Copp In The Dark, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (16 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Maybe I should remind you that at this point I was less than seventy-two hours into this case. I know that seems ridiculous because so much had happened but that is the way it went. So if you think I was being very stupid about some of the developments, you're probably right, I was stupid, but let's be fair about it: someone had gone to a lot of pains to make me that way and I had not had a lot of time to work through it. The thing had begun for me on a Wednesday morning at three
a.m
. and we were now into the Friday evening performance of
La
Mancha
.

You might remember that on the very first day, Wednesday—when I really did not consider myself on the case—I'd been shot at and then set up for a false rap and thrown into jail. So we should not even count that day. I actually began working it as a case on Thursday morning and the whole thing blew up in my face that night. It had been gangbusters ever since, except for the idyllic interlude with Judith White on Friday morning, and even that was more dizzying than refreshing, so why the hell shouldn't I be stupid?

So okay, I was stupid. But at least I knew at the time that I was stupid and I was struggling like hell to smarten up.

Lahey
did not go back inside with me for the final act that night. Suspended or not, he still had a very active interest in the case and he had a lead that he wanted to follow. Didn't want to tell me what it was but he did promise to keep me informed of developments. I promised him the same, although I had not told him everything I'd learned that day—but that's okay, because he had not told me everything either.

I went on back inside and
Lahey
went toward his car.

I have to say that the makeshift cast put on an inspired performance that evening. The final curtain brought the house down and it took three curtain calls to quiet the crowd.
 
Lunceford
had been spectacular in the tide role and all the players had seemed to reach into their depths to really pull the thing together. It was essentially the same cast that had performed on Thursday, but this was the first performance after they'd learned of the deaths of their five fellow players—and they made it memorable.

I spoke to
Lunceford
backstage for the first time a few minutes following the final curtain call but he already knew who I was. Everyone was milling around and congratulating one another but it was a subdued group, not a joyous one. I tried to respect that mood, told
Lunceford
that it was very important that I talk with him before he went home that evening.

He seemed like a nice kid, very direct and cooperative, told me that he had to go straight to the hotel lounge as soon as he could get out of the makeup and stage clothes. "I sit in with the band over there every Friday and

Saturday," he explained, "but I only do a couple of numbers. If you'd like to meet me over there.. "

      
I told him I would like to do that, then I went looking for Judith, found her standing outside the women's dressing room. She gave me a pretty smile and asked,
   
"How'd we do?"

      
"Knocked '
em
dead, like you said," I replied. "How'd you know I was out there?"

      
"Saw you and Sergeant
Lahey
during intermission," she said. "You seemed very engrossed with each other so I..."

      
"No, we weren't all that..."

      
"Well I didn't want to ..."

      
"No, you should have ..."

      
She laughed suddenly and gave me a quick kiss on the lips. "Are we embarrassed or what? When a man and woman can't speak in complete sentences to each other, what does that mean? Are we ... ?"

      
"I think maybe we ..."

      
"But we've only known each other for..."

      
"Well sure, but ..." I caught myself doing it again, chuckled and told her, "This could get dangerous. I'm meeting Johnny
Lunceford
in the lounge. Could you come over?"

      
"Daddy said he talked to you."

      
I said, "Yes. We had a good talk."

      
"So you're not worried about..."

      
"Well I don't know, Judy. Things are still a bit..."

      
"I mean, you wouldn't have to ..."

      
"Oh no, I want to ..."

      
She gave me a dazzling smile and said, "Stop that."

      
"You first," I said.

"In the lounge?"

I said, "Yes."

"Ill be there in about ten minutes. I have to ..."

I don't know. What does it mean when a man and woman can't talk together coherently? Maybe all it means is that one or both of them are stupid.

But I didn't think so.

This hotel is one of those sprawling, Spanish hacienda types with many buildings scattered about, none more than two stories high, connected by flagstone pathways and buried in exotic trees and plants. There are several pools and I don't know how many restaurants, tennis courts and other recreational facilities, shops and offices that serve not only guests of the hotel but the general public as well.

The theater occupied one of those buildings near the outside of the complex.
 
About a hundred yards away and connected by covered walkways and patios stood the building that housed a large restaurant and banquet facility serving fine, and expensive, continental cuisine. The hotel lounge, also, was in that building, separated from the restaurant by a foyer and heavy double doors.

