I’d heard that film critic Rex Braverman would be in the
audience tonight. Well, so would I.
The movie theater was crowded and smelly just as I had
predicted. There were more unsupervised kids than I could shake a stick at.
There appeared to be a Mary Kay convention down front. There was a group of
Elvis impersonators on the East side of the theater. I had a feeling that my
new shoe leather might stick to the floor. That my head might implode from
chewing caramel.
But I had a responsibility. A person had gone missing. It was my
job to go looking. Rumor had it that he might be here tonight. The event was a
Whitty Allin film festival. The theater was packed. One had to ponder the
diversity of the crowd. Some had likely come in to get out of the rain. Most seats
were taken. I sat in the front row center, between an incessant babbler and a
chewing gum snapper. I saw a lot in this job. Sometimes I saw too much.
I had been retained to locate a missing person, by an anonymous
source who had paid in cash by proxy. I was on a loose leash. I knew a good
deal when I found one. The case would however develop into a murder
investigation.
I sought Braverman. Rex
Braverman was a legendary film critic and social butterfly. Usually spied
tromping from theater to restaurant to theater, he wore a trench coat and
fedora, summer and winter. Rex cut a suave path. But face it. The man was
eccentric.
Braverman's film reviews had angered many. The man would argue
genre and quality till blue in the face, a becoming color. Actors and critics
gave him wide berth. The public loved him. His bosses loved him.
“It's not a comedy-drama, it's a drama with comedic
undertones!" He would cut filmmakers no slack if he thought that they
were slacking."This is no historical epic, it's a soap opera with swords
and swine!" He would opine. Controversy generated popularity. But the man
made enemies.
As the screening of Play It Again, Please flickered, I
discreetly eyed the filled theater seats, looking for a fedora-clad head. I was
amazed to notice a group of Humphrey Bogart look-a-likes seated near the front
west exit. My search for Braverman was becoming complicated.
BLAM! BLAM! Gunshots rang out. I checked my gun. It hadn’t
accidentally discharged as in an unfortunate previous incident. People began to
scream. Phil Fetzer, the theater owner, had fallen to the aisle floor,
clutching his chest. Spectators gathered around the prone victim, as he tried
to speak.
"It was . . . it was . . ." He managed to choke out,
before he collapsed, dead.
"Why do dying victims always repeat the subject and verb
without getting to the object of the sentence?" A bystander asked no one
in particular.
"I dunno. That's what they always did in the movies."
“Builds suspense doncha know.”
Movement suddenly caught my eye, fortunately not like last time.
As I looked towards an exit, I saw him. Fedora cockily tilted over an intense
face, trench coat aflutter, Rex Braverman ran for the exit. I gave chase. I
caught up with him. I then managed to disentangle my blouse sleeve from his
coat buttons.
"Back off, sister! What's yer problem?"
"Don't play dumb with me, Rex! You practically stand before
me with a smoking gun!" I exclaimed, perusing his gun area.
"Lady, who are you? Christ, a person gets a little fame,
and look what happens! Nuts chasin' ya down the street! . . ."
"Rex, I'm no nut. I'm a private investigator. I was hired
to find out your whereabouts. And now it looks like you're involved in
murder."
"I’m innocent. I can’t stress this highly enough! We must
talk. Care for dinner?"
"I could eat."
*
Ducking into Andiamo's, we took a booth and ordered drinks. Rex
looked suddenly vulnerable, seemingly deep in thought, semi-collapsed against
the red booth cushion. I felt a little vulnerable myself. Like a candy that's
hard on the outside and soft in the center. Like a person who doesn't know
whether to go or stay. Like a little deah sipping at the brook as the hunter
splatters its little deah brains.
Our drinks arrived. We gulped to calm our nerves.
Rex made eye contact. "Oooohhh! Gross! Stop it! Put your
eyes back in, silly!"
"Oh. Yes. Well, wait, just a sec. There. That's better.
Sorry, I couldn't resist!" He responded, shyly grinning. He was adorable.
He took a deep breath, exhaled, and looked into my eyes.
"Sheila. Listen to me. I did not kill Fetzer. You must
believe me. You must help me. "
*
At this point in my career, I’d heard it all. Had my eyes
deceived me at the crime scene? Was this hard boiled gumshoe gal getting soft
in middle age? In any case, I had to get the facts, and go from there.
I interviewed crime witnesses. Their recollections were diverse.
They had more versions than a politician in the hot seat. Than a software
giant. Than a dalmation had spots. Lots.
"Elvis is back, and he shot Fetzer! I realize that the
theater was dark, but I know what I saw!"
"The shooter was clearly a Mary Kay rep! She stood next to
Fetzer on the east aisle. She cranked stick and popped lead in rapid
succession."
"The killer wore a fedora and trench coat. He seemed to be
very anxious, and paced the aisle. Suddenly he walked past Fetzer. He stopped
and turned, facing him. He pulled a gun! He pulled the trigger! A little flag
popped out of the gun barrel, that said 'BANG!' in big letters. He cursed and
threw it to the aisle floor. He pulled a second gun, and shot Fetzer! He ran
for the exit, slipping and falling several times on a giant banana peel. Then
he was gone."
