Betty Hutton

Betty Hutton (February 26, 1921 – March 11, 2007)

 

A hole. In the darkness. Where hope shivered. That little kid called ‘Tackspitter’. Sang for bleeding thumbs. And withered windshield wipers. And the sweet police.  Escorted Betty, her sister and her mother out of town. Like it was an apple. And they were the worm. And they would sing. Hoping to embarrass good fortune. ‘Don’t say goodbye. Just say until we meet again.’

Ceiling fans. Chopped up her name. Life is a stew. Betty became. The high priestess of frenzy. Jitterbugging. Thrashed around so violently. Orgasm in the orchestra pit. The drummer sued her for assault. Her lover confessed. It was too much. Too much of the same old shit.

Indian owner Bill Veeck held funeral services to bury the 1948 pennant. Christine Jorgenson. Went under the knife. The 1st person to undergo a sex-change operation. Betty’s mother bought Clarence Birdseye 1^st bag of frozen peas. And chipped her tooth.

On Broadway. On radio. In Hollywood. In movies. Where does she get all that energy? Success was satin sheets. Soiled. Cigarette smoke. Stains on the lamp shades. And that pool. Shaped like a kidney. Dr. Caligari’s cabinet. Without the cure.

Oh God! Let me fall in love! Some words sound better in music. Bouncing Betty. From lap to lap. Let’s call some friends, and have a party! Marriage. Kids. Sleeping pills. Divorce. Hotel rooms. Down

On her knees weeping in the shower. The water swirling so perfectly down the drain. Down and out as the jitterbug Detroit juke box queen. Down the sticky floors in the local theatre. Down with feathers & tears and a local boy. Down the paint red ran. In the long halls of the lonely hotels. On Avenue Marlene. Down in the kitchen. In St. Jude. Patron saint of the hopeless. On her knees before her broken hearted lovers. Weeping in her tower. Down lip stick smeared. Across painted skin. 86’d. Daddy ran off with suicide. Mommy ran a speak easy for the dead. None of Betty’s kids showed up. At the funeral

Kay Starr

Kay Starr (July 21, 1922 -

Sometimes you could see those dark clouds gathering. Like they were announcing. The future. Lou Gehrig could see the future. He told the world he was the luckiest man in the world. Not Eugen Weidmann. He lost his head. Outside the prison of Saint-Pierre. The last public guillotining to take place in France.

And the transients passed little Kay’s doorstep. And talked of revolution.  When things would return. To the old days. Which were always golden. But little Katie wasn’t listening. She had found her own audience. The chickens in the coop. Loved to hear her sing. Made them forget the foxes in the woodlot.

And the wolves in the hills. Talked amongst themselves. Hitler & Mussolini signed the “Pact of Steel”. Superman comics hit the street. Hitler ordered the extermination. Of  the mentally weak. And Lina Medina. Became the world’s youngest mother. At the age of five. And everyone agreed. The future had arrived.

Kay’s aunt arranged for her to sing. On a Dallas radio station. A little girl and that big mike. Made folks think that not all was lost.

And all those song contests. So many song contests. You’d think that winning once was enough.

At 15 Kay was singing. With Joe Venuti. In small little towns. Up and down endless dusty roads. Listening to the little stones. Hitting the floor boards. Performing is a kind of prison. Heading off to God knows where. Maybe Canada.

Singing for all the boys. In their immaculate little uniforms. But wasn’t Kay what those uniforms were fighting for. And the boys came back. Again and again. Most of them. Although some parts were missing.

She fell ill. Her voice disappeared. In a hole. Her smile. It was heaven being mute. Now she could marry big Harry and have little mute children. But God cursed her once again. Her voice came back. And she stepped back into the ongoing never ending career.

Its such a long long time. When you’re never allowed to remember. How anything began.

In The Recovery Room (Chapter 49, Lou Grant)

Chapter 49

In The Recovery Room

MURRAY: I thought that we had lost you.

LOU GRANT: With all these tubes coming out of me, I feel like you may have. What happened Murray?

MURRAY: You don’t remember.

LOU GRANT: I remember a lot of things. That’s the problem.

MURRAY: Helen found you.

LOU GRANT: Helen found me?

MURRAY: In your backyard. In a lounge chair. She thought you were dead.

LOU GRANT: But…

MURRAY: Have you seen her yet?

LOU GRANT: No. You’re the first…

MURRAY: She’s been at your bed side for the last few days.

LOU GRANT: Was I that gone?

MURRAY: The doctor’s were talking about…

LOU GRANT: About what?

MURRAY: Maybe Helen should tell you.

LOU GRANT: Tell me what? Come on, Murray. Out with it.

MURRAY: Well… They thought you might have had some brain damage. But you seem okay. I mean… you know who I am. Right?

LOU GRANT: Of course. Murray Slaughter. Sometimes I’d like to forget.

Murray laughs.

LOU GRANT: How is Mary?

Murray stares at Lou for several moments.

MURRAY: Who is Mary?

THE END

After The Killings (Chapter 48, Lou Grant)

Chapter 48

After The Killings

LOU GRANT: I looked around Mary’s living room. The police were going about their business. Mapping out where each of the bodies had been found. Looking for evidence. Going about the routine procedures of homicide. I thought I was going to vomit. The blood was splattered across the sliding glass doors of the balcony. Across the row of wine glasses lined up like little soldiers on the glass shelf. There was one of those tacky landscape paintings on the wall. Singing Stream. A winter scene with snow, barren trees and a brook running through them. A trail of blood ran across the snow. And there was the smell. It had been years since I had been on the beat. I’d forgotten about the terrible stench that accompanied a murder. The terrible vileness of bodily gases escaping a corpse. I could feel the blood draining out of my body. The dizziness beginning to rise up from my knees. I stepped out onto the balcony to get some fresh air.

“You going to be alright, Lou?” Ted had followed me.

I nodded, undoing my shirt collar, removing the raincoat I’d thrown on.

“I should have been here.” Ted sobbed.

