Amanda Matetsky - Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

“If it’s not, I’ll fly home and fix it myself.”

THERE ARE-IN ALL OUR LIVES-certain times to feel good, other times to feel bad, and many more times to feel in-between. This was, for me, one of the hopelessly stuck-in-between times. I felt great about Dan’s declared longing for me, but I felt awful about the way I was deceiving him. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. Would I ever break loose from this gut-twisting tug of war? Would I ever be free to give Dan my wholehearted devotion and unrestricted allegiance?

Maybe someday, but not tonight. Tonight I had to study the smudged and wrinkled pages of a scribbled-up message pad, and search for clues to a brutal killer’s identity.

I filled a jellyglass with Chianti and took it into the living room, setting it down on the table near the couch (or, rather, the homemade daybed contraption I try to pass off as a couch). Then I scooted into the kitchen, grabbed my L &M filter tips and the message pad, hurried back to the couch (or whatever you want to call it), and seated myself directly in front of the fan (which made it hard for me to light my cigarette-but where there’s a will there’s a way). A puff of smoke, a sip of wine, a chorus of “Only You” by the Platters, and I was ready to tuck into the task at hand.

Three glasses of wine, umpteen cigarettes, and who knows how many hit tunes later, I was all tuckered out. I had read all thirteen of Gray’s messages nine or ten times over, studying each word as if it were a hieroglyph and I were an Egyptian scholar (which wasn’t so far from reality since Rhonda’s handwriting was almost indecipherable). I had hoped to pick up at least one truly significant clue-something that would send me shooting, like an arrow, straight toward the homicidal bull’s eye-but that hope never materialized. Aside from Aunt Doobie’s hotel room number, I learned only a couple of things that I thought might be helpful.

I now knew, for example, that Gray had had a lot of friends, and that four of them were named Randy. (Okay, okay! So it was probably more likely that all four messages had been left by the same Randy, but I couldn’t be certain of that now, could I?) I knew from the preponderance of masculine names that most of Gray’s friends were male. Aside from Aunt Doobie, the only female name on the list was Binky-”Binky from acting class,” to be more precise.

Binky’s message was the only one with a phone number, and I decided to dial it that very night, before the morning papers with the news of Gray’s death hit the stands. I drained the dregs from my third wine glass, lit up another cigarette, and placed the call.

One ring, then two, then a brusque “Hello.” It was a man’s voice, and it didn’t sound happy.

“Oh, hello,” I said, trying to sound calm and cool as a cucumber (which was impossible since I was hotter than a roasted chicken, and as calm as Daffy Duck on the opening day of hunting season). “May I speak to Binky please?”

There was a long pause, and then the brusque voice growled, “Who is this?”

“Uh… mm… you don’t know me,” I stammered, madly searching for the right thing to say. “ My name is Phoebe Starr and I’m a friend of Gray Gordon’s and I’d like to talk to Binky if I-”

“You’re a friend of Gray’s?” The man’s tone had turned from curt to curious.

“Yes, that’s right. We’re neighbors in the Village.”

“So, what do you want to talk to Binky for?”

I was reluctant to answer the question. Who was this impertinent man? And why was he screening Binky’s calls? Was he her father, brother, husband, boyfriend, or lawyer?

“Well… uh… see, I’m an actress,” I began, taking my own sweet time, speaking as slowly as I could without seeming retarded (I didn’t want to reveal too many personal facts-okay, fables-until I knew who was on the other end of the line) “… and I’ve been looking for a new drama coach. So, when I ran into Gray on the street the other day,” I continued, still stalling, “I started asking him a bunch of questions about his acting workshop. I wanted to know how much it cost, and if you had to audition, and if he thought I’d be able to get in. But Gray didn’t have time to talk to me since he was in a big hurry to get to the theater… so he gave me Binky’s number and said I should talk to her about it.”

The man burst out laughing. “

Her?” he croaked, between guffaws. “Are you sure Gray said ‘her’?”

Boo-boo alert. Right name, wrong gender.

“He didn’t actually use the word ‘her,’ ” I hurried to explain. “I just assumed…”

“Then, you assumed wrong, sweetheart. Do I sound like a girl?”

“

You’re Binky?”

“The one and only.”

“Please pardon my mistake, Mr… uh… um… er…” I stumbled, hoping he would fill in the blank of his last name.

“Kapinski,” he said. “Barnabas Kapinski. But you can call me Binky. Everybody does.”

“Okay, Binky,” I said. “If it’s all right with you, it’s all right with me.”

He laughed again. “It’s not a very manly name, I know, but then, neither is Barnabas.”

I giggled, just to keep the good will flowing. “You’re in Gray’s drama workshop, right? You’re studying at the Actors Studio? With Lee Strasberg?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Ooooh, that’s so wonderful!” I gushed. “You must be a really good actor! I know Mr. Strasberg only accepts the best. And some of his students are famous stars already! I mean, James Dean and Marilyn Monroe are studying at the Studio now, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, but you don’t see them around much. They’re kind of busy making movies.”

“And what about you?” I probed. “Are you starring in any movies or shows?”

He laughed again. “Not unless you count my starring role at the Latin Quarter every night. I’m the best bartender they have.”

I let out another giggle and tried to think of a way to get him to talk about Gray. “Well, that’s a better job than Gray had,” I stressed. “He was just a busboy before he landed the

Hot Tin Roof understudy job. And now he’s a star! At least that’s what Brooks Atkinson says. Did you read his review of Gray’s stand-in performance in the Times today?”

“Of course. Atkinson is the best drama critic in the city. I read every word the man writes.”

“So, what do you think about what he said? Is Gray as good an actor as he claims?”

“Yeah, yeah, Gray’s okay, I guess,” Binky replied. “He seems pretty skillful when he’s doing scenes at the Studio. I didn’t see him on stage last night, though, so I don’t know about

that… But what the hell does it matter what I think, anyway? Brooks Atkinson said he’s good, and that’s all that friggin’ counts. Gray’s a lucky guy. He’ll be getting more offers than he can handle. He’s on a friggin’ free ride to the top.”

I couldn’t see Binky’s face, but judging from his grudging tone of voice and vulgar choice of words, I’d have wagered it was green with envy.

“I bet you’ll be next,” I said, hoping to soothe his jealous soul and turn his attentions to more important matters (i.e., the things that mattered to

me). “Everybody who gets accepted at the Actors Studio eventually hits the big time, right?” I asked. “That’s why I want to study there so much. Do you think I have a chance? Is it as hard to get in as everybody says?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty tough,” he said, warming to the role of the wise advisor. “First of all there has to be an opening in the Studio. Mr. Strasberg likes to keep the headcount under control, and sometimes he won’t accept a new student unless he’s lost an old one. And then-if a space does open up and you want to apply-you’ve got to do at least two auditions, have excellent recommendations, and be super serious about pursuing an acting career. You’ve got to have some experience, too.