33.

WITH A CERTAIN amount of trepidation Wetzon put the quarter in the pay phone and dialed Smith’s number. It rang and rang. No response. Strange. Perhaps she had dialed the wrong number. She hung up and tried again. Again, no response. She disconnected and stood thinking. Where was Smith? What could have gotten her—and Mark, as well—out on a bitter night like this? Especially as she had been waiting for Wetzon’s call. Smith was so unpredictable. Well, no matter, at least Wetzon was off the hook.

She sighed, not looking forward to telling Smith about Arleen and Leon. That damn minicassette recorder. Somehow she would have to edit out what Arleen had said about Smith. She sighed again. The coat check woman gave her an inquiring look. “It’s all right, just thinking out loud,” Wetzon told her. Clearly, Arleen was trying to drive a wedge between Wetzon and Smith, but for what purpose?

She rummaged in her carryall looking for the recorder. She would erase the tape and let Smith think the machine had goofed. Smith would be incensed, would rail at her that she was an incompetent, that any dummy could work one of those. Well fine. She wouldn’t mind anything Smith said at this point. She would try to protect Smith and be as supportive as she could. Poor Smith.

Where the hell was it? Her bag was such a clutter. She really should clean it out. Wetzon gave up and went into the ladies’ room. Piece by piece, she unloaded her carryall on the ledge over the sink. There was no minicassette recorder in her bag.

Arleen had removed it. Who else could have? Who else would have cared to? When Smith’s call had come in, Wetzon had left the table, left her bag on her chair. What a dunce you are, Wetzon, she thought.

It was time to meet Teddy. At the coatroom Wetzon presented the plastic disk to the coat checker and was wrapped and capped and out on the street minutes later.

A cab stopped in front of Le Refuge, and Wetzon waited with thinly veiled impatience while a man in a gray overcoat and gray fedora paid the driver and entered the restaurant with a thin woman in mink, a gray silk scarf loosely wrapped around her dark hair. People were eating later and later in New York, it seemed. Almost as if it were a European city. The major difference was they still got up at the crack of dawn, to exercise and rush off to the Street and make money.

It was dark and quiet when the cab dropped her at Channel 8. This far west on Fifty-seventh Street was mostly commercial: factories, warehouses. The television station was the only twenty-four-hour business in the area, except for its substantial competitor, CBS, two blocks east.

A tiny flutter of excitement stirred her. Teddy now believed that Peepsie had been murdered, and he didn’t—or hadn’t—known much about the case. So what information did he have that would lead him to think this?

Channel 8’s main entrance was up about ten low steps to a large, flat stone building twelve stories high. The lobby was widely exposed to the street because of the glass doors and plate glass that surrounded the doors. A husky blue-uniformed guard with a comic Mexican mustache sat behind a curved high faux marble counter, reading a newspaper.

Wetzon, mounting the steps which had been shoveled clean and scattered with that new salt equivalent like little white BBs, sensed the guard sizing her up. She pulled the brass handle of the glass door. It was locked. The guard watched her but didn’t move. You’d think he’d get up to investigate, she growled to herself. She motioned to him and pointed to her watch, smiling politely.

He stared at her and looked down at a large appointment book on the counter in front of him. Then, grudgingly, he folded his newspaper and got to his feet, ambling to the door. His height was a surprise. He wasn’t much taller than she, but he was built like a tank. Muscles bulged under his uniform. He had an emblem on his sleeve that said C-8 Security, and a white clip-on ID with his picture that said Torres. He picked up a key chain hanging from his belt and squatted, taking his slow, sweet time about unlocking the door at its base and opening it a crack. “Yeah?”

Wetzon was freezing. She hopped from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm. “I have an appointment with Ted Lanzman. My name is Leslie Wetzon.”

The guard looked at her without changing expression and grunted, then finally opened the door just wide enough for her to squeeze through. He surveyed the dark, empty street suspiciously and pulled the door shut. There was a solid click when the lock took.

Torres sauntered back to the counter and picked up a plastic ID from under his Wall Street Journal. “He’s expecting you. He’s in room 24B in the annex. He said you’re to meet him there.” Despite his Mexican bandito looks, Torres spoke perfect, unaccented American English. Probably an actor with a night job. Torres handed her the plastic card with the clip. Her name was handprinted on it: Ms. L. Watson. She clipped it to the lapel of her coat. If she was Watson, where was Holmes?

“How do I get there?” She unbuttoned her coat and tucked the ends of her belt into each pocket.

“Night elevator to five. Turn right, walk straight through. You’ll see where the buildings connect. The doors aren’t locked. They’re up there. You’ll hear them before you see them.” He didn’t crack a smile.

Was that supposed to be a joke?