“You did your best. We all did our best.”

Ted wiped the tears from his eyes and blew his nose.

“You sure you’re going to alright, Lou? You look green.”

I nodded.

“I just need a little air. Forgotten what it was like… How about you, Ted? You alright?”

“Allergies,” Ted responded. “Pretty ugly scene.”

“How is Mary going to be? I got here after they took her out.”

“As well as can be expected,” Ted responded. “She wasn’t seriously hurt…  physically. Suffering from shock. There was blood all over her. I hardly recognized her. God, it was awful, Lou. The guy was on top of her, his pants down. He’d relieved himself.”

“Probably when he was killed.”

“The doctor says that because she’s young and healthy, she should recover. She’ll need some psychiatric counseling. Oh Lou, I should have been here. His throat was slit. Almost tore his head off.”

“You found her, Ted?”

Ted nodded.

“The other biker, the one in the living room, had his throat slit as well. You saw the blood on the walls. Why did this have to happen, Lou? Why?”

“That doesn’t matter, Ted. Mary’s alive. That’s what’s important. What about the other body in the living room?”

“Michael?”

“Was it Michael?”

“Who else could it be? No firm identification, his face was blown off, but the police are pretty sure that it’s him. Fits the description Mary gave us.”

I took out a handkerchief and wiped my forehead and neck.

“Isn’t that the old Forester building over there?” Ted asked.

I looked across the valley at the abandoned building on the other side. It felt as if it was looking back at us with vacant eyes.

“Ya, I guess so. How do the cops figure it?”

“They figure it’s a murder-suicide, Lou. These guys showed up at the apartment looking for Michael. When he wasn’t here they decided to have some fun with Mary. While one of them…”

Ted hesitated for a moment, reluctant to go ahead. I gestured to him to continue.

“Cops figure Michael surprised the one in the living room. When he finished him off he found the other in the bedroom assaulting Mary. After he slit his throat, Michael examined Mary and must have figured she was dead. Then he went back to the living room and filled with grief, put a bullet in his head.”

I put my handkerchief back in my pocket.

“What do you think, Ted?”

Ted shrugged his shoulders.

“I guess I don’t care, Lou. Mary is alive and they’re all dead.”

“Ya, I guess that’s how the police feel.”

“You don’t agree, Lou?”

“I wouldn’t bet the mortgage on it, Ted.”

I looked at Ted and then into the apartment.

“This guy, Michael, sees that Mary is dead, steps out of the bedroom and shoots himself in the head?”

Ted nodded.

“Shoots himself in the head,” I repeated. “Twice? How do you shoot yourself in the head twice, Ted?”

Ted grinned. “So how do you figure it, Lou?”

“I don’t. I guess we’ll never know unless Mary tells.”

Ted turned his back on the apartment and looked back into the valley.

“What now, Lou?”

“I’m going home, Ted. Buy myself a case of beer. Pull out the old lounge chair, lie out in the backyard and get myself drunk. What about you, Ted?”

“I got some holidays coming, Lou. Maybe go up north. Got a cottage up there. Stretch out on the pier and count the stars. Do a little soul searching.”

“Be careful, Ted.”

“What do you mean, Lou?”

“Something my ma used to tell me, Ted. Never stare into a night sky. The heavens are filled with madness.”

FILE NUMBER: N7N1-13 POLICE DOCKET NO.: A0056-13 (Chapter 47, Lou Grant)

Chapter 47

DR. JAMES HAVEY

PHD. MA. BCOMM.

15^TH FLOOR, 548, THE SAVOY BUILDING, 2304 YONGE STREET

FILE NUMBER: N7N1-13

POLICE DOCKET NO.: A0056-13

SUBJECT: Mary Richards

Patient suffers post-traumatic syndrome. Conscious memory lapses are countered by detailed and animated recurring dreams. Patient sinks in and out of dream states, often calling out in her sleep. There is no prior record of mental stress or emotional trauma so that all data must be related to her recent assault experiences. Suicidal tendencies have been detected in these dream states so that medication has been suitably adjusted. One recurring nightmare is particularly troubling.

MARY: It’s all a dream. All a dream happening to someone else. His mouth on her breasts. His teeth biting at her neck. His penis shoved angrily into her vagina. Her mouth, her neck, her vagina. I cannot bear to call them mine. Must keep everything in the third person. A voyeur of my own suffering. Removed from the act, pain becomes pleasure. Looking up at the ceiling, repeating over and over again,  “It’s a dream. I will wake up. I will wake up and everything will he okay. Everything will be as it was.”

And she thought of Harry in the other room. Poor Harry. Harry coming to warn her, to try and save her, and failing. She had so misread him. Harry would be okay too. She would wake up and find that he was his old bragging self, on top of everything, telling his tall tales. He would be okay. “Harry is okay.” This time she would look deeper into his eyes. “You love me, Harry.” Why hadn’t she seen?

The ceiling. Lined with cracks. The whole building slowly disintegrating. Passing our lives in architecture tumbling down around us in slow motion.

“Oh why doesn’t it come crashing down on me now?”

Bury all of us. Burying everything into forgetfulness, the amnesia of death. Oh, “kill me” now, she wanted to scream out. Beyond death, she looked back at her body being devoured by a monster. And then she saw him. Over the beast’s shoulder she saw Michael, his eyes round in rage, his hand grabbing the monster’s scalp, yanking back his head to bare the belly of his neck, the blade in the other hand, the blade tickling the skin across the Adam’s apple, the blood suddenly spitting over her face, like a dam bursting, like the night splitting open and flooding the horizon with sunlight.

And she saw him, his eyes round with rage, hovering over the beast to be sacrificed, and she wanted to cry out “Michael, Michael, you’ve come to save me!” But he didn’t see her. There was no room in his eyes. They were filled with rage. And then she was alone.

He left. Why had he left? Left the monster on her, blood still oozing out of the dead flesh that pinned her to the bed, left the monster’s body snorting and shaking in its death thrall. And she heard a second shot from the other room. Silence. She couldn’t move but the sounds were the sounds as they always were in the morning. Everything was normal.

