“And I am American,” Mastroiani said.
“Of course you are,” Ollie said. “But tell me, Charles, may I call you Charles?”
“Most people call me Chuck.”
“Even though most Chucks are fags?”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not Chuck?”
“I’m not a fag.”
“Then should I call you Charles?”
“Actually, I’d prefer being called Mr. Mastroiani.”
“Sure, but that don’t sound American, does it? Tell me, Chuck, where were you exactly when the councilman got shot?”
“I was standing near the podium there.”
“And?”
“I heard shots. And he was falling.”
“Heard shots from the wings there?”
“No. From the balcony.”
“Tell me what happened, Chuck. In your own words.”
“Who else’s words would I use?” Mastroiani asked.
“That’s very funny, Chuck,” Ollie said, and grinned like a dragon. “Tell me.”
The way Mastroiani tells it, the councilman is this energetic little guy who gets to the Hall at about a quarter to nine, dressed for work in jeans and a crewneck cotton sweater, loafers, real casual, you know? He’s all over the place, conferring with his aide and this kid he has with him looks like a college boy, giving directions to Mastroiani and his crew, arms waving all over the place like a windmill, running here, running there, going out front to check how the stage looks every time a new balloon goes up, sending the college kid up to the balcony to hear how the sound is, then going up there himself to listen while his aide talks into the mike, then coming down again and making sure the podium is draped right and the sign is just where he wants it, and checking the sound again, waving up to the kid in the balcony who gives him a thumbs-up signal, and then starting to check the lights, wanting to know where the spot would pick him up after he was introduced…
“That’s what he was doing when he got shot. He was crossing the stage to the podium, making sure the spot was following him.”
“Where were you?”
“At the podium, I told you. Looking up at the guy in the booth, waiting for the councilman to…”
“What guy in the booth?”
“The guy on the follow spot.”
“One of your people?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“I have no idea. My guess is he works here at the Hall.”
“Who would know?”
“You got me.”
“I thought you supplied everything. The sound, the lighting…”
“The onstage lighting. Usually, when we do an auditorium like this one, they have their own lighting facilities and their own lighting technician or engineer, they’re sometimes called, a lighting engineer.”
“Did you talk to this guy in the booth? This technician or engineer or whatever he was?”
“No, I did not.”
“Who talked to him?”
“Mr. Pierce was yelling up to him—Henderson’s aide—and so was the councilman himself. I think the college kid was giving him instructions, too. From up in the balcony.”
“Was the kid up there when the shooting started?”
“I think so.”
“Well, didn’t you look up there? You told me that’s where the shots came from, didn’t you look up there to see who was shooting?”
“Yes, but I was blinded by the spot. The spot had followed the councilman to the podium, and that was when he got shot, just as he reached the podium.”
“So the guy working the spot was still up there, is that right?”
“He would’ve had to be up there, yes, sir.”
“So let’s find out who he was,” Ollie said.
A uniformed inspector with braid all over him was walking over. Ollie deemed it necessary to perhaps introduce himself.
“Detective Weeks, sir,” he said. “The Eight-Eight. First man up.”
“Like hell you are,” the inspector said, and walked off.
THE END