Stuart Kaminsky - Show Business is Murder

“Wake up,” I sang back dumbly. “Talk.”

“That’s right. Wake up and talk, Mr. Menace.”

Something about hearing my name caressed so obscenely swept the visions out of my mind. I blinked hard and shook my head. A wave of nausea washed over me, but when it passed I could see where I was.

I didn’t like it. I was in the center of a small, dank, dungeon-like room, sitting in a chair, my feet strapped to the legs, my hands tied behind me. A single lightbulb hung a few feet above my head, blinding me with its bright, unfiltered light.

Dominic Van Dine and Mr. Grey stood a few feet away, watching me. Van Dine leaned in close and smiled. “So you’re back among the living at last. Let’s see how long that lasts. Mr. Grey.”

Van Dine moved back, and his gorilla stepped forward. I heard a sharp cracking sound, and my head jerked to the side. Pain knocked on the door of my addled brain. It forced its way inside and made itself at home.

I’d been slugged on the jaw. Hard.

“I hope ya’ like them apples, smart boy,” Grey said in a wheezy, high-pitched voice. “Cuz I got me a bushelful.”

There was another crack, and my head jerked again. The pain in my brain had company.

“Alright, alright! Enough with the rough stuff,” I barked with as much force as I could muster-which wasn’t much considering the blood in my mouth and the ringing in my ears. “Why don’t you ask me some questions already?”

Grey glanced over his shoulder at Van Dine, who looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding his head. Grey moved away, rubbing his knuckles.

“Very well, Mr. Menace. Let’s see if any more ‘rough stuff ’ is necessary,” Van Dine said. “Tell me where your copy of the script is.”

A new sensation joined the party in my skull. It was hope. If there’s one thing a guy needs when he’s been tied to a chair by people of less-than-sterling virtues, it’s leverage. Or a free hand and a.45. I was happy to have the leverage.

“Why are you so desperate to get your hands on that script?”

“Mr. Grey,” Van Dine said blandly.

Grey stepped toward me, a smirk on his heavy, simian face.

“Hold on there, King Kong. You don’t have to bother,” I said to Grey before he could belt me. I looked past him at Van Dine. “You were going to remind me that you’re the one asking the questions here.”

“Exactly. How did you know what I was going to say?”

I tried to shrug. “I’ve been to the movies.”

At this point, Monkey Man got tired of all the talk and slugged me anyway.

“Buddy,” I said to Grey after my head stopped spinning on my neck like a top, “I realize that you’re just a humble working man trying to survive in this dehumanizing Darwinian jungle we call the capitalist system. But one day you’re going to find those knuckles of yours jammed down your thick throat.”

Grey turned to Van Dine. “He just threatened me, right?”

Van Dine nodded. “That’s right.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Grey raised his fist. It was time to use that leverage, but fast.

“I’ll give you the script.”

“Wait!” Van Dine snapped.

Grey unclenched his fist and backed off. He looked disappointed.

“I’m glad you’ve decided to be reasonable, Mr. Menace,” Van Dine said. “Now tell me-where is it?”

I licked my lips. I was about to see how much leverage I had. “I’ll do better than tell you. I’ll show you. If you untie me and let me out of this rat-hole.”

That got a good chuckle out of Van Dine. “What kind of fool do you take me for? I don’t even know for certain that you really have a copy of the script and I’m supposed to let you walk out of here and stir up who knows what kind of trouble? I think not.”

“I think so. I’m guessing you sent your primate playmate here over to Smith’s bungalow to grab the script. But Mighty Joe Young didn’t get the job done. He left a copy of Smith’s script behind.”

“Awww, applesauce!” Grey broke in. “There wasn’t no other copy. I looked all over.”

I graced Grey with a pitying smile. “But you didn’t look in the right place, Cheetah. This copy wasn’t sitting around, nice and neat, double-spaced on white paper. It was inside the typewriter.”

“Phooey!” Grey spat. “This is a buncha bunk.”

“Shut up, you oaf,” Van Dine snapped. His oily confidence was dripping away before my eyes. “You’re talking about the ribbon,” he said to me.

I nodded. “That’s right. Everything John Smith has typed for the last week or two or even three, who knows? It all hit that ribbon. And it’s still there, just waiting for someone with the time and the patience to get it. In fact, I’ve got a friend-a friend with very bad eyes and very, very sensitive fingers-who’s going over that ribbon right now. I gave it to him just before I came here. I’ll bet he’s half-way through the script by now.”

Van Dine stared at me. Or, more accurately, he stared through me. I could practically see the wheels in his mind turning, spinning faster and faster like pinwheels. And then they stopped.

“You have failed me, Mr. Grey.”

“What? Don’t tell me you believe this two-bit gumshoe,” Grey protested, crooking a thumb at me.

“You know the penalty for failure,” Van Dine replied coldly. His left hand slipped down toward one of the big silk pockets of his smoking jacket.

Fear twisted the thick flesh of Grey’s face. “No! Don’t!” he cried. “Please!”

“I’m afraid you leave me no choice.”

Van Dine pulled out his hand slowly. In it was a slip of thick paper.

“No screening pass for you this weekend,” he said. “If you want to see-” He glanced at the paper, then began tearing it up. “- Bedtime for Bonzo, you’ll just have to wait a month and pay your fifty cents like the rest of the little people.”

Grey’s whimper turned to a snarl as he whipped around to face me. “This is your fault, shamus! I’m gonna-”

“Untie him,” Van Dine broke in.

“But-”

“I said untie him!”

Grey glared at Van Dine for a moment before moving his bulky body behind me and fumbling with the ropes. My hands came free first. Within seconds, they were stinging with the pain of a thousand needlepricks as the bloodflow returned. A moment later, my feet felt the same way.

“Smart move, Van Dine,” I said, buying time while my hands and feet recovered. “You’re playing this the right way.”

“If he double-crosses us, kill him,” Van Dine said to Grey.

Grey leaned in close to my ear. “With pleasure,” he said.

But the pleasure was all mine. Grey was a sloppy man. He’d done a sloppy job searching Smith’s bungalow, and now he’d done a sloppy job untying me. He’d merely loosened the rope around my hands without bothering to take it away. And when he stuck his big ape head next to mine, it was simplicity itself to take that rope and wrap it around his neck.

It took all my strength to stand and take three steps forward, dragging Grey behind me. He toppled over the back of the chair. The chair pitched forward, and Grey came with it. The chair came down with a crash. Grey came down with a snap. His body went limp.

I turned my attention to Van Dine-but he was gone. For the first time, I got a good look at the room around me. Several black monoliths loomed in the darkness. At first, I thought they were bookshelves. But as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see that they were loaded with bottles, not books. I was in Van Dine’s wine cellar.

I heard a quick shuffle-step behind me. I whirled around just in time to see Van Dine rushing me, a champagne bottle clutched in his hand.

I wanted to meet him on equal terms, but there was no time to go looking for a bottle of vodka. So I ducked. The champagne bottle cut through the air just above my head. Van Dine’s momentum carried him forward, and I gave him a good shove as he moved past. He stumbled, off balance, and slammed into the nearest wine rack. He hit the ground amid a shower of mid-range cabernets.