The same birds outside were singing. The kitchen clock was ticking. The leaky faucet in the bathroom was dripping. Someone in an apartment above her had flushed the toilet. For her ears the dream had ended. For her ears everything was back to normal. But her nose smelled the stench of his flesh. Why wouldn’t my eyes wake up? Why wouldn’t the flesh upon me wake up? Why wouldn’t the nightmare end?

Suddenly Ted’s face. Ted above her. His face contorted.

“Is that you, Mary?”

Her ears refused to listen to Ted. He was back in the nightmare. She was safe in her world. Policemen. Glaring down at her. Dragging the body off her. She was being carried out. The other monster lying on the floor, his head fallen back over his shoulder. And another figure. Harry. Harry’s face gone.

“It isn’t him,” she cried out. It isn’t Michael. Tears came to her eyes.

I laughed.

HOMICIDE REPORT DOCKET NO: A00012-11 (Chapter 46, Lou Grant)

Chapter 46

METROPOLITAN POLICE, HOMICIDE DIVISION

POLICE CHIEF 456-7654, CHIEF OF DETECTIVES 457-2371

HOMICIDE REPORT

DOCKET NO: A00012-11

OFFICER INVESTIGATING:   Det. A. Armstrong                    BADGE NO. 13A5

SUBJECT OF REPORT: Mary Richards

MARY: This is not easy for me. I don’t remember everything and what I do remember seems half-dream/half-reality… I left Rhoda’s early in the morning. I pretended I had fallen asleep and when Rhoda went to bed I left. I couldn’t drag all my friends into the mess I had created… When I got back to my apartment I kicked off my shoes and stepped barefoot into the living room. I made myself a drink, undoing the top buttons of my blouse and unzipping my skirt and letting it fall to the floor.

Strange, thinking back, how every little thing I did, every banal act that on a day without consequence would have absolutely no meaning, now seemed to resonate with importance. If I had missed one step that day, had missed my cab, had stopped to buy a newspaper, perhaps… I took my drink and headed for the shower. As I made my way across the room, a light flashed in the corner. I jumped. A figure stepped out from behind the drapes. Michael! I said to myself.

“It’s me,” he said, a cigarette dangling out of his lips.

“Harry!” I cried. I’d interviewed Harry for our new series. The first time I met him I was struck by how much he and Michael looked alike.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were…”

“I know,” Harry responded sweeping his hair, flattened down by the rain, out of his eyes.

“How did you get in here?”

He gestured toward the balcony.

“That was you out there last night!”

Harry nodded, exhaling a long curled cloud of smoke, and crashing on the couch.

“You’ve been spying on me!” I cried, then realizing I was standing in my slip, stepped over to the bar and pulled my skirt back on.

“I… oh God!” Harry cried. “It’s all my fault!”

I stepped over to the couch and sat on the edge of the coffee table.

“Fault?” I asked.

“Everything!” Harry cried, tears running down his face.

“He’s dead!”

“Dead!” I cried. “Michael is?”

Harry shook his head.

“Bud,” he sobbed, his hand shaking as he attempted to take another cigarette out of his pack.

I took the package, removed a cigarette and lit it for him.

“What happened?” I asked, handing Harry the cigarette.

Harry inhaled deeply on the cigarette. “They got him when he came out of work. They took him and…” Harry’s shoulders began to tremble, his voice breaking. I felt relieved, almost happy. Michael was not dead. Only after a few moments did the message that some other poor soul had been murdered, sink in. Harry looked up, tried to speak but could not. I sat down on the couch and put my arm around his shoulder.

“Oh God!” he cried.

“It’s alright, Harry,” I said, trying to calm him.

Harry looked up, tears running down his face. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, raising his hand to touch my chin then broke down into sobs once again.

“They’re going to kill all of us. All of us. And it’s my fault. I could have…”

“They?” I asked.

“Those bastards, the guys who killed Bud. I waited outside your building last night. I wanted to protect… We’ve got to get out of here, Mary. That’s why I came.”

“You came to rescue me? Why, Harry?”

“You’ll think I’m mad. It sounds so crazy. It’s all part of a… a dream I had. If only I’d left…”

“What are you talking about, Harry?”

Harry shook his head, sat up on the couch and grabbed my shoulders.

“Please, Mary! You’re not safe here. They could show up…”

“Who are we talking about? And why would they come here?”

“They’re looking for Michael.”

“But no one knows about me and Michael. How would they know to come here?”

“Because Michael planned it that way!”

I pushed Harry away and stood up.

“You’re not making any sense, Harry. First you tell me that you’re responsible. Then you tell me that this is part of some plan of Michael’s. Why did you really come, Harry? Is this another of your stories? I’m tired. I need to get some sleep. Please leave!”

“Bud is dead!” Harry cried.

“Bud is dead,” I repeated. “Or so you say. Harry, you need to get some professional help.”

Harry stood up and grabbed me. I pushed him away and stepped behind the coffee table.

“Harry, please go! Don’t make me call the police.”

“I’m telling you the truth, Mary!” Harry pleaded.

“The truth,” I laughed. Harry was frightening me.

“Why would you risk your life to rescue me? Your armor is rather tarnished, Harry. You are no knight. What am I to you?”

Harry rubbed his eyes with his wrist. Smoke sifted into his hair. I thought I heard an elevator door open.

“Maybe I love you. Maybe I just want to do the decent thing. Maybe against all my instincts, against everything that I have become, I want to do what is right.”

I laughed.

“Don’t laugh!” Harry barked angrily, then looked toward the door.

“What?”

“Quiet!”

Harry’s face drained of emotion. He grew white. He looked to the balcony. I could see him calculating his escape. He hesitated. Suddenly the apartment door was smashed open and in stepped two men, armed and smiling. I screamed.

“Shut up!” one of them yelled.

Harry turned to me. “I’m sorry!” he said.