The night elevator was obviously more for service than for looks. It stood waiting, a big metal affair with its doors open. There were at least a dozen cigarette butts of various lengths on the scuffed metal floor, and the battered steel enclosure reeked of stale tobacco.

She pressed 5 and the machine hummed into action, doors slid closed, with a creak. The floors blinked above the doors: 2, 3, 4, 5. The doors grumbled open and Wetzon stepped into a long empty corridor. Fluorescent lights blazed overhead. She turned right. Heavy cameras and equipment lined the walls, some covered by canvas, each with the imprimatur of the channel. The floors were carpeted in industrial beige, and her boots made a sluffing sound as she walked. She passed doors with glass windows and above each door was the word Studio and a number; some had a letter as well. The studios were dark.

The corridor ended with two large metal doors, also with windows. She pushed on the doors, and they opened easily, letting her into what she assumed was the annex, because the floor dipped a fraction lower although the carpet was the same. It was a different building. The walls here were plaster rather than the stone or marble of the main building.

And now she could hear the voices. They were muffled, but the contentiousness was audible.

The light was on in room 24B. Through the glass window she saw a production room. Twelve high-tech TV monitors lined one side of the room, beneath which were a cluster of knobs and switches, heavy-duty professional equipment, much more complicated than the light boards from her theater days. Four people were sitting at a control board, watching one of the monitors, waving their arms, all shouting at once. A woman and three men. The woman and one of the men, short, with a scruffy beard, were about Wetzon’s age, perhaps younger. The other two men looked older. One was sitting with his feet up on the control board table. Kinky sprouts of red hair framed a wide bald path on his head. The fourth, who wore jeans and a red sweatshirt that had RUTGERS in black letters, was pushing and turning dials on the control board.

Wetzon knocked on the door. No one paid attention, no one even looked up. She opened the door.

“Cut that fucking part,” Kinky Sprouts said. “It’s too fucking long as it is—”

The woman, dirty blonde strings of hair hanging in her eyes, took a pencil from behind her ear and stabbed it toward Kinky Sprouts. “No one’s cutting—”

“Excuse me,” Wetzon said.

They looked at her and looked away.

“It’s fucking not up to you, Joan.”

“Well okay, so where the fuck is Teddy? Let him decide.”

“Excuse me—”

“Yeah? Looking for someone?” Joan stuck her pencil back behind her ear and stared at the monitor.

“Teddy Lanzman. He’s expecting me.”

All four exchanged knowing looks.

“He went up to his office for a minute—hey, guys, what the fuck is keeping Teddy—”

“You know him, man, a minute, a half hour. He’s probably on the phone—”

“Listen, you can wait here, or you can catch him upstairs,” Joan said.

“Upstairs?”

“Yeah, his office—seventh floor—main building. River side.” Joan didn’t look up from the monitor.

“Thank you.” No one turned around to look at her.

“I don’t see why we can’t get thirty seconds off here.”

“No way. That’s a fucking great shot of that old woman taking out her teeth.”

“It’s shit, Joan! Shit! But I’ll give it back to you under the credits.”

“No fucking deal,” Joan screamed.

Wetzon headed back to the elevators. The hallway yawned empty in front of her and she quickened her pace. The dark-windowed studio doors seemed to be staring at her. When she pushed through the metal doors to the main building, the hooded equipment eyed her with menace. She was an intruder here. She shivered. Thank heavens the elevator bank was straight ahead.

She was thinking how stupid she was being when the ceiling lights flickered and went out, leaving her in utter blackness. “Shit!” she heard someone say and realized it was she. God, she was spooked.

The lights flickered again twice and came back on. Relief flooded her. What the hell was she so nervous about? She rushed to the night elevator and pressed the Up button. No motor sound, no hum. Nothing. The light on the elevator button did not go on. She pressed Down urgently. Nothing. Damn. She hit both the Up and Down buttons frantically. The lights went out, this time without the flicker. Unreasonable fear washed over her.

But wait, she wasn’t in complete darkness. There was some kind of light coming from the corridor in front of her. She moved toward it, her right hand lightly skimming the wall. It was the stairwell. Dim light was coming from the stairwell. They must be on a different current, maybe DC current or on a different line. Probably then, the elevator was out. She would take the stairs to Teddy’s office. Only two flights up and if his office was on the river side, it would be the first office, right or left, by the stairwell.

She pushed open the windowed metal door by its metal bar and stepped into a wide stairwell. The door slammed behind her with a loud echoing thump. Then it was absolutely still. She gathered up the front of her long coat and began climbing the stairs.

On the sixth floor she peered out into a dark corridor. No lights, no people. A door opened somewhere above her and she heard heavy footsteps coming down in her direction. She stopped and waited. If she got caught on the stairs, she’d have nowhere to run—wait—what was she doing to herself? Caught? What was she worried about? It was probably Teddy or someone who worked here. Caution, caution, for crissakes, Wetzon. Cool and calm.

