Reed Coleman - Empty ever after

“Hey, I gotta take this,” I said waving the phone at him. “Feel better. Enjoy the brew.”

I walked outside in a near panic. “Hello.”

“Moe, where are you at?” It was Carmella.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Sharing a beer with a meth cooker named Crank.”

“You’re right, I think you’re fulla shit.”

“I’m up in Janus. Katy tried to kill herself last night.”

“Oh, my God! Is she-”

“She’ll live. We can talk about it later. What’s up?”

“Can you get into the office? We got something.”

“I got something too,” I said. “Let me check in with Sarah and then I’ll be down. Make sure Devo’s around.”

“Okay.”

“How are you and…I mean-”

“I’m still pregnant, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It is.”

“Don’t let’s start that now. I need to keep things together when I’m here.”

“Fair enough.”

I got in my car, crossed back over the tracks and out of un-Wonderland, but fragments of that question I had for Crank were still scratching around the back of my head. By the time I hit the interstate, they were gone.

It seemed to me that this was one case being played out in two worlds: one up here and one back in the city. The weird thing was that in spite of it all playing out with my family and me at center stage, I felt more like a spectator than a participant. I sensed Katy slipping completely out of my life and I was helpless to prevent it. Maybe that was best for both of us, but I couldn’t let her slip out of my life and straight into hell. No, I owed her to make this right.

Carmella was out of the office when I got back into Brooklyn.

“Is she taking a late lunch or what?” I asked Brian.

“She don’t report to me, boss. She just ran outta here”-he checked his watch-“like forty minutes ago.”

Brian Doyle was a project of ours. He was NYPD for about fifteen years. That he lasted so long was proof of God. Rough around the edges and a bit too quick with his fists, he was an old school cop three generations of cops too late. But Brian was perfect for us or would be, once he learned to listen. He knew the street and had a knack for getting information out of the most reluctant people. Brian had never had to rough anyone up while in our employ, at least not that we knew of. People could see the potential for violence in his eyes and that was enough. The whiff of violence usually is.

“How did she seem to you?”

“She seemed like the hottest fuckin’ detective I ever seen.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“How the hell should I know how she seemed?”

“ Oy vey iz mir. Forget it,” I said, rubbing my eyes in frustration. “Carmella said she had something for me.”

“She did?”

“Oh, for chrissakes! Doesn’t anybody in this fucking place-”

Doyle was laughing so hard, he started gasping for air. Even Devo came out of his office with a wide grin on his face.

“Okay, gentlemen, you got me. Now can someone around here tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Brian and Devo looked at each other.

“You first, Devo,” Brian said, still wiping tears from his eyes.

Devo’s office looked like a cross between a recording studio and the cockpit of a B2 bomber. I had been wise enough never to ask who paid for all the equipment.

“Before we get started, take these.” I handed him the surveillance tape from the PrimeOil station and the little cassette from Katy’s answering machine. “Once you’ve had a look and a listen, you’ll know what I want from you.”

He took the tapes, laid them down on a shelf, and asked me to take a seat in front of a computer monitor.

“Here,” he said, a newspaper ad flashing up on the screen, “is a notice for an audition that appeared in the New York Minute six months ago.” CASTING CALL Male Caucasians between the ages of 18–22,

150-160 lbs., 5’8” to 5’10”. For leading role in an indie docu-drama. Experience a plus, but not required. Must be willing to travel. February 16th, 11:00 AM.

LaGuardia Runway Inn, Ballroom B.

Tilliston Casting.

“The New York Minute? Never heard of it.”

“It is one of those free weeklies you can pick up in newspaper boxes on corners around the city. Very popular for advertising bands, selling cars, subletting apartments, promoting clubs and such.”

“Yeah, okay, but what’s the big deal about this ad? I don’t know shit about casting calls, but there’s got to be notices like this all the time.”

“Look at the screen.” He clicked the mouse. “This is that same notice in the LA Freeway. He clicked again. “In the Second City Loop. I found this notice in about twenty places in publications of this type dating back six to eight months. Only the location of the auditions is different.”

“Someone was casting a wide net, so what?”

“Yes, a wide net, but a shallow one. One notice in Variety would get more turnout than one hundred of these type ads in smaller free presses. My supposition is that they were looking for a non-union, inexperienced actor. In fact, they weren’t necessarily even looking for an actor. If one reads carefully between the lines, one might conclude they were looking for someone they might be able to manipulate.”

“One might. Good points.”

He bowed slightly. “Also, I did some checking. I found someone who went for the audition at LaGuardia.”

“How’d you manage that?”

Devo smiled slyly. “Come now, Moe, need you ask?”

“I know, I know, that’s why we pay you the big money. So what did this guy you found have to say?”

“He said it was the oddest audition he ever attended. They didn’t ask him to run lines, to do a scene or to discuss his training or experience. Apparently, it truly was like a cattle call. Appearance… everything was about appearance. They had a very specific set of parameters even beyond what was listed in the ad. You had to have a certain type of complexion and visible tattoos were strictly verboten.”

“That’s odd,” I said. “I thought movie makeup could cover anything.”

“It can… on film, but what if the role required-”

“-live appearances?”

“Precisely.”

“Moe, pick up line two. It’s your daughter.” Brian’s voice came loud over the intercom.

“Excuse me a second, Devo.” I picked up. “Is everything okay with-”

“Mom’s fine, Dad. I mean, as fine as can be expected. I just saw her and I think she’s more embarrassed than anything else.”

“Good. I’ll be coming back up there tonight to check on you guys. Is the deputy still outside the door?”

“The cute one, Robby? Yeah, he’s still there.”

“Too much information, kiddo. Way too much.”

“Oh, Dad, grow up. Besides, I have something I want to tell you.”

“What?”

“Remember when we were watching that video of Uncle Pat-I mean, of the guy posing as Uncle Patrick?”

“I remember.”

“I said something wasn’t right about him even though he looked just like the pictures of Uncle Patrick.”

“Yeah.”

“I know what it is,” she said. “He was too comfortable on camera, too much at ease.”

“I’m not sure I’m getting you.”

“Look, Dad, think about those old pictures of your family from Russia. You know how they’re all so stiff and unsmiling and their eyes have that deer in the headlights thing going on. Then think about your folks’ generation and then yours. People got more and more comfortable with having their pictures taken, but not necessarily with being videotaped. My generation is really the first generation that’s grown up on video. Births, our first steps, first baths, birthday parties, bat mitzvahs, weddings, sweet sixteens, baseball games, dance recitals, almost everything my generation has done our parents taped. We’re really used to being in front of the camera. We like it. Being on tape is… for us, it’s affirmation. All the people I go to college with have cameras on their computers. And Uncle Patrick was killed in what, nineteen seventy-sev-”