“So how do you think you’re going to like your new boss?”
Tobin said, “What new boss?”
“Pennco. You haven’t heard? Emory’s selling the company to them,” Swenson said. Pennco was the second-largest television syndicator in the world.
He hadn’t heard about the movie script. He hadn’t heard about Michael Dailey and Jane Dunphy being lovers. And now he hadn’t heard about Frank Emory, whom he considered not only a boss but a friend, selling the company.
“You sure?”
“Hell, yes. It’s all over the bars.” Swenson smiled. “Pennco is wall-to-wall jerks.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Maybe I can get you some gigs on the magazines I work for. In case things don’t work out for you, I mean.”
Tobin saw that, even though they didn’t get along, Swenson was seriously trying to help him. Then of course Tobin felt like shit for thinking all those rotten things about Swenson who, despite his execrable taste in films, had turned out to be a rare type of person — a charitable man.
“Maybe I’ll take you up on that,” Tobin said. But he was strictly on autopilot. His mind was imploding. Jane having an affair with Dailey. Frank Emory selling the company.
“Well, I’m kind of late for an appointment,” Tobin muttered. “I’ll see you later.”
“Have a good holiday,” Chamales said.
Tobin clapped them both on the shoulders — as if they were the best friends he had in the world (as they damn well might be, considering everything that was going on) — then found the elevators and went downstairs.
“I take it you know who this is?” Neely said.
“Sure he does,” Huggins said.
Neely said, “I’ve been calling all over fuck for you, Tobin. Huggins here has been trying to locate you.”
This was a wonderful place for a conversation. Right outside the Brill Building. Freezing your ass off. People walking by and staring. And a Santa Claus with hostile eyes thinking hostile thoughts about everybody who passed by him.
“I’ve got some bad news for you, Tobin,” Huggins said. He still looked like Frog Face McGraw, though you wouldn’t have thought Frog Face was the kind of kid who would grow up to wear blue cashmere topcoats and spend the cost of a good dinner at the Four Seasons on a haircut.
“Gee, that’s what I’d like. Some more bad news.”
“He thinks he’s broken your alibi,” Neely said. “That’s why I wanted to be here.”
“Shut up,” Huggins said to Neely. “I’m doing the talking.”
Neely gave Huggins his best kicked-dog expression and then over his shoulder flashed a little yellow thing he had in his hand and sort of waved it at Tobin. Great, Tobin thought. I’m standing here getting busted by a cop and my lawyer is toking on a joint.
Neely took some marijuana in deep and then expelled it with great luxury. He smiled a 1968 smile at Tobin.
Huggins faced Tobin, so he saw none of this. “After talking with the stagehand and with Jane Dunphy,” he said, “I realized there was a fairly long period there when you were alone. The first time I interviewed the stagehand, he tried to make it sound like you were alone just a minute or two.”
“So?”
“So you could easily have gone down the hall to your dressing room and stabbed him.”
“And just why would I do this?”
Huggins shook his sleek head. “Are you kidding me, Tobin? You really wonder if we got you on motive?” He counted the motives off on his calfskin-gloved fingers. “One, he wouldn’t sign his contract — and that would put you out on the street. Two, you, were having an affair with his wife. Three, you’d gotten into an argument with him that was so bad you punched it out while the tape rolled.”
All Neely did was to take another toke and sort of shrug at Tobin as if to say, He made some good points, you gotta give him that, some good points.
“So you’re arresting me?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because Frank Emory’s father is important and Frank talked his father into calling a friend at the Mayor’s office.” He smiled. “But you’ve seen a lot of cop movies, Tobin. So you know better than to leave town, right?”
Tobin sighed. “Right.”
Huggins merged with Frog Face again. “I’m going to nail you, Tobin. Nail you real good.”
With that, he turned, glared at both of them, and stalked dramatically back to his unmarked Pontiac sitting at the curb.
“What a dumb fuck,” Neely said. “He didn’t even know I had a joint.”
“You were a big help. Thanks a lot.”
“Hey, I told you I was a crummy lawyer,” Neely said earnestly.
Tobin shook his head. “I guess I should have believed you, shouldn’t I?”
19
3:48 P.M.
Tobin had always envied Richard Dunphy his house (not to mention, for a time, his wife). The three-story white clapboard sat on a dead-end street that wound up through fir trees and pines. You had the sense of isolation, but your nearest neighbor was no farther away than an eighth of a mile.
Now, as the cab pulled up the curving driveway, Tobin saw a snowman, arms wide in greeting, carrot nose and coal-piece smile, a red stocking cap on its head, standing in front of the house. For the first time since Richard’s death, he thought not of himself and his own problems with the police and with his future career, but of the children involved. He was their godfather and he hadn’t given them a thought.
Walking up to the long, screened-in porch, redolent always for Tobin of the late fifties when you sat through summer afternoons of Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov paperbacks and drank lemonade or a bottle of Pepsi that still only cost ten cents. But now there was snow and frost on the porch and it was a long way from the relative innocence of the fifties.
When she opened the door for him he could see that she hadn’t gotten much sleep and he could smell that she’d had more than a little to drink. She wore one of Dunphy’s blue cardigans (he’d worn blue cardigans since their college days) and a white blouse and loose jeans and she still managed, in her suburban way, to look very pretty. “Hello, Tobin.” She didn’t open the door.
“I’d like to come in.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“I really need to talk.”
“There was a report on the news — a very broad hint — that you might be implicated in Richard’s death. The kids saw it.” She winced. “I’m not sure now would be a good time for them to see you.”
“Please. I need to ask you a few questions.”
She smiled. “Playing detective?”
“I don’t have much choice, do I? The police aren’t even seriously considering any other suspects.”
She assessed him, then said, “Do you think I might have done it?”
He looked at the floor and then he looked back up. “I don’t know.”
“You do think I’m a suspect.”
“At this point, everybody’s a suspect.”
“Thank you very much.”
“You’re not at the top or anything, though.”
“The top?”
He patted his pocket. “The top of my list. I’m making a list of all the potential suspects. You’re near the bottom.”
Without humor, she joked, “That’s a relief.”
He couldn’t stop what he said next. “I can’t believe you’re involved with Michael Dailey.”
For the first time, she averted her blue eyes. When she looked back up at him, she sighed. Then she opened the door and held it back so he could walk in.