Ed McBain - Downtown

“Here you are,” she said, and extended the tray.

Connie picked up the mug.

Michael picked up the glass.

Mary put down the tray and said, “We were in Japan last year, Miss Keene. It’s a lovely country.”

“Thank you, I’ve never been there,” Connie said, and sipped at the toddy. “This is very good,” she said. “Would you like to taste this, Michael?”

“No, thank you,” Michael said. “Mr. Gruber, do you know a man named Charles Nichols?”

“Huh?” Gruber said.

“Charles R. Nichols.”

“What part of Japan do your people come from?” Mary asked.

“I’m Chinese,” Connie said.

“Oh, dear,” Mary said.

Gruber shot her a look that said Now look what you’ve done, you’ve offended a Chink on the fucking New York Times!. Mary started to shrink, as if he’d thrown water on a witch. Michael hoped she wouldn’t melt right down into the carpet, leaving only her red gown behind. Gruber turned back to Michael.

“Are you doing a piece on Charlie!” he asked. There was a look on his face that said there was no understanding the ways of The New York Times. Charlie Nichols, who had been on Mister Ed years ago, and who now played the voice of a ghost in Winter’s Chill? Of all the actors in the film, this was who The New York Times had singled out for a piece? Incredible.

“Do you know where we can reach him?” Michael asked.

“Is this for the Arts and Leisure section?” Gruber asked.

“Yes,” Michael said.

“That’s the approach you’re taking, huh?”

“We thought we’d like to talk to him.”

“I mean... look, I certainly don’t want to tell The New York Times what approach it should take. Far be it from me. But what is the approach you’re taking? I mean... why Charlie, of all people?”

“Because of his Mister Ed affiliations,” Michael said.

“He wasn’t the horse or anything,” Mary said.

“That’s right, thank you, Mary,” Gruber said.

“I mean, he didn’t do the horse’s voice, you know. He was just a regular actor.”

“He had a bit part, in fact,” Gruber said.

“This is all very good stuff,” Michael said, writing.

“It is?” Mary said, looking astonished.

“This begins to hit you after a while, doesn’t it?” Connie said, and took another sip of the toddy.

“You’re supposed to stir it,” Mary said. “With the cinnamon stick.”

“Oh,” Connie said, and began stirring it.

“All he does is play one of the ghosts in Chill,” Gruber said.

“One of the voices,” Mary said.

“There are ghost voices,” Gruber said.

“Trying to make her crazy.”

“The character.”

“The woman Jessica plays.”

“Jessica Wales,” Gruber explained.

“They’re trying to make her crazy,” Mary said.

“Like in Gaslight,” Michael said, nodding.

“Oh no!” Gruber said at once.

“No, no, no,” Mary said. “Not at all like Gaslight.”

“This is a highly suspenseful film about a woman on the cutting edge of terror and deceit,” Gruber said, sounding like the headline of an ad for the movie.

“Is she mad or is she only too sane?” Mary said, sounding like another headline.

“This makes your fingers sticky, doesn’t it?” Connie said.

“A true departure for Arthur,” Gruber said. “I don’t know if you saw War and Solitude, but...”

“No, I didn’t.”

“A beautiful film,” Mary said, looking soulful.

“Wonderful, the man’s a genius,” Gruber said. “We lost a fortune, of course, but does this take away from the man’s genius? Does Jaws take away from the genius of Steven Spielberg?”

“But Jaws didn’t lose money, did it?” Michael said.

“Exactly,” Gruber said. “This beautiful film went down the tubes...”

“Not Jaws.”

“No, Solitude. Because of Vincent Canby’s lousy... excuse me, I bear no ill will toward the Times, believe me. I lost twelve million dollars plus another two million in advertising and promotion, but Canby is entitled to his opinion, would I deprive a man of his right to free speech? I notice, of course, that six years later he thinks Platoon is a masterpiece, but listen, bygones are bygones, we’re talking about Winter’s Chill now, am I right? Despite the fact, by the way, that in Cannes Solitude almost walked off with all the marbles and Cahiers called it the best war film ever made. This was six years before Mr. Canby decided to fall in love with Platoon, a genius before his time, Arthur Crandall, mark my words. And Chill is an even better film.”

“There are murmurings, however,” Michael said, and he saw panic flash suddenly in Gruber’s eyes, “that whereas Crandall’s last film was a class act” — quoting Albetha now — “this new one is crap, you’ll pardon the...”

“Nonsense!” Gruber said.

“Why, he’s being compared to Hitchcock!” Mary said.

“That’s right, thank you, Mary,” Gruber said.

“At the peak of his career! Hitchcock!”

“His Psycho days!”

“His Birds days!”

“Why, when people in the motion-picture community thought Arthur was dead last night...”

“Then you’d heard about that,” Michael said, suddenly alarmed.

“Yes, of course, it was all over television.”

“We were so relieved when he called,” Mary said.

“To say he was alive.”

“We couldn’t believe it was him calling. He was supposed to be dead. But there he was on the phone! It was a miracle!”

“Believe me,” Gruber said, “there was universal mourning in the motion-picture community when...”

“MGM, too,” Mary said.

“When his murder...”

“United Artists, Columbia, Disney. Not only Universal,” she said.

“When his murder was erroneously reported. Genuine and universal grief for this genius cut down in his prime, this new master of... excuse me, what did you say your name was?”

“Bond,” Michael said. “Michael Bond. No relation.”

“Because you look familiar.”

“I’m sure I don’t.”

“Have I seen you in anything?” Mary asked.

“No, I’m just with The New York Times.”

“Exactly my point,” Gruber said. “Mr. Bond, I think you understand what I’m saying. I’m saying there is greed and malice everywhere in this world, but honesty and truth will prevail as surely as the cry of a newborn babe.”

“Do you write fortune cookies?” Connie asked.

“Do you understand me, Mr. Bond? Whoever told you that Arthur Crandall’s new film is... what did you say you’d heard?”

“I heard it was crap.”

“Crap, I can’t believe it,” Gruber said.

“The man’s a fucking genius,” Mary said.

“Crap,” Gruber said again, shaking his head. “Who told you this?” Gruber asked.

“His wife, actually,” Michael said.

“That bitch!” Mary said, and her husband gave her a look that said, This is The New York Times here, so watch your fucking language.

“What she said, actually,” Michael said, “was that in television he’d been doing crap...”

“Absolutely,” Gruber said.

“... and he left television to do a really fantastic film...”

“Truly fantastic!”

“... that didn’t make a nickel...”

“Not a dime,” Gruber said.

“... but now he was back doing crap again.”