I was about to scream again when one of the intruders slapped me across the face with the back of his hand knocking me to the floor. Then he grabbed my arm, dragging me to my feet. “I promise you lady, you don’t want to scream again.”

“Michael…” I whimpered.

“No, Mary!” Harry protested. “Tell them who I am! Please, Mary! Tell them I’m not Michael! I don’t want to die. I’m scared, Mary. Tell them who I am!”

I looked from Harry to the two thugs. My mind raced with thoughts, trying to unravel what was going on, trying to slow events down, trying to think. My breathing became short and uncontrollable. I looked at the thug who had slapped me, tried to overcome my sense of panic, tried to tell him that Harry was not Michael, but all I could do was stammer.

“Take her into the bedroom,” one of them said. “This’ll only take a minute and then we can have some fun with the bitch.”

“Right,” the other replied, dragging me down the hall by the arm.

“Mary!” Harry cried. “I don’t want to die. I don’t…”

Harry was smashed across the face with the barrel of a gun. I looked at Harry lying on the floor. There was blood on his face. The tears in his eyes were no longer falling. The fear was gone. Instead his face was filled with a fathomless flaccid sadness. I was dragged into the bedroom and thrown on the bed. The thug turned and closed the door behind him.

“Okay, lady!”

From the other room, a gun was fired.

DOCKET NO: A9098-9 (Chapter 45, Lou Grant)

Chapter 45

METROPOLITAN POLICE, HOMICIDE DIVISION

POLICE CHIEF 456-7654, CHIEF OF DETECTIVES 457-2374

HOMICIDE REPORT

DOCKET NO: A9098-9

OFFICER INVESTIGATING: Det. A. Armstrong                     BADGE NO. 13A5

SUBJECT OF REPORT: Rhoda Morgenstern

RHODA: Mary has been a God sent. After my divorce from Joe, it was Mary who got me the job at CWJM. Lou was against it. Who hires an interior decorator to write news copy? As soon as I heard Mary crying, I knew I had the job. I owe everything to Mary. Except my eyes. Those are my mom’s. . .

It was a terrible night. Rain was coming down in buckets. I was curled up in bed with a good book. Okay, it wasn’t that good a book. I hear a buzz at the door. Who could be calling me at this hour? I was afraid it might be my mother. At least I was alone. I grabbed my robe and made my way to the door. I looked through the peephole. It was Mary. I opened the door. She was soaking wet.

“Come in! Come in!” I cried. “You’ll catch your death! Is it still coming down outside?”

Stupid question, I know. But, it’s my habit to ask the obvious. Maybe I don’t like surprises. Mary stepped into the house Joe and I had moved into shortly before our divorce. Joe wanted to return to New York. I refused to live anywhere where my mother knew everyone in town by their first name. Joe was never happy in. . . Toronto. I should have known something was up. We never bought a snow shovel. Rain was dripping from Mary’s coat and hat.

“Don’t you have an umbrella?” I asked grabbing her coat and hat and taking them to the washroom to dry off. Mary took a seat on the couch, shivering.

“You look like you could use a drink,” I said returning to the living room. I asked Mary to rise from the couch so that I could take off the plastic. I was hoping I could still return the furniture. I handed a brandy to Mary and sat down on the couch beside her. Mary’s face screwed up, as she tasted the liquor.

“It’s Trenk,” I explained. “One of Joe’s friends gave it to us as a wedding gift. Tastes awful but it will take the chill away. Don’t worry if you don’t want to drink it. I can use it to strip furniture. They say there’ll be no let up in this rain for days. At least it broke the back of that heat wave. Although to tell you the truth Mar, I prefer the heat. Takes away my appetite. As soon as it cools off, I start to fatten up, preparing myself for hibernation.”

Mary sat on the couch staring at her drink.

“It must be something important to bring you out at this hour, Mary.”

“I…” Mary began, then hesitated, putting the glass on the coffee table.

“Oh, Rhoda!” Mary began to wheeze. I handed her a tissue.

“Take your time, honey. I ain’t going nowhere. Haven’t had a date since Joe and I broke up. Didn’t think I’d miss the sex so much. It’s not the same without a man. Like French fries without ketchup.”

Mary’s voice was shaking as she spoke. “I’m sorry… I couldn’t stay in my apartment any longer. Not tonight.”

“You can stay here tonight,” I said. “I’ll pull the couch out.  It’s really comfortable. I pretend that it’s for overnight guests. But if I ever get a man in here again, you can bet he won’t be sleeping on this couch.”

“Someone’s been watching,” Mary continued. “I’m so afraid, Rhoda! Someone’s been following me all day! They’ve been watching my apartment. I saw him in the gully behind my building.”

“Saw who, Mary?”

Mary shrugged.

“Why don’t we call the police?”

“I think its Michael. I’m afraid of him, Rhoda. He could do anything.”

“Let the police take care of him, doll. I got a restraining order on Joe. He never bothered me. It was just wishful thinking on my part.”

“You don’t know him, Rhoda. He has a sixth sense about these things. He’d know if I called. And what could the police do? You know all the questions they’d ask me. I’d just sound foolish.”

“You’re in love with him!” I said. “That’s too bad, Mar. Love always screws up a good relationship.”

Mary nodded then gestured to me for another tissue. “I don’t want him to be hurt. If only he’d leave me alone.”

“You’ve got to protect yourself, Mar. Have you thought about getting a dog?”

Mary looked at me and burst out laughing. And then once laughing began to sob.

“Well,” I smiled, “I would have suggested a gun but the laws here make it impossible for citizens to protect themselves. Joe bought me a gun when we lived in New York. Kept it in my glove compartment. One time a cop stopped me for speeding, there was no one else on the road, and when I reached into my glove compartment to get my ownership I accidentally pulled out the gun. The cop fainted. Mar, I thought I was going to have to give him mouth to mouth. He was no rookie cop either. One of those thirty year guys with a big fat belly.”