It was a small lounge, as hotel lounges go. Room for maybe twenty at the bar and perhaps twenty tables in an intimate atmosphere grouped about a small stage and dance floor. The "band" was actually a duo—a big,
goodlooking
darkhaired
guy at the keyboards and a pretty little blonde vocalist with Doris Day innocence and a seductive Streisand voice, very handsome couple. I thought it actually was a big band in there before I rounded the corner at the foyer and stepped inside. The guy was

seated at one of these huge keyboard consoles and making
bigband
music complete with brass, string, and rhythm sections while the two of them were vocalizing a big production number from
Les
Miserables
. They were sensational. I learned later that they called themselves
The Show Band
and all of their music was taken from hit Broadway musicals of the past and present.

It was nearly midnight and the place was still jammed. I stood by the bar while the band concluded their "I Have A Dream" number from
Miserables
,
then I got a quick understanding of what
Lunceford
had meant by "sitting in." I guess he'd timed his entrance because he stepped through the doors at that moment. The little blonde announced through her microphone: "Oh good! Here's Johnny, everybody!" The guy did a fanfare with his keyboard. "Johnny, will you come up and do a number with us? Let's hear it for Johnny
Lunceford
, everybody— from the dinner theater next door, Johnny
Lunceford
."

The guy at the keyboards did a comical take-off on Ed McMahon as he shifted from fanfare to
drumroll
: "
Heeeeeeeeer's
Johnny!" You could tell, this was a fun place with a more or less steady patronage by the surrounding community. Everyone seemed to know everyone else and they all loved their entertainers.

Lunceford
leaped onto the stage to enthusiastic applause, cheers and whistling, hugged the blonde and wrung the keyboardist's hand, and the three went into a little
 
huddle on stage while various patrons shouted out requests.
 
I heard several different tides shouted out but "Impossible Dream" seemed to be the favorite, it seemed to be a standard for this guy. He was making a comically rueful face as the blonde dug out the music and placed it on the music stand for the keyboardist, there was a lot of
goodnatured
jawing back and forth between bandstand and audience while the musician set up his instrument, then a hush of anticipation fell with the downbeat.

This is one of those songs that starts sort of low-keyed and builds dramatically.
 
The blonde was off the bandstand and moving toward the door as soon as the music began. Our eyes met as she brushed past me.
 
Guess she thought she knew me. "Isn't he great?" she whispered.
 
"Mind if I stand here? I appreciate it better from a distance."

I didn't mind, no.
 
Beautiful gal, and I got an insight there. Talented people
dig
other talented people. I was watching her more than
Lunceford
as the number progressed and I liked what I saw there.
 
It should be that way for everyone, I decided.
 
A good carpenter should really dig another good carpenter, same for bookkeepers and bank tellers and corporate executives, same for cops. We should all dig excellence in others who do what we have chosen to do with our lives and not feel threatened by it.
 
We should feel reassured by it.

The blonde glanced at me during a musical interlude and whispered, "Boy! Such power!"

I said, "Yeah. That's exactly what I was thinking about you and your partner. You should be in musical theater."

She wrinkled her nose and replied, "Can't afford it," then turned back to the stage as
Lunceford
began his fortissimo conclusion.

That was another insight, brought home to roost. Craig
Maan
had hinted at it during our conversation the day he died when he told me, "We work for carfare, not for limousines." Apparently lounge singers do better than that.

The number ended and the place went wild.

      
To "sit in" is to do it for free.

      
But I could tell by Johnny
Lunceford's
reaction to the applause that he was not doing it "for free." He was doing it for love, and at that moment he was indeed adored.

It should be that way for all of us, I decided, when we do well the things that we do.

      
Certainly we should not be killed for it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“These guys are the greatest,"
Lunceford
told me in admiring tones, referring to the band. They'd taken a break after his number and a few patrons immediately left, as though waiting for that moment to quit the place, and that opened some tables. I'd taken one in a back corner and
Lunceford
had joined me there.

"Mack has been coaching me on the side, helping me with microphone technique and all that. You know it's a whole different ball game when you're in an intimate situation like this. It's like you're more than a singer, you're the host at a party, you have to command the room and you don't have a script to follow.

