative guy, writer—or supposed to be. Seems half stoned all the time. I can’t remember the last time he made any kind of significant contribution to anything at the agency. Remember Sean Penn in Fast Times at Ridgemont High? That’s Lenny.
And now here he is, leaning his big head of hair around the corner, working to make glassy-eyed contact. He’s looking bad.