Page 115 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case
P. 115

Soaked to the Bone

        property. So she might already know who was connected with Fish’s
        business. Again I felt an urgent need to contact—
          “Nick Krotz. You make a lot of calls to him.”
          Too late. “Yes,” I temporized, “and I talk to my mother in Des
        Moines every other day.”
          Now I could clearly see the policewoman’s face, and I searched it
        for reactions to my utterly called-for bit of temper. Nothing. Not a
        person to bet against in a poker game. With sinking heart I realized
        that I was really on her turf, not mine, and that she had in the course
        of her work probably questioned hundreds of distraught people long
        before she got to me. I relaxed, finally, and laughed.
          “Okay, he’s a flack at Troglo—a publicist, a P.R. guy. He and I are
        like a line keeping Fish in tow to the studio. G.F. has had spectacular
        successes and failures as a producer over the years; he is given a lot of
        leeway, but they are always ready to reel him in  when his projects
        start to flounder. Nick and I keep the channel open but we monitor
        and edit communications between the studio head and their erratic
        genius. Much of what each says to and about the other is better left
        on the cutting room floor.”
          “Such as?”
          “I don’t know if I should go into it, Lieutenant. Maybe it’s hearsay,
        or whatever you call it in your business. Give me a break: I work for
        Troglo Films. Everyone knows Fish is difficult, and egos are already
        inflated by the real and imaginary rewards for having the magic touch
        in movie-making. What most people would consider a dire threat is a
        normal  conversational  gambit  in  those  circles.  Do  I  need  to  call  a
        lawyer? Has there been a crime committed? Is anything missing in the
        house? Fish’s one and only Oscar?”
          She  backed  off—a  tactical  retreat,  I’m  sure.  Her  next  question
        caught me off guard.
          “Where are the bins?”
          I  looked  at  the  muddy  outlines  of  the  barrel  bottoms  on  the
        concrete. “Ah, well—oh, of course, it’s Wednesday, right? It’s trash
        collection day.”
          “Is this gate always locked? Who takes the barrels to and from the
        curb?”
          So she didn’t already know absolutely everything! My chance to be
        helpful in a non-controversial way. And I didn’t like the way things

                                       114
   110   111   112   113   114   115   116   117   118   119   120