"If you can't do that then you can't work in a lounge, no matter how good your music is. So they're great, they're the best, and I owe them a lot. Janie's the best, the absolute best there is.
 
If we weren't both married, I'd be in love with her. She and Mack are married. Isn't that great?

"What a great way to make a living, singing love songs with someone you truly love. They do casuals all over the place too, wedding receptions and all kind of private

parties, they're together night and day, seven days and nights a week, and they're still in love. Isn't that great?

“That's what I'd like to do. But my wife can't sing. Well, I told her to take up the piano anyway.
 
I mean we could do this, if she'd learn keyboards.
 
She's not musical, though, not at all."

He peered sadly into his beer then took a long pull at it. I didn't know if he was running the jaw that way because he was nervous with me or if he always went on that way.

"I told
Alfie
we could do it, he wasn't that bad with keyboards—hell, we could fake it, with all the electronic help you can get these days. We could work up an act and Mack would help us find a gig, he's a great guy. But
Alfie
liked the big stage, he liked ..."

I got a single word in. "
Alfie
?"

"You knew him as Craig
Maan
. That was a funny deal, I want you to know how that came about.
Alfie
had been into all kinds of dumb shit. I don't know—he was just too much of a romantic, I guess. Big dreams, big deals, always the big deals. We met in college. Both majoring in drama. His dad thought he was majoring in chemical engineering. Right there, see, he was already living a lie. I don't know how you can do that. I mean . . . that's just too much intrigue, I couldn't live that way.

"For
Alfie
it just seemed natural, the way to go. So—"

"What happened after college?"

"I was two years ahead of him. I graduated and came out here. I've been living a double life myself for the past two years—but on the up and up, see. Couldn't get any regular television or stage work so I had to take a job. I wanted to get married. Hell, I had to make a living. So I make my living during the day and I work toward the

future at night. Maybe some day I’ll make my living at night. I'd like that."

"You were telling me about this funny deal."

"I don't know,
Alfie
got into some kind of dumb shit after I graduated and came out here. From the University of Chicago, that's where we went to school. I guess he spent his whole junior year with one dumb thing after another. He dropped out in his senior year and showed up on my doorstep one day, said he didn't want anyone to know where he was.

"Now listen to this, this is really dumb.
Alfie
told me that he'd gotten involved with this older man, a gay man old enough to be his father, and that this gay man had been sponsoring him in a career—a showbiz career—but
Alfie
couldn't stand it any more, he had to get out of the relationship. But he owed this man a lot of money and the man didn't want to let him go.
Alfie
wanted to live incognito for awhile, he needed a job and he especially didn't want his father to know anything about his problems.

"Well, I've been working in dinner and community theater all the time I've been out here. Most of it is equity waiver so you don't make a lot of money but it's a good place to learn the ropes and improve yourself and maybe even get noticed by somebody who can help your career. There's a lot of that kind of work out here so you can work fairly steady if you don't mind bumping along from one small theater to another."

"And," I added, "If you don't mind working for carfare."

"That's exactly right.
Alfie
wasn't married, didn't have any bills to speak of—except to his gay friend—and pocket money was really all he needed for the time being. I had

just auditioned for this production of
La
Mancha
and landed the role as the Padre. This other guy, Greg Houston, landed the tide role. Greg is older, he's done
La
Mancha
all over the place, and he was even on Broadway years ago, briefly. Anyway, a few small roles were still open or at least questionable so I took
Alfie
in to see Judith.

"Well there was instant chemistry there. And Greg Houston had just called that very morning to say that he'd gotten a better offer from San Francisco and he'd like to bow out of
La
Mancha
. The upshot of it all is that
Alfie
stepped into the tide role two days before the show opened and he was like born for the part.

"Look, I'm not modest—I know I sing better than
Alfie
. Well, I've worked harder at it.
 
But he like brought Miguel Cervantes to life on that stage.
 
He was great, and everyone knew it. It's a great tragedy, and great loss that he was snatched away from us. Everyone loved
Alfie
, and I mean everyone."

"The funny deal," I prompted.

