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                        CONTRIBUTOR WEEK - DAY FIVE (CONTINUED)

Contributor Week will continue tomorrow with our last contributor, Marri Bernier.  I decided to post my usual Friday chapter from my novel.  

                                            CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

                                                        The Playhouse

6:20 p.m.

Reggie crossed the boulevard to what obviously used to be a church. A green awning over the front door read: The Paley Playhouse. A poster the size of a piano hung on the facade. Coming September: THE FANTASTIKS. Reggie recalled seeing the play years ago in Los Angeles at a local college. Piano music played inside. The front door was unlocked. He went in and found the foyer transformed into a mirrored funhouse. Reminded him of the dining room up at the Paley ranch. The garish decorations were more suited to a whorehouse than a playhouse. To the right was a tiny ticket booth. A wooden board was clamped over the slot in the bottom of the glass. On the front wall was an area bordered in red light bulbs for displaying the actors' photographs.

There were two sets of double doors at either end of the lobby. The piano music was now accompanied by a deep voice singing about...rape. Ah, yes. The bad guy–El Gallo. He sings a sales pitch to the male lead about his selection of rapes.

Reggie peeked in.

* * *

Joe was relieved and curious when Reggie crossed to the theater. If his suspicions were correct, he wanted to talk to Quinn. Which meant Reggie was tracking Jackie's killer. Maybe it was a first, but it looked as if he and his suspect were on the same team. Maybe not the same side, though.

As Joe entered the lobby, the auditorium door shut. He pushed through the set of double doors directly in front of him. From the back of the darkened, musky-smelling theater, he couldn't see well enough to tell if anyone sat in the audience. There were actors on the stage, wearing street clothes, singing, and a dapper man in his mid-forties seated at a piano shoved up to the corner of the stage, vigorously hammering the keys, shaking his head with the rhythm.

A feeling held him. Someone watching. He searched the seats, squinting to dim the glare of the stage lights. Two women sat in the fourth row center, each with a notebook–probably the script–opened across their laps. His eyes groped through the dark up the opposite aisle to the other set of double doors. Seated in the back row in the dark was a man.

* * *

What the hell is he doing here? Reggie thought. He answered himself: Following you, stupid. Doone's Café, the kitchen, the police station, the cabin. Too much for coincidence. Bob Epperson's the damn private dick Otto warned me about. Bob was coming down the row of seats, an introductory smile on his face. Should I knock the smile off or what?

* * *

Tailing this character around Paley wasn't going to get him any closer to finding Jackie's killer or T.J. Kenny. Exposing his true purpose was risky only if Reggie was guilty–but it didn't make sense to think along those lines anymore. Reggie hadn't taken the opportunity to get the hell out of town.

He stood over Reggie Thomas, who looked up with the expression of a man ready to attack. Joe offered his hand.

"I'm Joe Cox."

Reggie's eyes dropped to Joe's hand. He leaned back, hanging his arms on the backs of the seats on either side of himself.

"Mind?" Joe asked, gesturing to the seat. Reggie shrugged. Leaving an empty seat between them, Joe sat down.

"You're probably wondering why I'm following you." Reggie turned toward the stage. He had no intention of speaking until Joe was done with his explanations. "I'm a private investigator. Hired to find Jackie Weldon. As you know, she's dead. Now I'm looking for her killer. You're a prime suspect." Reggie turned to Joe, but didn't speak. "So here we are."

"What're you going to do about it?" Reggie asked smoothly.

"Reggie," Joe said, "that's a good question. I don't know. I'm working on it. Maybe we could start by having you ask any questions you might have. What do you think?"

"What do I think? I think you should seriously consider a different profession–grocery clerk, say."

"Hey," Joe said, leaning across the empty seat, "we can play this little game all night, but what it comes down to is this: I know you're here. Until I get some answers, I'm going to be your evil Siamese twin, you understand what I mean by that? Cut the act. Let's get to it. I'll get formalities out of the way: what're you doing here?"

