Howard Engel - The Cooperman Variation

“What’s that?”

“The sight of my tail lights heading for the nearest road out of here. He’ll settle for that. Maybe he’d like to see a little blood. I don’t know him well enough to guess.”

“Where are you meeting him and when?”

“In about fifteen minutes,” I said, with a glance at my watch. “At the James Joyce Irish Pub on Bloor Street.”

“I’ll go along,” said Chuck Pepper. “Trebitsch doesn’t know me. And he knows you guys too well. Remember the trial involving Whatshername? That nurse? NTC News was all over that one.” Both Sykes and Boyd looked at one another. That case was not one of their scrapbook cases.

“When are you meeting Devlin?”

“The ROYC ferry dock at the foot of Spadina at six tomorrow night.”

“He say there would be others coming?”

“Yeah, but I won’t be surprised to find myself alone on his slow boat to China.”

“I’d like to wire you before you talk to these guys. You ever worn a wire, Benny?”

“There’s no time. I have to meet Trebitsch right now.”

“Okay, Jim and I’ll head down to Clarence Square now and try to set something up. What’s the number?”

“Eighteen.”

“You won’t see us, Benny, but we’ll be there. Someplace.”

“This is too much like the movies. The ones where the point man gets hit.”

“It could be the breaking of this case. Rankin, Trebitsch or Devlin. You could take all of them, Benny. If there’s a fight, I mean. They’re in worse shape than you are.”

“Good. At least I’m not meeting them together.” Our gang was adjourned after that, with Chuck heading out the door before the rest of us.

I took a taxi to Bloor and Spadina and walked west. A young woman was interviewing a panhandler sitting on a milk crate in a doorway. He looked like he’d been interviewed before; his answers to her questions were well expressed. I tried to look through the clear sections of the frosted glass that covered the windows of the James Joyce Irish Pub. I walked in. To my right stood amps and microphone stands and stools on a rudimentary stage in a window alcove. It was a set-up for some music group who were nowhere in sight. Clearly visible in a seat at the far end of the bar sat Chuck Pepper, with his jacket removed and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up above the elbow. I’m not sure whether the tattoo visible on his left forearm was from the police academy or not. The blond head of a Guinness in front of him had everything under control. Chuck’s upper lip looked like a milk ad. I looked around for Trebitsch or one of his boys, but I couldn’t find them. I ordered a draft of Smithwicks, which sounded suitably Irish, and carried it to a table near a window. To pass the time, I started watching the people passing outside. I divided them into men and women, getting five men to every four women. Then I tried checking men with hats against men without them. Most men didn’t wear them. By the time I was checking skirts and dresses against pants and shorts, I saw Ken Trebitsch step out of a navy blue BMW driven by someone who drove off, while Trebitsch came into the gloom of the pub. He didn’t take long to find me. Then he didn’t waste words.

“Why are the city police letting you meddle around in their investigation?”

“How can they stop me? I’m not corrupting their crime scenes. I’m not strong-arming their suspects. Even when the chief of police gets word of me, and he warns his men about me, I still manage to find things out and put your back up.”

“You think that was me?”

“You’d be my first guess.” Trebitsch didn’t like to feel so transparent. He looked around for a waitress, and found her hard to get, reminding me of Marlowe. I enjoyed watching him flounder; it annoyed him and his image of himself surrounded by yes-men. At last attention was finally paid to this man and he ordered a Coors Lite. “Why do I put your back up? You’re not the only suspect in this murder who works for NTC. How is it that you imagine yourself their best bet?”

“I knew Renata. We go back a long way. I knew she was staying at Vanessa’s house while she was away. I also talked to her on the day she died.”

“Okay, I revise my opinion. Frankly, I didn’t know that. So, you see, I haven’t dug a deep trench into you yet. If you knew that Renata was in the house, not Vanessa, then you’re unlikely to be accused of trying to kill Vanessa. We all know she had enemies, and you were one of them, but you wouldn’t shoot the wrong woman.”

“I didn’t shoot anybody. Yes, I want Vanessa out of Entertainment. I want a bigger share of the time she controls. She won’t compromise because she can generate sweetheart deals for every second of that time. Her successor, who is already waiting in the wings, will cut me more slack. Look, even Vanessa knows her time here is finished. Why is she fighting it?”

“Why do you take it so personally?”

“Because it’s my fucking life . I’m ambitious. That’s not a crime in television.”

“What did you talk to Renata about?”

“She started in about some huge conspiracy. Couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Something to do with Dermot Keogh. I was taking another call and being briefed by one of my people while I was on the phone. Frankly, I never listened to Renata with both ears. She was great, don’t get me wrong, but she was more fun to be with than to listen to. There was a physical dimension. Ask anybody. But that day she was upset. I got that part of the message. Now, tell me when you’ll be returning to Grantham. I’m looking forward to that event. You know that.”

“Why do you want that so bad?”

“The longer you stick around NTC, Mr. Cooperman, the longer Vanessa will keep her job. You bring a whole ambience of unsettled mayhem with you wherever you go. Ted Thornhill’s terrified of you. I know this. Once you’re gone, things will return to normal and Vanessa Moss will leave.”

“I was hired to protect Vanessa. She’ll turn me loose as soon as she’s convinced she’s in no further danger. I think that might be sometime before the weekend.”

“Can you be more precise?”

“I’d like to be out of here by Friday.”

“This is Wednesday.”

“Yes, it usually follows Tuesday. But why are you so worried? There’s something more, Mr. Trebitsch; something you’ve left out. How have I been stamping on your corns?” Trebitsch stared into his beer for a moment, then looked up.

“The first thing I ever sold to this network was an interview with a gravedigger who’d grown disenchanted with his profession. It proved to be a great hit. The guy was really funny. People remembered me as the producer.”

“Well?”

“The interview was a fake. The gravedigger was a struggling filmmaker who’d never held a shovel or dug a grave. That didn’t matter. The item made me. But it continues to haunt me and could un make me. I’ve never faked anything since, but that four-minute item-we allowed longer items in those days-gives me nightmares. Vanessa knows the truth about that piece. She watched me edit it. She could expose me at any moment.”

“You underestimate her. If she wanted your scalp, she wouldn’t dig up your past. In News, you’re your own worst enemy. ‘The Trebitsch Look’ gets in the way of the stories. Back off on the personal signature, and your stock will go up. Not only here but in California.”

“Who have you been talking to?”

“Never mind, but hear this: Winkler of Warner Brothers is watching you and you keep spoiling the picture. Were you on Lake Muskoka when Dermot Keogh drowned?”

“No. I have a place up there, but Phil Rankin warned me that Dermot had suddenly taken a dislike to all NTC types, Renata Sartori excepted, of course. So, I stayed clear of him. So did Phil, Ray and others. It was too early in the season: April.”