"Oh, yeah ... I thought it was a gag, I mean it started out like a gag.
Alfie
wanted to be incognito. He auditioned as Craig
Maan
and he got the role as Craig
Maan
. Then he started telling people that my real name was Alfred Johansen. I thought, 'What the hell is this?'—but I went along with it and it got to be a real gag. I mean I even told stories about
Alfie
as though they were my stories—you know, college stuff and all that, stories about
Alfie's
father and all that. That's the way it got started. It was just a gag."

"Some gag," I commented. "It had a lot of people fooled."

"For a long time, yeah. This has been going on for about

three months. Then a few weeks ago he started this thing about the national tour. Now I knew that was bullshit. I knew it from the start. I mean, I didn't know that it was bullshit, he never told me that it was, but I just knew from the way it got started that it was another one of
Alfie's
dumb stunts."

I asked, "How did it start?"

"It started,"
Lunceford
replied, "as a gag."

"How so?"

"These two new waiters started at the theater.
Alfie
turned white the first time he spotted them from the stage, and he pointed them out to me from backstage during intermission. He told me that they'd been looking for him and it looked like they'd finally caught up with him."

"This was Larry and Jack."

"That's right. He said they were private detectives hired by his old gay friend. Then later on that same night he told me that they'd brought a proposition to him. The old man wanted to give him a chance to settle his debts. He would bankroll—the old gay man—he would bankroll the show for a national tour if
Alfie
would agree to remain in the title
 
role.

"Well, I thought that was bullshit. It sounded like bullshit to me. But he began repeating it around and the rest of the cast bought it. I guess when you've wanted something so bad for so long... and the other kids didn't know
Alfie
like I know
Alfie
. I knew it was bullshit but I never said anything. I should have. Especially when ..."

"When what?"

"When he came up with this ..."

      
"This what?"

      
"This dumb . . . plot, I guess. He called it insurance."

      
"Insurance for what?"

      
'To keep the old gay man in check, I guess. To keep him honest,' was the way
Alfie
put it. He wanted to involve the entire cast in the plot. We were all supposed to chip in a week's paycheck. We'd hire another private detective to protect him—him being
Alfie
—and
Alfie
would arrange the insurance."

      
"Why would
Alfie
need protection to do that?"

      
"This old gay man ..."

      
"What about him?"

      
Lunceford
chuckled. "
Alfie
told us he was a Mafia godfather. Can you imagine?
 
A gay godfather?"

      
I chuckled, too, but not with humor. "Did
Alfie
ever name this gay godfather?"

      
"No. I never bothered to ask because I knew it was bullshit.
 
And I was not about to contribute a week's pay for one of
Alfie's
gags. I have responsibilities, about to become a father.
 
What it finally came down to was five people who bought into it, and—"

      
I said, "That would be Elaine, Susan and the three guys-Peterson, Sanchez and Stein."

      
Lunceford
nodded his head soberly at each name. "Yes, may God bless. I thought they were all nuts to go along with that. But now I don't know. I guess it wasn't a gag. Five people are dead, aren't they."

      
"Five of six," I mused aloud. "Why do you suppose Susan was spared?"

      
"I guess she was just in the right place at the right time,"
Lunceford
replied. "I don't know why, unless she just got lucky." He shivered. "It could have happened to me. What would have become of my wife and kid? Huh? I'm a bit pissed at
Alfie
, even though he's dead. He's responsible for all of that, him and his dumb shit."

      
"What was the script, Johnny?" I asked casually.

      
"What script?"

      
"The insurance script. What was the plan?"

      
He shook his head. "I don't know, didn't want to know. I was glad when you said you wanted to talk to me because I wanted that too.
 
Just want you to know that I had nothing to do with any of it.
 
Well, except one thing.
 
I did ..."

      
"You did what?"

      
"I was worried about maybe I was involved, that maybe
Alfie
had involved me without my knowing about it. So I... well, that's why I called
Alfie's
father."

      
"You're the one."

      
"I called him, yeah. I didn't want
Alfie
to know that I'd finked on him, but the way things were going I didn't want there to be any confusion about people's names. So I just turned Mr. Johansen toward you. I knew that
Alfie
had hired you, or was going to very shortly, so ..."

      
"So you wanted me to blow the whistle."

      
"I wanted Judge Johansen to know where his son was, for the sake of both of them. There'd been a lot of heartbreak there. I hoped maybe the judge could straighten it out if he had a chance. He's a good man. I hoped
Alfie
would go home and forget about all this other stuff."