Mary started to laugh. I knew that she would be all right.

“Look, Mary! We’ll get some sheets and a pillow. These things are always easier to deal with in the first light of day.”

Mary nodded and then sank into my arms and began to weep softly. “Oh Rhoda! I’ve been such a fool.”

“When you’re dealing with men, Mar, it comes with the territory.”

Mary wept until she fell asleep. I propped a pillow under her head, took her shoes off, covered her with a blanket and went to bed. When I awoke the next morning, she was gone. No note! No message! Nothing! I rushed to work to talk to Lou. And then waited an hour for his arrival. When I told Lou what had taken place, he was upset. Took out a bottle of scotch and the two of us had a drink.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” I asked.

“And what would they do? Just ask a bunch of questions we’d be unable to answer. Just a lovers’ quarrel, they’d say. Not police business. We’d look silly. Unfortunately, Mary has stepped into the middle of a real mess. God, if only she’d stayed at home. Do you think she went back to her apartment?”

“I don’t know, Lou,” I responded. “No, I don’t think so. She’s too scared to go back.”

“Any other ideas?”

I shook my head.

Lou sat back in his chair and for several minutes rubbed his chin. “I’m too old for this stuff,” he grunted. “I’ll send Ted out to find her and then tail her. If she is being followed, Ted will find out. In the meantime I can try and pull some strings with the police commissioner. He still owes me a favor.”

“Shouldn’t we get her off the street?” I asked.

“And if she takes off again?” Lou asked. “We might not find her a second time.”

“Oh, Lou!” I cried. “I feel so responsible!”

Lou grunted then leaned back in his chair, a smile creeping across his face. “Did I ever tell you about my college days on the back of a garbage truck?”

HOMICIDE REPORT DOCKET NO: A90044-7 (Chapter 44, Lou Grant)

Chapter 44

METROPOLITAN POLICE, HOMICIDE DIVISION

POLICE CHIEF 456-7654, CHIEF OF DETECTIVES 457-2374

HOMICIDE REPORT

DOCKET NO: A90044-7

OFFICER INVESTIGATING:  Det. Harry James                           BADGE NO. 23Q6

SUBJECT OF REPORT: Theodore Baxter

TED BAXTER: Mr. Grant called me in his office about one thirty P.M. of that September the fourth. He was upset. Mary Richards, one of our finest staff writers at CWJM News, was in trouble. I wasn’t sure what had transpired but judging by Mr. Grant’s appearance, I knew it was serious. I was asked me to perform certain duties. I was pleased with my assignment. For a long time I had missed being down on the street, getting my hands dirty. I had spent too much time in front of the camera; I was ready to get my hands…. 

Mr. Grant asked me to follow Miss Richards around town to ascertain what company she was keeping. Miss Richards and I had been previously engaged in a … relationship so this task was not without its….

One evening I was slouched down in the front seat of my car in an act of surveillance upon Miss Richards and as yet unidentified second party in a 1965 white Corvette. I took out the opera glasses I’d borrowed that morning from Miss Morgenstern, a friend and colleague at CWJM. It was too dark. All I could see was the silhouette of two heads. I waited. Patience is the first rule of a good reporter. Glancing into my rear view mirror as I was want to do, I spotted a light in a nearby apartment above a restaurant.

It was a small studio apartment. The blind was drawn. A young woman’s silhouette moved across the window. She stopped and began to remove her blouse. Being a red blooded male, I naturally continued to watch. Women are beautiful when they are in the act of… When I turned my attention back to the 1965 white Corvette, it was empty. God, Lou would kill me! I slammed my hand on the steering wheel. The horn went off. I couldn’t get it to stop. Finally when I managed to stop it, I looked up and down the street to see if I had been noticed. The street was still empty. 

Stepping out of the car, I took a second glance up and down the block hoping to spot Miss Richards and the unidentified second party who I was pretty sure was this small time criminal Michael… Sorry? I don’t know his last name. I looked back to the apartment over the restaurant. The girl had turned off her light. I slammed the car door angrily, and winced. The sound echoed down the street.

It had been a while since I had… Another light went on, in an apartment near where the 1965 white Corvette Miss Richard’s had been occupying with… Into the shadows of trees that lined the avenue, I slipped, and walked quietly down the street. My confidence was returning. The apartment was on the third floor. The front door of the building was unlocked. Opening the door slowly, I gingerly stepped into the hallway. It was dark inside.

I avoided the elevator, preferring the stairs where I was unlikely to meet anyone. There was a wino passed out on the steps. He didn’t smell too good and he wasn’t quite asleep. Asked me for a buck on my way passed. I didn’t have any change…  When I reached the third floor, I tried to calculate which apartment the light was likely to have come from. I put my ear to a door. There was no sound.

At my second choice I was more successful. Taking a credit card from my wallet I slid open the door and quietly slipped in. From down the hall I could hear noises and flashing light. Someone was watching television. Tip toeing down the hail, my back against the wall, I reached the living room undetected. There was no mistaking Miss Richard’s voice. I peeked in.

Laying on the couch was the long gangling figure Mr. Grant and Miss Morgenstern had described to me as the possible unidentified second party – Michael. I checked the photo in my pocket. No doubt about it. I cased the room. Michael was alone. Where was Mary? What had he done with her? I stepped inside. Still I had not been noticed. Christ, what was I supposed to do next?

“I want some answers!” I cried in my deepest announcer’s voice. Michael leaped out of the couch, lost his balance and fell against the wall.

“What!” he cried grabbing his heart, the blood drained from his face.

“I won’t hurt you.” I stepped over to the television and turned down the volume. “I just want some answers.”

“What the… who the hell are you?”

I put my hand on Michael ‘s shoulder and gently pushed him back onto the couch.

“I want some answers!” I repeated, trying to imitate the coolness and steel eyed manner of the countless tough guys I’d seen in the movies. I could tell he was frightened. This was fun.

“I don’t know nothing,” he stammered. “Say, aren’t you supposed to have a warrant?”