* * *

Reggie got the impression that this Joe Cox didn't actually believe he had anything to do with Jackie's murder. Otherwise, why would he want to know why he was there at the theater. If he thought he had anything to do with her murder, he'd want to know where he was–what he did –the day she was killed, and he'd be shining his knuckles over finding him in the first place, but this guy didn't act like he'd won anything yet. He pinched off a piece of his bad impression of this so-called private eye, and, watching the action on the stage, chewed on it. This guy had already been in three places the same as Reggie. His promise to be his evil twin rang true. Reggie realized that Joe Cox had fooled him to a certain degree. Until he planted his butt down in that seat, being followed hadn't seriously crossed his mind. And what about the ditzy woman he called his sister? If they were intent on investigating him, there was a chance they'd find him in the desert cooking dope. And if Josh and his Angels found out, he'd lose enough appendages to classify himself as a doormat.

Joe's glare challenged him silently.

The meth deal had nothing to do with Jackie. They both wanted to find the scumbag who killed her, and the police were probably too screwed up–and corrupt–to give a damn. The smart thing to do right now would be to find out what Joe Cox already knew. He'd likely be in contact with the detective on the case. The exchange of information could thwart any attempts to check out his enterprise in the desert. If it was still possible, he wanted to salvage that prospect.

"First," Reggie said, "tell me what you know."

The rape song came to its loud, raucous climax. Joe pointed to his ear, led the way out to the lobby. He drank from a porcelain fountain by the restrooms, while Reggie leaned impatiently by the wall. Joe wiped his mouth.

"It's not much," Joe told Reggie, "but this is what I know."

He was right, it wasn't much. Neither the police detective–guy named Tom Lee–nor Joe Cox had figured out that Jackie's body had been taken out of the lake and put back into it. What Joe did know was that she'd been strangled before she'd been thrown into The Plunge. Cox knew the police officer's name who picked up Jackie at Doone's Café on Friday, and that he was also a suspect. The police had some other evidence that Tooley had a hand in the murder, but they hadn't disclosed it to Joe. He wondered if Joe was giving him the whole dope.

"The police won't be the only one looking for Tooley," Joe finished. The music stopped. John Quinn's voice lilted up and down in a directorial fervor. Joe Cox looked at the doors, folding his arms and then back at Reggie. "Your turn."

Reggie stuffed his hands in his back pockets and told Joe almost everything, starting with Jackie's rape, leaving out only the parts about the meth lab. He didn't mention how he'd overheard Wallace and Quinn at the rock, but he told him how he suspected a connection with Quinn, and that he'd spoken to Wallace, whose pick-up had been used in the grave robbing. He told Joe about his discovery that Wallace had owned the cemetery and might be mixed up in the grave robbing, but that he didn't know how it connected to Jackie. Then he told him about the town doctor–Rendquist–and how he signed the death certificate and how he might be involved in the ransom because the cause of death was probably suicide and not the stroke Renquist said it was. Reggie hesitated about what he was going to tell him next. He managed to make Joe's stone-face expression crumble into surprise when he backtracked and admitted that he'd discovered Jackie in his bathtub and that she'd been there when Joe had used the toilet.

"Something we haven't addressed," Joe pointed out when Reggie finished, "is why we both want to talk to John Quinn."

"Just say, he gets around. He's connected. With Lucilva Paley. To November Wallace. The politics. He was there when Jackie left with Tooley."

"How did you know that?"

"Brenda Doone." He paused before asking, "What about you?"

"Basically the same reason. But I have a personal interest in him. We have a mutual friend who owns half of this place. And I think he's up to his neck in something without knowing about it."

Reggie was satisfied with Joe's answer, but Joe's sly mien was so transparent, Reggie figured he was purposely trying to keep him off balance.

"Come to think of it," Joe said, "you and I have a mutual acquaintance, too."

"Otto," Reggie said, enjoying how the cockiness in Joe's face shut down.

