"Congratulations."
"She's stuck in a theater all day today. Can you believe it?" His second marriage was working; I could hear the pleasure as Germy pronounced his wife's name. And he seemed proud, almost awed by her dedication; she could have been the first wife since the dawn of history to work on a Saturday. "Now, what about you?" he demanded.
"I never got married. I was pretty screwed up when I got back from Vietnam."
"Vietnam," Germy echoed.
"And then I got used to being single, being free. But I finally met a great girl. We're getting married Thanksgiving weekend."
"You were in Vietnam," he said softly. The new quietly-moved reaction. After all those years of being Asian-baby butchers, we had somehow turned into national treasures. "Did you see action?"
"No, you jerk-off. They needed a shortstop on the Saigon intermural team, so I spent the whole war on the ball field. Listen, I really want to catch up, but I'm actually here on business..."I saw his face fall a little, his round kid-cheeks flatten. "Eat it, Je-re-my. You think I'm going to give you a life insurance pitch?"
"Well..." His embarrassment evaporated. "No." He became his real self, his caustic TV self. "You look more like redwood decks, actually."
"I'm a detective with Suffolk County Homicide."
"You?"
"Yeah. Never thought I'd wind up on this side of the law, did you?"
"Homicide!" he said. "Steve, that's exciting. Glamorous!"
"Yeah, well, the violence is fantastic, and I've always been crazy about decomposition."
"Seriously, do you like what you do?"
"It stimulates my intellectual processes."
"I said seriously."
"Yeah, I like it. A lot. Now, do you know why I'm here?"
It took him less than a tenth of a second. "Sy Spencer."
"I need background, foreground, whatever you've got. Did you know him?"
He turned his chair so he was facing me; his back was to the bay. "Slightly."
"You didn't hang out with him?"
"No. He ran on that middle-aged fast track: a little old money, a lot of new money, and writers, restaurant owners, fashion designers. All those emaciated, face-lifted women and their beefy men."
"Sy wasn't beefy. Five six, a hundred thirty-two pounds."
"He was an exception." Germy hesitated: "Oh. You know how much he weighed from...?"
"Yeah. The autopsy. Listen, the guy was in fantastic shape. I should have his liver. If he hadn't backed up into those bullets, he'd have lived till a hundred. The thing is, Germy, I know more than I want to about all his organs. But I want to know about him . So I need you. Even if you weren't his best friend, you must know about him, about what he was doing."
"Of course."
"Okay, what do you know about Starry Night ?"
"Gossip or substance?"
"Both. Substance first; get it over with."
Genny took off his glasses and gave the earpiece a thoughtful chew. "All right. I actually read an early draft of the script. It's an action-adventure-love story about a charming heel who marries a very rich woman for her money. Superficially she's the frosty, sophisticated sort—a 'Hamptons' type, if you'll forgive me. She's overwhelmed by the heel's magnetism and sexuality. Well, to make a convoluted story short, his past—dealing a little cocaine—catches up with him, and some Colombian types kidnap his wife for reasons the script does not adequately make clear. The heel doesn't care at first. Then slowly he realizes he has fallen madly in love with the wife, and she ... she's tied up in a basement in ... I'm a little foggy here, but I think in Bogota. Maybe Brooklyn. In any case, it dawns on her that he's more than a charming stud; he's the first true love of her life. He goes after her, she escapes, there's a gratuitous car chase, the bad guys seem about to win. But in the end they live happily ever after."
I sat still for a minute, staring out at the shimmering golden reflection of the sun in the bay. "Would a guy like me shell out six bucks to see it?"
"Hard to say, Steve. It's a film about breaking through your
"She's stuck in a theater all day today. Can you believe it?" His second marriage was working; I could hear the pleasure as Germy pronounced his wife's name. And he seemed proud, almost awed by her dedication; she could have been the first wife since the dawn of history to work on a Saturday. "Now, what about you?" he demanded.
"I never got married. I was pretty screwed up when I got back from Vietnam."
"Vietnam," Germy echoed.
"And then I got used to being single, being free. But I finally met a great girl. We're getting married Thanksgiving weekend."
"You were in Vietnam," he said softly. The new quietly-moved reaction. After all those years of being Asian-baby butchers, we had somehow turned into national treasures. "Did you see action?"
"No, you jerk-off. They needed a shortstop on the Saigon intermural team, so I spent the whole war on the ball field. Listen, I really want to catch up, but I'm actually here on business..."I saw his face fall a little, his round kid-cheeks flatten. "Eat it, Je-re-my. You think I'm going to give you a life insurance pitch?"
"Well..." His embarrassment evaporated. "No." He became his real self, his caustic TV self. "You look more like redwood decks, actually."
"I'm a detective with Suffolk County Homicide."
"You?"
"Yeah. Never thought I'd wind up on this side of the law, did you?"
"Homicide!" he said. "Steve, that's exciting. Glamorous!"
"Yeah, well, the violence is fantastic, and I've always been crazy about decomposition."
"Seriously, do you like what you do?"
"It stimulates my intellectual processes."
"I said seriously."
"Yeah, I like it. A lot. Now, do you know why I'm here?"
It took him less than a tenth of a second. "Sy Spencer."
"I need background, foreground, whatever you've got. Did you know him?"
He turned his chair so he was facing me; his back was to the bay. "Slightly."
"You didn't hang out with him?"
"No. He ran on that middle-aged fast track: a little old money, a lot of new money, and writers, restaurant owners, fashion designers. All those emaciated, face-lifted women and their beefy men."
"Sy wasn't beefy. Five six, a hundred thirty-two pounds."
"He was an exception." Germy hesitated: "Oh. You know how much he weighed from...?"
"Yeah. The autopsy. Listen, the guy was in fantastic shape. I should have his liver. If he hadn't backed up into those bullets, he'd have lived till a hundred. The thing is, Germy, I know more than I want to about all his organs. But I want to know about him . So I need you. Even if you weren't his best friend, you must know about him, about what he was doing."
"Of course."
"Okay, what do you know about Starry Night ?"
"Gossip or substance?"
"Both. Substance first; get it over with."
Genny took off his glasses and gave the earpiece a thoughtful chew. "All right. I actually read an early draft of the script. It's an action-adventure-love story about a charming heel who marries a very rich woman for her money. Superficially she's the frosty, sophisticated sort—a 'Hamptons' type, if you'll forgive me. She's overwhelmed by the heel's magnetism and sexuality. Well, to make a convoluted story short, his past—dealing a little cocaine—catches up with him, and some Colombian types kidnap his wife for reasons the script does not adequately make clear. The heel doesn't care at first. Then slowly he realizes he has fallen madly in love with the wife, and she ... she's tied up in a basement in ... I'm a little foggy here, but I think in Bogota. Maybe Brooklyn. In any case, it dawns on her that he's more than a charming stud; he's the first true love of her life. He goes after her, she escapes, there's a gratuitous car chase, the bad guys seem about to win. But in the end they live happily ever after."
I sat still for a minute, staring out at the shimmering golden reflection of the sun in the bay. "Would a guy like me shell out six bucks to see it?"
"Hard to say, Steve. It's a film about breaking through your
Similar Books