Good, I thought. He thinks I’m a cop. I sat down on the coffee table in front of him. I gestured to the television. I reached out and grabbed his face and squeezed. He grimaced but he did not attempt to escape. I released my grip.

“What do you want?” he asked.

I stood up and walked over to the window. I could see his reflection in the glass. Michael looked at the door.

“You’ll never make it,” I said turning around.

He looked down at the floor.

“Let’s talk, Michael!”

“I don’t know what you’re after, man.” He looked up at me again. “But, I ain’t Michael!”

I stepped across the room and glared at him. He winced as if he expected me to hit him. For a moment I thought he was lying. I took out the photo.

“Shit!” I cried. Lou will kill me, I thought. “You could be his double!”

“Ya!” he spat out. “And it’s been nothing but trouble for me!”

“Who are you so scared of?”

“Like you don’t know! First Sheila! Then Bud! Why don’t you guys pick up those fuckers? The curbs are going to be running with blood if you don’t get them off the streets. Michael is steamed.”

What the hell was he talking about? Who were they? Why was Michael steamed? I knew I was over my head. My confidence began to wane.

“Hey!” he cried, a flash of insight crossing his mind. “You ain’t no cop,”

I grinned sheepishly.

He rose to his feet. “You can get the fuck out of here, man, or I’m going to call the cops.”

I grabbed him by the collar, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him against the wall. One of the pictures slid down the wallpaper and shattered on the floor. I almost apologized. But then I remembered Bogart.

“You listen to me you little jerk! You tell Michael to lay off Mary! Understand? Tell him to disappear or he’ll have to answer to me! Kapeach? I’ll shove my fist up where the dead dogs lay!” I released the kid who slid down the wall to his feet.

“Sure, man,” he stuttered.

I straightened out my clothes and glanced at the television. “Good program,” I said then walked quickly and assuredly out of the apartment. It was only when I reached my car and started up the engine that I began to shake. God, what was I going to tell Lou? I’d lost Mary!

TRANSCRIPT: SUB-CRIMINAL ACTIVITY TAPE NO.: G9872-6(Chapter 43, Lou Grant)

CWJM ACTIONS NEWS

ALL THE NEWS ALL THE TIME

TRANSCRIPT: SUB-CRIMINAL ACTIVITY

TAPE NO.: G9872-6

SUBJECT: Harry O’Toole

DATE: August 25

HARRY: Murder by men. Murder by women. Murder by nature. Murder in the twentieth century. How do you figure the second millennium is going to top us, eh? …No criminal record myself. Too damn slick. Cops aren’t crafty enough to catch old Harry O’Toole. There have been close calls. One time we were smuggling margarine from Quebec into Ontario. You’d be surprised how many people will pay for margarine that looks like butter.

Cops stopped us outside Cornwall. They had their guns drawn. Who knows what they were thinking? Michael got out of the car. Michael was with me on this trip. I told him to go see what the pigs were up to. Watched them in my rear view mirror. One moment they’re talking seriously, the next they’re laughing.

When Michael gets back in the car, I ask him what’s so funny. He tells me to drive on and not to look back. They were looking for smugglers but let us go. Michael told them what we were carrying. No cop wants it on his record that he sent someone up for smuggling margarine. Michael knew the ways of the world. Read all the codes. Reacted to all the nuances. Ear to the rail. Fingers on the wire. Pulse like short wave.

QUESTION: What does Michael deal in?

HARRY: Michael’s like Walmart. He deals in everything: from girls to electronics, from porn to guns, from books that get band to bands that get booked. You want to buy something; he’s got a catalogue. That’s what gets his juices flowing. Putting the right people together. A real match maker. Billy Graham type…  Michael and I have had some good times. We’ve known each other since grade school. He was the only kid in grammar school with a tattoo. Did it himself with a compass and some Indian ink. Never flinched. Never saw him feel any pain. Maybe that’s the secret to his success. He doesn’t fear pain because he never feels anything…

Michael has always known what he wants. Always. Nothing two faced about Michael. He looks out for himself and isn’t ashamed to admit it. With Michael, you always know where you stand. With half a chance in the straight world he could have become one of those big execs, driving around in a Chrysler, eating in fancy restaurants, big expense account…

Cops hate him. Hate all of us. Did you know that the average crook’s IQ is ten points higher than the average cop. The ignorant always resent their betters. And they knew that Michael was brilliant.

QUESTION: How long were you in the Clark Institute?

HARRY: They tell you that? Don’t believe everything…  I was only in the Clark for a few months. Physical break down. It was my diet. Too much caffeine and sugar. Try to make it sound like I’m crazy, that I hear voices, that I’m delusional. Everybody hears voices. In the fifteenth century I would have been a visionary… I love the street life. The pace of traffic. The hassles and cars. Everyone trying to put one over on you. Everyone trying to survive. Trying to catch your attention. Banging out a tune on a busy corner or banging a few heads in a darkened alley. Makes you feel alive. Not that I’ve been involved in violence though sometimes you have to flex your muscles. Some people just won’t listen to anything else.. . Hate the burbs. Couldn’t live like the dead beats I grew up with. Spending their weekends in the malls, trucking their kids off here and there, worrying about cholesterol and retirement funds, waistlines and inflation. On the street you take what you need. You cross the line. Take. Just take what you can. It’s a beautiful way to live. I love capitalism… You want to know more about Michael? I can see that. Funny thing about women and Michael. They’re attracted to him but they’re afraid of him. Something they see in Michael that they want. Something that isn’t talked about in polite company. Something dangerous. I’ve gotten a little muff because I look like Michael. Michael is too much of the real thing for some chicks. I’m a kind of generic substitute. What’s the difference between me and Michael? I don’t hurt women… Sure, he’s whacked a few around. Sometimes that’s what a woman wants. It’s part of Michael’s charm. But Michael can be a real Christian. I’ve seen him perform acts of kindness, tenderness, things I would never do, acts that surprise you with their thoughtfulness and grace. But nothing Michael does, neither good nor evil, is without a hidden motive. With Michael, there is no good and bad. He doesn’t do anything mean spirited or cowardly. He does things because they’re part of a plan, a larger agenda.