The double doors banged open. John Quinn burst into the lobby, followed by a string of actors and assistants. Tucked in the niche of the restroom hall, no one spotted Joe and Reggie.

"It does not matter, Phillip," John was saying to the actor playing Matt, the male lead, "we'll bring it down a step for you–you sound marvelous, really, you just need to push–from down there"– he doubled his fist and beat on his own abdomen–"and you'll be amazed how easy it'll come–trust me." Phillip nodded.

"John, I'll be a little late tomorrow night," a young woman in tight jeans and T-shirt said apologetically.

"Don't worry, darling," John cooed, "we'll do another number before you get here. Bye–drive carefully, dear."

Others called goodbye and zipped out the front door, leaving one of the two women who had been in the audience alone with John. She said something, referring to the script in her arm. John kissed her on the cheek, twiddled his fingers at her, and she left.

When Quinn turned, he discovered he wasn't alone.

"Little boys shouldn't loiter around the restrooms," he quipped. "To what do I owe this intrusion?"

"Somewhere we can talk?" Joe asked.

"And you are...?"

"Joe Cox." He offered his hand; Quinn shook it lightly, until the name came to him, then he shook it vigorously.

"Oh, yes, Dutch's friend, of course. I've heard a lot about you, Joe. Dutch thinks the world of you." He unrolled his sleeves, leaving them unbuttoned and wrinkled. "Shall we?"

He led them through a door beyond the bathrooms. What was once the church nursery had been transformed into his office. A large picture window separated the office from the main auditorium, presumably so mothers could still be a part of the service while assuring its peacefulness. It was meticulously organized. Play posters hung on one wall, purposely at cockeyed angles. Awards and plaques bearing the name of John William Quinn hung beside framed black and white publicity photos of famous movie stars. Some of the stars had signed them, noting brief acknowledgments addressed to John or Johnny. About the floor, strategically placed as decoration, were an array of props from shows Quinn no doubt had been a part of. There was a Roman helmet, a shield, and a spear in the back corner; a pair of giant scissors leaning against the wall; a revolver and holster, police badge, handcuffs and billy club displayed on a table with the 1930s police uniform draped behind it; and a civil war rifle and bayonet hung over a large group picture of the cast.

Reggie didn't sit. Joe sat across from the simple metal desk. Reggie resigned himself to saying nothing so far, allowing the so-called pro to do the prying. He knew if he got too fired up, Quinn wouldn't tell them anything. He'd watch for a while.

* * *

Joe was surprised. Reggie hadn't said a word. So before he got the urge to speak, Joe asked Quinn how his show was coming along.

"Wonderful, marvelous. We open in three weeks. To rave reviews, I'm sure," he added, chuckling, glancing at Reggie's unflinching face then back to Joe. "So what can I do for you gentlemen?"

"I'm out here on a runaway case. Dutch was carrying on about the place here so I thought I'd stop by last night, but you weren't here."

Quinn leaned back in his chair. "Last night?" He grinned knowingly. "This is about the girl in The Plunge, isn't it?" As an afterthought, he flicked a finger in Reggie's direction. "You and she were close friends. I met them Friday morning after an unfortunate incident up at the Paley ranch," he explained to Joe. "Lovely girl. Very tragic. Well, to answer your real question: I was here until after midnight. We rehearsed to eleven, I worked in the office–I own a couple local businesses–made some notes for tonight's rehearsal, and went home–which is next door, as you probably know–and went to bed."

"How did you know about her death?"

He reached down into a drawer and tossed a folded newspaper up on the desk. "Front page this morning."

"She was last seen at Doone's Café on Friday afternoon leaving with Paul Tooley–you know him?"

"Of course."

"You were also seen there."

"Was I? Oh, let me see. Friday afternoon," he looked off into the auditorium, thinking. "Ah, yes. I had lunch."

"What time was that?"

He held up his arm, pulled back the sleeve. "I don't even wear a watch."

