Murder on the Aisle

12

5:47 P.M.

“My father’s right. I’m not cut out to be a boss.”

“Jesus, Frank.”

“You want to see the books, Tobin? I mean, would you care to sit down and go over the last P and L? You’d know what a fuck-up I really am.”

“There’s nothing like self-confidence, Frank.” But of course he was lying. He really didn’t have much faith in Frank. He’d once attended one of those gaudy conventions where syndicated shows are sold and bartered to local TV stations. Frank had been a Boy Scout in a room filled with child molesters.

“I’m a fuck-up,” Frank went on. “I’m not ashamed to admit it. Some men are tall — no offense, Tobin — some men have red hair, and some men are fuck-ups. It’s all genetical in the end. All genetical.”

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re not doing too bad yourself.”

“At least I’m not making up words.”

“What words?”

“Genetical. That’s not a word.”

“Well, it damn well should be.”

“Will you for Christ’s sake stop pacing?”

“Oh, sure. Sure. Stop pacing so I can sit over there behind the desk. In the boss’s chair.”

“That’s right. In the boss’s chair. Where you, as Frank Emory, President of Emory Communications, belong.” Tobin waved his sloshing drink as he talked. Sloshing on his sleeve. Sloshing on the couch. Tobin and Emory had been pouring whiskey into empty stomachs for two hours now.

At least he went over, Frank did, and sort of squatted on the edge of the desk. At least he was done with his pacing, which was starting to make Tobin seasick.

“I’m no boss, Tobin.”

“Yeah, but you look like one. Six-two. Patrician features. Graying at the temples. Thick wrists.”

“Thick wrists? What has that got to do with anything?”

“People admire men with thick wrists. Look at these.” Tobin waggled his wrists. “I could be a goddamned fourteen-year-old girl. You’ve got thick wrists and you should be proud of it.”

“Three stations canceled this morning, Tobin.”

So there went their little run of hysteria. That simple sentence was the equivalent of running down Fifth Avenue stark-naked when the temperature was subzero.

“Three?” Tobin said.

“Probably more. I haven’t checked with our sales manager in the past half hour.”

“Three,” Tobin muttered to himself. “So she was right.”

“Who?”

“Sarah Nichols.”

“About what?”

“About Richard being the popular one.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with it. They’re canceling because we’re not fielding a team anymore. They like the back and forth. The yin and yang.”

“Chamales sort of offered himself this morning.”

“Is that the guy who looks like Sebastian Cabot?”

“Yeah.”

“Not a prayer.”

So Tobin sank back on the couch and watched the sun set red and purple and yellow behind the frost on the window and let Frank pace awhile and then he said, “I need to ask you a question, Frank.”

“What?”

“Where were you about nine last night?”

Frank looked at him and for a moment seemed unable to think. “In the production. Watching the replay of the top of the show and seeing if there was anything we could use before the fight broke out. Why?”

“Just curious.”

Then Tobin’s real meaning occurred to Emory. “You’re asking me if I’ve got an alibi, aren’t you?”

Tobin shrugged. “I guess I kind of am, yes.”

“Jesus.”

“They’re trying to nail me, Frank. I didn’t kill Richard, but I need to find out who did.”

“God, it wasn’t me.” He shook his head, dazed. “Hell, now I’ve got to find a replacement for Richard.” He sounded utterly lost. “And if I can’t find a good-enough one...” Misery gripped his voice.

Tobin stood up, knowing he needed to be out of there, and walked over and slid his arm around Emory and said, “Sorry, Frank. I had to ask. I really did.”

Emory smiled bleakly. “I know. I know you did.”

“So why don’t you go sit behind the desk?”

Emory grinned. “Guess I may as well. Somebody has to.”

“That’s right,” Tobin said softly, “Somebody has to.”

He waited for a cab in the lobby, planning all the time to go back to his apartment and settle in for the night with a tape of his favorite film, Out of the Past. But then, standing there, his fingers touched a round and smooth little button in his pocket. The pin of the damn thing stuck him.

Then, as the Checker pulled up in front, he decided not to go straight home after all.