The steps came closer. “Motherfucking shit,” a woman’s voice said. A short dumpy woman came into view. She was lugging a hand-held camera. It was Gretchen from the other day in Little Odessa. She didn’t seem surprised to see Wetzon.

“Hi,” Wetzon said, relieved. “Are the lights out on the seventh floor, too?”

“Fucking lights are fucking out in the whole fucking building, except for the stairs. And who knows how long they’ll last in this fucking place.” She stopped next to Wetzon and shifted the camera to her other shoulder. She was wearing khakis and a red flannel shirt hanging out from under a navy down vest. Gretchen brushed past her and continued down the stairs. Taking a deep breath, Wetzon began the climb to the seventh floor.

A moment later the lights in the stairwell went out, came on, went out, and stayed out. Black hell. Desolation.

“Fucking shit!” Gretchen’s voice echoed up from below. Wetzon clutched the stair rail. Feeling for each stair with the toe of her boot, she kept moving. She could hear Gretchen cursing and held the sound in her head gratefully to keep her balance. It seemed to take forever to get up one flight.

Her hand touched the metal bar of the stairwell door, and she knew she had reached the seventh floor. Perhaps she should just wait here till the lights came on. No. That could be the rest of the night. She would find Teddy and at least they would wait it out together. The darkness pressed in on her. She felt a momentary panic, shook it away, and pushed on the metal bar to open the stairwell door. No magic. The lights did not come on. If anything, it seemed blacker than the stairwell, and here there was no Gretchen cursing for her to anchor on to. Just oppressive silence.

She stood, trying to determine which office was Teddy’s, when she heard what sounded like a door opening near her. There was a faint flare of light and two funny flat noises, one right after the other, as if someone were swatting flies with a flyswatter. She pressed her body back against the wall near the stairwell door, not moving, concentrating, all senses aroused. The faint light disappeared.

She was not alone. Someone was in the corridor with her. “Teddy?” Her voice stuck in her throat. “Teddy? Is that you?”

There was no answer, but she could feel a presence coming closer. Fear, like a bright red light, burned through her body. She knew she had to get away from the stairwell. In her mind’s eye she saw herself thrown, falling down the stairs, landing in a broken, crumpled heap. She edged along the wall in the direction of the elevator bank.

Whoever was in the hallway with her was not Teddy. Teddy would have identified himself when she called out to him. Her fingers touched the metal doors of the elevator. At that moment she heard the stairwell door crack open; footsteps sounded on the stairs momentarily before the door swung closed. She was alone. Or was she? She heard the sound of breathing, heart thumping, a funny rustling sound. Foolish, Wetzon. Her own breathing, her own thumping heart.

She inched back to the stairwell, got her bearings, and found the door to the office on the right. It was closed, locked. She edged across the hall. There was that funny rustling sound she’d thought she’d heard before. She stopped and listened.

Something, someone, grazed her, throwing her against the cold stone wall. The stairwell door opened and closed, and for the second time she heard running footsteps. She set her bag down. She was shaking all over. She had come to meet Teddy, get information, and go home. It had been a long day and now it was an even longer night. Maybe she would just sit right down here on the floor till the lights came on or until Teddy found her. If he had gone back to the editing room, maybe they would tell him she had been looking for him. At that thought, she almost laughed. That single-minded group wouldn’t even think to tell him.

Oh what the hell. She steadied herself and felt for the edge of the door to the office opposite the locked one. Maybe this was Teddy’s office. “Teddy?” She held on to the doorframe. The door was partly open. “Teddy?” She stepped forward again, inching her way into the room, sideswiping a file cabinet, bumping another hard metal obstruction. “Shit!” She turned away and tripped over something round and hard on the floor and fell forward against a chair. She sat down hard.

Okay, thank you very much, she would just sit here and wait for the lights to come on. There was something wet and sticky on the arm of the chair. She wiped her hand on her coat. Spilled soda or beer, probably. It was warm here and she was tired. What the hell was it that she’d tripped over? She reached down toward the floor and ran her hand around. It was wet here too. Her hand touched a narrow, round object and she picked it up. It was long and heavy. And hot. She dropped it, frowning, puzzled.

Suddenly, the lights came on with blinding red intensity.

It was an optical illusion. She was sitting in a room that had just been painted with wet red paint.

Red paint had spilled all over the desk in front of her. Red paint mixed with other stuff. She wondered what kind of mess Teddy had left his office in, but she could ask him because he was there, looking for something under his desk.

“Teddy ...” She stood up. She could see his shoulders in his parka. One hand lay clutching some red papers on the top of his desk amid the red mass of bone and brains and hair that had been his head.