“He’s definitely not the CIA man,” the Senator told me. “It’s been checked and crosschecked.”
“Then why would he break into my house?” I wondered aloud.
“I was hoping you might have an answer to that,” the Senator told me.
I did have some answers, but the trouble was they all raised more questions. Anders might have been the one in contact with Fink. The money he was spending on gifts for Cleo Taurus might be the CIA’s missing fifty Gs. Some of the curiosity I’d displayed to Cleo and other members of the drama group might have gotten back to him and aroused his suspicion. He could have been rifling my desk for some clue as to where I might fit into his own involvement. And there was still the possibility that he might have been the one who killed Sy Lenzio.
It wasn’t a very reassuring possibility. If he’d killed Sy, then he certainly wouldn’t hesitate to kill me if I got in his way. And if he had the missing money, then I was already in his way!
The second piece of information the Senator had to pass on was even more intriguing. “We’ve got a line on a girl that Arch Fink was involved with just before the CIA assigned him to set up Democratic Philanthropies, Inc.,” the Senator told me.
“Involved how?”
“Fink met this girl in California. They drove to New York together. Then she just seemed to disappear. She’s a very young girl, just a kid really. All we’ve got to go on is a sort of vague description.”
“Describe her,” I told him with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
He did. The sinking feeling was confirmed.
“Was Fink posing as a traveling salesman back then?” I asked.
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“I’ve met the girl,” I told him.
“You have? Who is she?”
I told him. Then I hung up. But the name still echoed in my mind.
Lolly Popstick!
Chapter Nine
Dress Rehearsal for a little theatre group is something like a noncombat jump for a paratrooper. It may not count, but you still hope the ’chute will open. And, somehow, the landing is always rockier than the jar of the bounce into actual battle. All jumps are a leap of faith, but none strain the faith, baby, quite so much as the rugged plummeting into production known as the Dress Rehearsal.
The weeks leading up to it were hectic. The Dress Rehearsal itself was sheer chaos. As the director, I approached it with the feeling of a commander who has just been told of a strategic necessity to shell his own position.
I took off from work the afternoon preceding it. Cass Novak, Phil Anders, Will Leigh, and Peter Putter met me at the Pine Glen Community Center to help me set up the stage and scenery. The custodian sat on his fat and watched us with an uncharacteristically happy expression on his dyspeptic, moon-cratered face.
That expression worried me. It made me feel like a pile of bones being staked out by a smiling vulture working up an appetite. There was something cunning in the look, something that enjoyed watching us sweat, something that said the labor would only mark the beginning of our troubles.
I pegged it right. The caretaker waited until we were all through. We were just about to go out for a quick beer before the ladies arrived when he finally spoke.
“You fellas sure worked hard,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“But ain’t you kinda got your wires crossed?”
“What do you mean?” The sinking feeling in my stomach expanded.
“You can’t rehearse here tonight. They’s three other groups got the hall booked; seven to nine; nine to ten; ten to eleven.”
“What?! But that can’t be. Joy Boxx marked this night down for rehearsal on the Center calendar.”
“Miz Boxx didn’t clear it with me. It shoulda been cleared with me.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell us this before? Before we broke our backs setting everything up?”
“Ain’t my business.” He shrugged.
I held onto my temper with an eflort. “Then how come you’re telling us now?” I asked.
“You just got time to take everything down ’fore the Boy Scouts get here for their meeting. They got the hall first.”
“I’m damned if we will!”
“It’s up to you.” The custodian shrugged. “But them kids is pretty rough. They’ll probably tie knots in your curtains, mebbe set fire to your props. No telling. They teaches ’em to be resourceful, you know.”
“I’ll take it up with the Scoutmaster,” I told him frostily. “I’ll ask him to have the troop meet somewhere else tonight.”
“Might work. That’s ’tween you an’ him. But then, comes nine o’clock, the Scouts clears out an’ the Kiwanis comes in. They got a lecture here tonight, nine to ten. At ten the Women’s Society for Decent Literature takes over the hall. What you gonna do ’bout them two groups?”
“I’ll talk to them,” I told him. “I’ll straighten it out.”
“Well, I’ll be around to keep the peace when you do.”
“Thanks for nothing!” I told him. “We’ll be back.” I followed along with the others to get a beer. I really need- ed it.
When we returned, the female members of the cast had already arrived. They were backstage putting on each others theatrical makeup. They went at it like sailors painting a ship they detested.
“You're making me too red!” Rusty was protesting to Cleo. “I’ll look like a lobster!”
“No I’m not.” Cleo stood back and examined her handiwork. “Remember, I have perspective and you don’t.” She dabbed on some more red makeup.
“You have the perspective of someone who wanted the part I got!” Rusty told her. “Vance! Come here!” she called. “Isn’t she using too much red?”
“You look like a lobster.” I was in no mood to be diplomatic. “Take off some of the red,” I told Cleo.
“You’re wrong! It’ll blend under the lights.” Cleo defended herself.
“He’s the director! Take it off!” Rusty insisted.
“Take it off yourself!” Cleo slammed down the cover of the makeup kit and stalked off.
My attention was distracted by Wanda Humphrey and Lolly. Wanda was etching in lines on Lolly’s face. “You’re making her look too old,” I told Wanda.
“Dollink, a little mature, she should looking. Not so much contrasting with her and the other ladies.”
“Why not? She’s supposed to be young enough to be Rusty’s daughter. And the rest of you are supposed to be around Rusty’s age.”
“The ladies all are agreeing that too childically she shouldn’t looking.”
“The ladies are jealous! Take out the lines!” I insisted. I strode over to the curtain and peeked out from behind it to see if the Boy Scouts had arrived yet. Joy Boxx was already peeking. “Why didn’t you straighten out all this nonsense about the hall?” I asked her. “You’re the producer.”
“I marked it down on the calendar,” she told me stiffly. “It’s not my fault if the custodian didn’t tell the other groups.”
“Nothing is ever anybody’s fault,” I sighed. Looking out at the hall, I saw some twenty-odd people scattered around the auditorium. “Who are they?” I asked Joy.
“Relatives and friends’ of the people in the cast. They always come to the dress rehearsals. You’ll get to meet them all later.”
“They make me nervous. They look like they’re about to pounce.”
“They are. They’ll be sure to tell you just what you did wrong after the rehearsal.”
“Well, that’s something to look forward to.”
“Worse,” Joy continued, “they’ll tell the actors what they’re doing wrong. The actors will say the director told them to do it that way. And then they’ll convince the actors that you don’t know your posterior from your elbow.”
“What’s more, they’ll be right,” I sighed. “What the hell is that?” I added as the sounds of marching feet and voices raised in song reached my ears.