Big picture, suspect-wise: I didn’t believe that an Elvis
impersonator would commit murder, risking a wonderful career. Ditto for a Mary
Kay magnate. Not logical. But suspect number three raised my red flag. Tweaked
my gray matter. Sent my deductive logic on a blue streak.
Why was theater owner Fetzer targeted for murder in the first
place? How did film critic Braverman fit in, was he just in the wrong place at
the wrong time? Clearly there was a cinematic theme here, and it wasn’t the
soundtrack to The Sound of Music. Or Jaws. Or Chinatown.
*
My home phone rang - I'd paid extra for a black rotary style.
The voice on the line was male, and veiling controlled hysteria.
"Br- Br- Braverman killed Fetzer! If I were you, I'd look
into him!" I tried to keep the caller on the line.
"Okay! Seen any good movies lately?" I cheerily asked
him. The ploy seemed to work.
"Ha! You’ve got to be kidding. How would I even begin to
find one in this sea of mediocrity?"
"You sound very negative. What would your analyst
say?"
"He would say that I’m a perfectionist who feels inadequate
. . . hey! wait a minute! . . . why am I telling you this? . . . and why are
you asking me these things?"
"Silly! It's an old trick, to keep you on the line!"
"Gasp . . . REEEAlly?" He hung up.
*
I headed uptown to Fifth Ave. Dressed to the nines wielding
cleavage and danish, I got past the doorman. Conquering the elevator and
hallways, I took a deep breath and knocked on the apartment door. I steeled
myself. It was very uncomfortable.
He answered the door. Wearing horn rimmed glasses, a cashmere
pullover, khaki pants, and a morose expression, was filmmaker Whitty Allin.
"May I help you?" He suspiciously asked. I
quickly shouldered my way inside.
"Whitty, the jig is up."
"REEEAlly? . . . um . . . what exactly is a jig?. . .
where?" He asked, glancing nervously upward and around.
"Mr. Allin, I think that you murdered Fetzer and tried to
frame Braverman.”
"ExCUSE me? . . . uh uh . . . I don't know what you're
t-t-talking about!" He stammered, backing away. As I more closely approached
him, he took off his glasses, threw them to the floor and stomped on them. He
made a run for it. I gave chase.
Catching up with him, I tackled him. The old Tackle and Tickle
technique, as they called it. Guaranteed to make a person cry for mercy.
"Gasp! OOOOoooohhh . . . hahahaha . . . hehehe . . . please
stop! I'm not only ticklish, I'm polymorphously perverse! Okay! I'll confess!
Please stop!" He choked out, tears of hysterical laughter streaming down
his face. Whitty gathered his senses about him, and began to talk.
"Fetzer was going to show colorized versions of Manhattan
and Stardust Memories. I couldn’t allow this to happen, okay? And
that Braverman! One of the few critics who doesn’t like all of my work! What
does he know? Do you know what he said to me at a party once? 'Do you want to
do humankind a real service? Tell funnier jokes!' . . . the nerve!
"And yes, I knew that Braverman would be at the Crest
Theater that night, dressed in that ridiculous pseudo PI getup. I tried to use
him for a fall guy."
"I know, Whitty."
*
I met Braverman at Andiamo's for drinks. He’d taken a corner
booth. We greeted one another as I slid in opposite him. Our hands brushed on
the table, discharging static electricity. Startled, I accidentally dumped the
contents of my purse onto the table, seat, and floor.
"Oh Sheila! Let me help you with that." Rex sweetly
offered, smiling and laughing. A true gentleman under his gruff, wry exterior,
I had the feeling that he held more surprises that a pinata. Than picnic
potluck. Than Christmas fruitcake. Face it, the man was yummy.
"Sheila! What IS all this stuff? Have you considered
cleaning out yer purse sometime maybe?" He asked in an exasperated
fashion, holding up a partial banana, distastefully, between his thumb and
forefinger.
"Hey! Careful with that!" I reminded him as our eyes
met over my big gun. He gingerly handed it over to me. Static electricity
manifested once more, startling us.
"Sheila. I want to thank you for everything. Who would have
thought this turn of events possible? To have been framed for murder by a major
filmmaker? I realize that I’ve made some enemies with my film criticism, but
this is ridiculous!"
"Rex, forget it. May I ask you a question?"
"Certainly. I imagine that we’ve achieved a certain level
of intimacy at this point."
"Is Rex your real name?"
"Oh, Sheila! How did you know? No. Rex is not my real name.
My real name is Spike. Braverman. Spike Braverman."
We finished our drinks, lingering for a moment, looking into
each others' eyes and communicating a wordless goodbye. As he walked out, I
wondered if I would ever see him again.
Who knows, I just may sense him in a darkened theater some
night. And we'll always have Whitty.