This seemed a bit unlikely, considering he was in the theater. Everyone Joe had ever met in the theater was tuned in to the time. Punctuality was not taken lightly. Dutch taught him that. And now this character wanted him to believe he didn't know the time?

Reggie must've caught on, too, because he moved from his spot by the door to behind the other chair, leaned on it, and said matter-of-factly:

"You're lying."

"Mr. Reggie–or whatever your name is–I never lie."

Joe asked: "May I see your wrist again?"

To Reggie, Quinn said: "Lucilva warned me. Said you were a rabble-rouser, but you won't rouse this rabble with accusations."

"Let's see your wrist then," Joe repeated, believing he saw the tell-tale white skin where a watch would've been.

"I had lunch," Quinn said, "and then left. I have a watch I wear occasionally, but I know I wasn't wearing it that day, and it doesn't much make any difference, since it is no concern of yours whether I wear a watch or I do not wear a watch, and, furthermore, I have no recollection to the time. It was likely to be lunch time, wouldn't you think?"

"Why did you say you don't wear a watch? Why did you lie, then say you never lie? Are you hiding something?"

"Yes," Quinn said, leaning forward, folding his hands on the desk. "I am desperately attempting to hide my complete consternation."

Reggie glanced at Joe. Joe took the cue. "You were seen in the back of the restaurant–outside–and Jackie seemed to react to your being there. I'm talking about the trash area where deliveries are unloaded. If you had lunch, fine. But why were you in the back?"

"I don't recall being back there. Who said I was?"

"Not important. You were definitely there. And you were there with Tooley. Know where we can find Tooley?"

Tinkering with a pencil, Quinn answered, "I don't keep tabs on Tooley."

"You'd better start," Reggie said.

Quinn pointed the pencil at him and said, "Listen, you. Don't push me. I know all about you–and you know what I'm talking about."

Reggie turned to Joe and said: "This faggot doesn't get the point." He picked up the chair at his fingertips, raised it over his head, turned and catapulted it through the window. The shattering glass exploded, stunning Joe, and brought Quinn to his feet. The chair landed in the next to the last row of seats. Quinn stared at the large jagged opening in his window.

"You damn–"

"Tooley–where is he?" Reggie growled.

Quinn was still stunned and didn't answer.

"Police say he's on vacation," Joe said. "Where would he go?"

"You and Wallace got something going," Reggie said, rounding the desk, backing Quinn into the giant scissors. "And I know about Wallace's pick-up and how it was used to cart Paley's body off, and I know Wallace's connection to the mortuary." He lowered his voice to a whisper, pressing his face into Quinn's. "There's more. And if you don't want the cops to know, you'll tell us straight–everything."

Quinn tried keeping his composure, but the sight of his smashed window and the mess in his office, and this seemingly barbaric nut looming over him, he let out a long sigh that hissed through his teeth.

He didn't tell them much, but it was more than they knew coming in. And it was enough to get their hands on Tooley. But they both knew Quinn wasn't telling them everything.

Leaving the theater, Joe said: "Impressive investigative approach. Chair through window. I'll have to remember that."

"Yeah," Reggie said, stopping and looking back at the theater. He grinned. "Guess I'm in the wrong business."

"What business would that be?"

Reggie poked his own chest. "My business."

They crossed the street together. Joe let Reggie know he was staying at The Desert Inn.

"I'd invite you up, but if Teddi sees you...."

"Thanks anyway."

"What're you going to do next?"

Reggie shrugged, opened the driver's door on the Olds.

"You want to go with me?"

"You need me to go?"

"No. Why would I need you to go? I'm being polite."

"Then do what you gotta do," Reggie said, climbing behind the wheel, "and I'll do my own thing."

Joe leaned down to the window. "I want to know what you got cookin'."

Reggie hesitated. Then, deciding it was an innocent comment, he said, "Yeah. We'll swap recipes." Joe stepped away as he started the Olds. Reggie pulled away, slung a u-turn and let that General Motors engine show what it could do.