Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

Bradley shook his head. “Well, when you called to set up this appointment, you identified yourself as a police officer, so I assumed-”

Rizzo looked up. “I couldn’t help but notice that picture, Mr. Bradley,” he said, indicating with a tilt of his head a black-and-white, eight-by-ten photo hanging on the wall to his left. “You in that fancy combat uniform. See, once, when I was in the Army, I had this sergeant, tough old son of a bitch, tell me, ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘never assume nothin’ .’ ” Rizzo leaned forward.

“Didn’t they ever tell you that, Mr. Bradley?” he asked in a low, threatening tone. “In the ser vice, I mean?”

Bradley glanced at the photo showing him in full S.A.S. Commando combat dress, face darkened with grease, automatic assault weapon in hand, his eyes shadowed by the Kevlar-and-steel helmet on his head.

“What is this inquiry about, Sergeant?” he asked softly.

Rizzo continued. “Like I say, we have this case in Brooklyn we’re investigatin’. Some sad-sack semirecluse type got himself murdered. Looks like just a break-in, same as what happened to Mallard. We found somethin’ in the guy’s apartment leads us to Kellerman. He was Mallard’s agent, matter-of-fact. See, that’s why it don’t pay to start makin’ assumptions, Mr. Bradley.” Rizzo smiled. “Like, for instance, I could start figuring Kellerman’s involved here somehow. In both murders, maybe. Only that would be an assumption, and my old drill sergeant, he was pretty friggin’ clear about that: you assume, you make an ass outta you and me.”

Bradley became impatient. “How am I relevant here, Sergeant? Please explain yourself.”

Rizzo shook his head. “Far as I can see, you aren’t relevant,” he said. “We’re just takin’ a look around Kellerman and his associates, that’s all. He mentioned you’re the producer of Mallard’s last work, this play on Broadway. What’s it called, Cil?”

“ Atlanta Landscape, ” Priscilla replied.

“Yeah, right.” He looked back to Bradley. “I hear it’s pretty good.”

Bradley nodded. “A typically American understatement. This play is a very serious work of art, Sergeant, rendered even more remarkable when you consider its contemporaries currently in production. Restagings of tired musicals from other eras, mindless chronicles of faded pop stars, recycled film works, and even, God help us, comic book characters.” He smiled sadly. “ An Atlanta Landscape is Broadway at its best, Sergeant. Theater at its best, as it was meant to be, not merely drivel designed to amuse tourists from Iowa and God knows where else. This work rates amongst All My Sons , The Iceman Cometh , The Glass Menagerie , Angels in America .”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said, nodding. “I saw those movies.”

Bradley looked at Rizzo, his lips pursing. He shook his head. “I fear the death of Avery Mallard is a tragedy unfathomable by the superficial fabric of your rather sad American culture, Sergeant,” he said. “Now, if it had been some bubbleheaded blonde pop singer in between rehabilitations, that would be considered a true American tragedy, I’ve no doubt.” He shook his head once more. “That would be something you people could take to heart.”

Rizzo laughed. “You know, it amazes me how many foreigners I run into bitchin’ about the U.S.” He allowed a moment to pass, then continued. “Makes a guy wonder, how come they’re over here bitchin’? Why didn’t they just stay the fuck home, where everything was so perfect?”

With growing anger, Bradley responded. “Once again, Sergeant, get to your business. My appointment cannot be delayed.”

“Okay, relax,” Rizzo said. “Here we go: Kellerman ever mention a guy named Robert Lauria to you? A shoe salesman from Brooklyn?”

Bradley shook his head, his face now without expression. “No,” he said.

Rizzo smiled. “Just like that? ‘No’? You don’t even have to think about it?”

“No, Sergeant. I do not have to think about it. Sam never mentioned any shoe salesman to me. From anywhere.”

“Maybe in some other context, some other reference? Robert Lauria.” Rizzo spelled the last name.

“No. Never.”

“Okay,” Rizzo said, as he wrote in his pad.

“What’s the connection between Sam Kellerman and this murdered shoe salesman, Sergeant?” Bradley asked.

Rizzo looked up from his note pad. “Oh, that’s kinda confidential, Mr. Bradley,” he said lightly. “You know, like what ever you got goin’ with your lieutenant, that guy Lombardi.” He paused. “And did I say Lauria was the murder victim? I don’t remember saying that.” He shrugged. “Guess you’re assumin’ again. Only this time… you happen to be right.”

Bradley did not respond.

“I understand you helped Mallard out with writing that play,” Rizzo said. “That Atlanta thing.”

“Your understanding being based on what information exactly, Sergeant?”

“Oh, I dunno. Something Kellerman said, I think.”

Priscilla interjected. “It had something to do with the plot.”

“I assure you, Officers, my only assistance with the script was in allowing Avery to utilize my cottage at Southampton while he crafted the play.” He smiled coldly at Rizzo, then Jackson. “If I were capable of contributing to so majestic a work, I daresay I would author one myself.”

“Where were you on October thirtieth?” Rizzo asked.

Bradley again looked from one to the other, settling his gaze on Rizzo. “Pardon?”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said offhandedly. “That’s when Lauria was probably killed, or maybe the twenty-ninth. Just a routine question, you know. I gotta ask it. For the record.”

Bradley seemed to ponder matters for a moment. “I cannot answer that, Sergeant,” he said coolly. “You’re talking about nearly one month ago. I have no idea where I may have been.”

“See, Cil?” Rizzo said, turning toward Priscilla. “It’s like I said, who knows where they were a month ago? Nobody.” He turned back to Bradley, lowering his voice, again leaning inward. “Kellerman knew where he was right away,” Rizzo said. “Claimed to be in Paris at the time.”

“I see,” Bradley said.

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, always gets my attention, these instant alibi answers. But you, you weren’t sure. Had no idea where you were. Hell, I got no idea where I was those two days, either.”

They sat silently for a moment before Rizzo continued.

“Well, Mr. Bradley, unless you can think a somethin’ you wanna add about Kellerman, I guess we’re done here.”

Again Bradley made a point of looking at his wristwatch. “No, Sergeant. I have nothing further to add.”

Rizzo stood, Jackson following his lead. He reached across the desk, shaking hands with the producer, noting the dryness of the man’s palm.

“Thanks for your time,” he said. “Maybe we’ll stop by after the holiday, next week sometime. Just to have a word with-what’s her name, your assistant?”

“Linda DeMaris,” Bradley said, releasing Rizzo’s hand.

“Yeah. DeMaris.” Rizzo turned to leave. “We can find our own way out, Mr. Bradley,” he said. “No need to get up.”

“Fine,” Bradley said. “Good day to you both.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said on the way out. “And I hope your Lieutenant Lombardi finds Mallard’s killer.”

“Yes,” Bradley said curtly, his eyes dark. “As do I.”

At the door, Rizzo turned once more, remaining silent and making eye contact with Bradley, the gesture designed to prod the man to speak one last time, to impose a sudden and unwanted obligation on Bradley. Awkward seconds ticked by.