Riganti had played a detective in the movie Fuzz which had been about policemen in Boston, and he had played a detective in the movie Without Apparent Motive which had been about policemen on the French Riviera, and he had played a detective in the movie Blood Relatives which had been about policemen in Toronto, and he had played a detective, albeit in Asian disguise, in the movie High and Low, which was about policemen in Yokohama. In the play Romance, which was about policemen in New York, he played a detective investigating the stabbing of an actress performing in a play called Romance, go figure it. A fake play called Romance in a real play called Romance, where nobody gets to kiss the girl.
At eleven o’clock that night, he was sitting barefooted at his kitchen table, wearing his fake gun in a real leather shoulder holster, and real faded blue jeans, and a white long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the way detectives everywhere rolled them up, he supposed. Open on the table before him was his script for Romance, which now included several new scenes typed on blue paper by their illustrious playwright and handed to the cast at rehearsal this afternoon. If anything, the new stuff made the play even worse than it had been. Riganti figured they were all lucky Michelle had been killed.
This was a shame in one respect, though, since before her death Riganti had considered her a likely prospect for a bedmate if the play enjoyed a long run. One of the reasons Riganti had become an actor was that you got to meet a lot of good-looking women and in some plays you got to kiss them and in some instances you got to lay them. Offstage. In many instances, in fact. In fact, Riganti was willing to give two-to-one odds that actors in plays got laid more often than detectives in police stations. Which was neither here nor there. What was here at the moment was this terrible play with its rotten new scenes Riganti had to memorize before tomorrow’s rehearsal at nine A. M. Usually, Riganti got this or that aspiring young actress to run lines with him, the better to entice her into the bedroom. But there was no time for fooling around tonight. Tonight, there was only the drudgery of having to learn all this uninspired crap from Freddie.
Riganti hated speeches with underlined words in them.
He also hated interrupted speeches. The hardest thing to do onstage was to interrupt another actor and make the interruption seem convincing.
A knock sounded on the door.
Startled, Riganti looked first at the locked door and next at the clock on the kitchen wall.
Ten minutes past eleven.
He had been burglarized twice since moving into this apartment eight months ago. Now some son of a bitch was at the door at ten minutes past eleven.
“Who is it?” he yelled.
“Mr. Riganti?” a voice yelled back.
“Who is it?”
“Police,” the voice said.
Yeah, bullshit, Riganti thought.
He got up from the table, went to the door, and placed his ear to the wood, the way he had done many times before while playing a cop. Simultaneously, he slipped the fake pistol from its shoulder holster, holding it alongside his free ear, the barrel pointed up at the ceiling, the way cops did in plays and in movies. He could hear nothing but heavy breathing in the hallway outside. Another knock sounded on the door, close to where his ear was pressed to it, causing him to jump back a step. His heart was pounding.
“You hear me in there?” the voice said.
“I hear you. How do I know you’re a cop?”
“Open the door, I’ll show you my shield.”
Shield. That was a good sign. Riganti had been in many plays and movies where you could tell a fake cop because he called his shield abadge. Only civilians called a police shield a badge. Riganti turned the thumb bolt, made sure the night chain was in place, and opened the door a crack. He was looking out at a very fat man holding up a gold-and-blue-enameled detective’s shield.
“Detective Oliver Weeks,” the man said, “Eighty-eighth Detective Squad. I’m investigating the murder of Michelle Cassidy, would you please open the door?”
“Let me see your ID card,” Riganti said.
The fat man made an exasperated sound, and then took out his wallet and fished through it for a laminated card which he held up to the crack in the door. The seal of the city’s police department was on the card, and so was a color photograph that looked very much like the person holding up the card, and there was also the name he’d just given Riganti, typed across the face of the card, DETECTIVE/FIRST GRADE OLIVER WEEKS, with a matching signature below it.
Riganti figured the guy was really a detective.
He took off the night chain, and opened the door wide, forgetting that the fake pistol was in his right hand and not back in its holster. Ollie saw the gun and immediately reached for his own very real pistol in a clamshell holster on his right hip. Riganti realized at once what was happening. He yelled, “It’s fake, I’m an actor, for Christ’s sake I’m an actor!” Ollie remembered that the man he was here to see was, in fact, an actor. But he’d been a cop for too long a time now, so he immediately barked, “Drop the gun!” which Riganti was only too tickled to do. Ollie kicked it across the kitchen floor.
“I almost shot you,” he said.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Riganti said.
He was having a little difficulty breathing.
“You got a permit for that piece?” Ollie asked.
“I told you. It’s fake.”
“It looks real.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Why you packing a fake gun?”
“I told you. I’m an actor.”
“Yeah?” Ollie said.
“I play a detective in this play we’re doing.”
“Oh, yeah, right.”
“You scared the shit out of me,” Riganti said.
“Me, too,” Ollie said. “You got anything to drink here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something medicinal?”
“Like booze, do you mean?”
“Yeah, like booze, beer, wine, whatever.”
“Are you allowed to drink on duty?”
“No,” Ollie said, and sat at the kitchen table.
“I think I have some beer in the fridge,” Riganti said.
“Yeah, beer’ll be fine.”
“That’s very interesting,” Riganti said, going to the refrigerator and opening it. “You’re not allowed to drink on duty, but you’re accepting a beer from me.”
“Yeah, that’s very interesting, all right,” Ollie said. “What kind of beer is it?”
“Heineken.”
Ollie watched as he popped the caps off two green bottles. Riganti handed him a glass and one of the bottles.
“I almost blew your fuckin head off,” Ollie said. “Cheers.”