QUESTION: Was Michael ever married?

HARRY: You wouldn’t ask that question unless you knew the answer… Her name was Lisa. She was a mystery, a puzzle, the best parts of every woman you ever met. She had a great wit, funny as hell. Very sarcastic. And sexy! Skin as smooth as silk. Everyone loved her. And she loved everyone. At least she slept with practically everyone. Absolutely no scruples. Never met a man who could say no to her. And talented. Incredible control over every muscle in her body. She could pick a quarter off the floor with… Anyone she slept with was wild for her. She was like a drug. You could never get enough. But she always went back to Michael… Crazy as a loon. I met Lisa at the Clark. They said she was a sociopath. She liked to lie. And she didn’t run around with a long face from guilt. So what! That doesn’t make you crazy. I was the one who introduced her to Michael. No one could control her. She was like a wild animal. Her and Michael were made for each other… She disappeared. Lot of stories about that. She shot Michael once. Almost killed him. They had a fight. Cops showed up and just watched Michael bleed. It was on the six o’clock news. After that Lisa disappeared. Some say she went to Europe. Some say Michael had her put down.

Homicide Report: DOCKET NO: A0018-1 (Chapter 42, Lou Grant)

METROPOLITAN POLICE, HOMICIDE DIVISION

POLICE CHIEF 456-7654, CHIEF OF DETECTIVES 457-2374

HOMICIDE REPORT

DOCKET NO: A0018-1

OFFICER INVESTIGATING:   Det. A. Armstrong                   BADGE NO. 13A5

SUBJECT OF REPORT: Louis Grant

I’m a little over protective when it comes to Miss Richards. I love Mary like a daughter. We were in a bar, the Blue Lagoon. Me and Mary. Not that we were drinking buddies. You can’t be a drinking buddy with a woman. Too complicated. You fall into the bottle and your genitals take over. On this occasion Mary seemed distracted. Her eyes kept wandering around the bar. Maybe it’s the product of years of being the boss, but I demand someone’s full attention when I’m talking to them.

LOU GRANT: Who are you staring at?

I grumbled as I looked around the room. In a darkened corner of the bar, a stranger sat watching us. I couldn’t make out what he looked like. The room was dark and I didn’t have my glasses on. I hate wearing glasses. Makes me look like Benjamin Franklin. And there was a lot of smoke. Stupid law to ban cigarette smoking. The police should have something better to do than run around nabbing smokers. I was smoking a cigar.

LOU GRANT: You want to leave?

Mary glanced toward the stranger in the corner.

MARY: Don’t you think that gentleman has the loveliest eyes?

LOU GRANT: Eyes! How the hell can you see someone’s eyes in this place? I can hardly see his face.

MARY: He looks sweet.

LOU GRANT: Drugs. Drugs’ll do that to your eyes. Anyone can have lovely eyes, whatever the hell that means.

Mary laugher and playfully slapped my arm.

MARY: You’re awful, Mr. Grant!

LOU GRANT: I wasn’t being funny.

MARY: Do you think someone like that might have killed someone?

I looked back at the dark figure by the bar and then at Mary. That’s an odd question for a young woman to ask, don’t you think? Never would have occurred to my grandmother to ask a question like that. I thought it was damn peculiar and I asked Mary why she asked it.

Mary shrugged her shoulders.

MARY: Just a thought, Mr. Grant. I’ve never met anyone who actually killed someone.

LOU GRANT: You’re still young. Trust me, you’ll be just as well off if you never meet such a person. Meet someone who has killed? Is this some kind of perverted dating service?

MARY: Have you?

I nodded. No use in denying it.

LOU GRANT: In the service.

MARY: That’s different. I meant an honest to gosh killer.

LOU GRANT: Why are you asking this, Mary?

MARY: Curiosity, I guess. Tell me, Mr. Grant. You worked on a newspaper for decades…

LOU GRANT: Years…

LAUGH TRACK

MARY: You must have met your share of killers.

LOU GRANT: Yes… my share…

MARY: What were they like?

LOU GRANT: On the whole I would say – unpleasant.

MARY: Is there something different in their looks, in the way they conduct themselves?

LOU GRANT: They look pretty much like anyone else, except that they’ve usually got blood on their hands. You’re not on anything, are you Mary?

Mary shook her head and laughed.

MARY: You mean drugs, right? Mr. Grant?

I nodded.

Mary shook her head.

LOU GRANT: Is it that time of the…?

MARY: Mr. Grant!

LAUGH TRACK

LOU GRANT:  You’ve been acting strange lately.

MARY: What do you mean, strange?

LOU GRANT: Everyone’s noticed it.

MARY: You’re making this up, Mr. Grant!

LOU GRANT: Gordie thinks you’re taking hormones.

MARY: What does a weather man know about hormones?

LOU GRANT: Sue Ann says that you’ve been reading too much.

MARY: You know that Sue Ann doesn’t read anything unless it’s got recipes in it.

LOU GRANT: The other day Murray asked me if there was an illness in your family. Your parents…?

Mary shook her head.

MARY: My parents are fine, Mr. Grant. I’m fine. Oh sure, I guess I have been acting odd. But doesn’t a person have the right to act odd now and then? Is there a law against it? Look at you, Mr. Grant! Aren’t there days when you’re not quite right?

LOU GRANT: Never!

MARY: Never?

LOU GRANT: Okay Mary, maybe none of these things add up individually, but look at all of them together! There are all these facts on the one side and what’s on the other side?

MARY: I saw the Maltese Falcon too! Oh, Mr. Grant! It’s this assignment. We’ve met such interesting characters during our interviews and I’ve…I have a lot on my mind.

I leaned back in my chair and began to tell the story of the time I had to cover the assassination of the Bolivian ambassador. I rambled on for several minutes before I noticed that Mary’s attention was elsewhere. Would you like to hear about it? No, I didn’t think so.

LOU GRANT: Why did you ask me here, Mary?

MARY: Excuse me?

I repeated my question.

LOU GRANT: It’s about Ted.

I grimaced. I do not approve of management involving themselves in the affairs of labor but, because the situation between Ted and Mary had the potential to affect the operation of the newsroom, I forced myself to listen. I’m not sure how any of this affects the present investigation but, if you wish, I shall continue.

MARY: I couldn’t talk to you in the office. Ted is so paranoid. He thinks that every time we talk, it’s about him.

I thought that the relationship between Ted and Mary had ended. I should have known better. Women can never let anything die of natural causes. They have to talk it to death.

MARY: Ted is under the impression that things are… that I still desire him.

I almost chocked. The thought of desire and Ted went down the wrong way.

MARY: I’ve seen a side of Ted that I never suspected. He’s so… sensitive.

LOU GRANT: Vulnerable?

I read about vulnerable men in Woman’s Day, a magazine my wife keeps by the can. Did you know that women are attracted by the feminine side of a man, to the dike in every guy. So women are attracted to men who are vulnerable, at least in the short term. After the divorce those same vulnerable men are described by their ex’s as wimps.

MARY: Yes, that’s it. Ted is vulnerable. He has an adolescent crush on me. He’s constantly phoning me. He wants to talk. About anything. So long as he can listen to my voice. At the office I see him and he has that sad puppy dog look as if I have abandoned him. I feel as if I can’t breath without Ted recording and filing it away to regurgitate it at some later date.

LOU GRANT: Isn’t regurgitate a little harsh?

LAUGH TRACK

MARY: Mr. Grant! That’s not the point.

LOU GRANT: Don’t you think you’re overreacting, Mary?

MARY: I read that this type of obsession can lead to abuse.

LOU GRANT: Where’d you read that? And why are there so many magazines for women?

MARY: Could we stay on track?

LOU GRANT: We’re talking about Ted, Mary! Ted may be a lot of things, I know that I’ve called him almost everything under the sun, but violent, Ted is not. A wet tissue is more dangerous than Ted.

MARY: Oh, Mr. Grant! If I tell Ted that there is no longer anything between us, I’m afraid of what he might do. To himself. I feel… responsible!

I laughed.

MARY: He might do something… crazy!

LOU GRANT: Please, Mary!

I gasped, holding my stomach.

MARY: It’s not funny, Mr. Grant! I still like Ted. And I value his friendship. I can’t just… abandon him.

LOU GRANT: Marry him!

MARY: You’re not being serious, Mr. Grant.

LOU GRANT: Screw responsibility, Mary! Too many people are flogging themselves with responsibility. Afraid to act, they claim to be inhibited by responsibility. Procrastinators. Liars. I’ve been responsible all my life. I got horny. Helen got pregnant. I felt responsible. I got married. I bought a home. More responsibility. I kept my job. I became ambitious. I pushed myself forward and everyone in my way I pushed aside. I wanted all these fine things for my family. I was being responsible. All the time I convinced myself that this was the way to do things, that this was how the responsible moral man operated. Lies, Mary. All the time I was avoiding the truth. I never wanted to be a journalist, a newspaper man, a television news director. Never wanted to get married. Never wanted kids, the house, the station wagon. Never wanted any of it. I wanted to be… a garbage man.

Mary laughed.

MARY: Mr. Grant, be serious!

LOU GRANT: I wasn’t trying to be funny! Every summer during college I worked on the back of a garbage truck. Met so many interesting people on the back of that truck. I

was never so happy as I was standing on the back of that truck, the sun in my face, wind in my hair. I had hair then. Felt like Errol the fucking Flynn. The world was at my feet. I was a god, blessed with divine purpose. I was cleaning up the planet. And this was before ecology became a fad. You may not believe this Mary, but I was living every young man’s fantasy. It was a job I was born for. And the girls loved me. Garbage men have their own breed of groupies and Mary, they’re all dolls. But I was a loser. I didn’t have the guts to admit that I had found my niche in life. It wasn’t prestigious enough. My family were all professionals: lawyers, accountants, dentists. Waste disposal was not deemed worthy of my talents. That’s why I chose another form of garbage collection -journalism.

MARY: What are you telling me, Mr. Grant? Dump Ted!

LOU GRANT: Dump him or marry the poor bastard! Those are your options.

MARY: That’s so cruel!

LOU GRANT: Ted’s a big boy. He’ll survive.

Mary did not take my advice. I was forced to take action on my own. I talked to Ted. Ted did not become suicidal. He was much too vain. It was a revelation to me to see Ted respond so maturely to disappointment. He curled up on my couch and wept like a baby. Mary and Rhoda continued to do spade work for the series we were doing on the city’s criminal night life. Small time thieves, pimps, hookers, drug dealers, gamblers. All the pillars of society. One of the women they interviewed I found intriguing. She was a whore named Sheila. Beautiful looking girl on the tape. She didn’t look too pretty after the beating she took… but I’m getting ahead of myself. Sheila smoked like a factory. When she wasn’t smoking, she was chewing gum. Ironic how women like that always have to have something stuck in their mouth. Couldn’t sit still in her chair. Difficult for the camera. She was born in Truro, Ontario. Two sisters. The runt of the family. Father a minister. Presbyterian. Went to John F. Kennedy High School. They were naming everything after the dead President. Canadians loved Kennedy. Sheila dropped out. Worked in a music store for a while. Aspirations as a band singer. Teenage drunk. Thrown out of her parents’ home when she was fifteen. Some indication that she might have been molested by her grandfather but she was reluctant to talk about it. Hitchhiked to Toronto. Got involved with a motorcycle gang in Cabbagetown. Next door to the old CBC studios on Parliament Street. Claims that she was rescued from the bikers by this fellow Michael. We didn’t believe that. These girls are always finding white knights to save them. If they don’t find them, they make them up.