Break A Leg - Part 1 - The Curse

In the world of theater, there are several productions that are famous for supposedly being cursed. Over the course of numerous years and renditions of the same show, actors have been injured, died, or been killed under mysterious circumstances, sometimes while on stage (in one particularly famous incident, an actor was killed in front of a packed audience after the retractable knife blade he was stabbed with failed to retract; the audience thought it was an excellent special effect coupled with brilliant death acting). Stagehands fall to their death from the rafters. Theaters burn down. Technical failures plague the crew night after night.

My current client, who we’ll call Charlotte, is involved in a show with a similar reputation, which is playing in New York as we speak. Charlotte is a gorgeous blonde actress on her way to becoming a theater headliner; in the next five or ten years, a successful film career is practically guaranteed. If you live in the city, you might have even heard her name. Though young, she has built up a very impressive resume since graduating from NYU Tisch three years ago.

In other words, it is no surprise she was dramatic on the phone with me yesterday about her problem (“Murder,” she simply said, perhaps expecting an outpouring of gasps from myself – fat chance). I will state now that I generally hate working for anyone in the drama business. More flakes in that crowd than a bowl of cereal. However, I’m not too picky with my clients. Money is money. And Charlotte has an incredible body.

Charlotte came down to my office today and told me her problem, and it’s a little more complicated than just murder. More like attempted murder. Or rather, attempted murder that no one else believes is attempted murder.

Rehearsal for the show began a few months ago, and since then, Charlotte claims she has had numerous brushes with death. During the first week, one of the houselights dropped from the rafters and came inches from putting a permanent dent in her skull. Though everyone was spooked at the time, nervous half-jokes were made about the curse of this particular play and it was brushed aside as an accident. Then, sometime later, Charlotte was standing on the second floor balcony of the set when the entire construction fell apart beneath her, sending her to the ground (luckily, only bruises and stitches in her right arm resulted). Still later, she returned to her dressing room one evening to find all the mirrors inside smashed.

Charlotte’s director became worried, and called the police to have them investigate. They showed up, interviewed the cast, inspected the theater, and spent a week checking in periodically to make sure nothing further happened. Nothing did, and in the end they found no further leads. All coincidence, they said: a random act of vandalism coinciding with poorly built sets coinciding with improper lighting grid usage. The curse rumors came back in full force.

Since then, the show has opened to rave reviews, and Charlotte has certainly not been cursed in her acting ability. However, she cited half a dozen further incidents that leads her to believe the attack is still ongoing. While various accidents are bound to happen in any production, very rarely is it all totally focused at one person.

Charlotte is scared. She thinks that someone is trying to kill her. She has gone back to the police, but claims they are treating her like she’s paranoid. The recent incidents haven’t been as potentially harmful as the first, and the cops are still big on their coincidence theory. Which is why she came to me.

If you haven’t realized before, I’m very specific on knowing exactly what it is my clients want above all else. In this case, does Charlotte want the dangerous acts to stop? Or does she want to know who the culprit is? Charlotte said both, though I warned her that the two were sometimes mutually exclusive. Ultimately, she said she was more interested in knowing the incidents had stopped permanently, so she could give full attention to the show. It’s hard to act in front of a crowded theater when one eye keeps glancing up at the sandbag hanging precariously from the ceiling. However, she stressed that she was just as anxious to know who was behind it all. I joked that if it truly was a curse, there was little I could do to stop it, though she didn't crack a smile.

Charlotte’s director, Marco, is paying my salary. He’s very concerned about the well-being of his actors, if for no better reason than a lot of money rides on their being able to perform each night. She gave me tickets to come see the show tomorrow, and I’m supposed to go backstage either before or after. I’m looking forward to it. I haven’t been to the theater in ages.

I almost told her to “break a leg” when she went out the door, but decided against it.

Murder is a good word

I would've updated earlier, but the cases I've been dealing with don't make for great reading, even with a bit of embellishment - deadbeat dads, bill collecting, etc. Basically, the stuff that pays the rent without requiring a lot of time or mental energy.

When I was leaving today, though, I got a call from a woman wanting an appointment with me tomorrow. I asked her what the nature of her inquiry was, and she said a murder.

People always say such single words with a hint of drama, as if it will have some impact on me. Sorry kids, this dick's seen it all three times over. I casually scheduled a time in the middle of the afternoon, though warned her that I had a meeting right after with a woman wondering where her ex-hubby's child payments were - or where her ex-hubby was, for that matter. The woman on the phone seemed a bit put off that I didn't respond more, shall we say, cinematically to her word. Granted, it was a good word, and it did pique my attention a bit, but I've heard the word enough before to know not to react until a lot more words have been discussed.

One of which being "fee."

Jeremy The Dog - Part 2

I started my investigation by tailing Jim for a few days. A director, he seemed to spend all his time at a dingy off-Broadway theater converted from an old warehouse near the Hudson, where his directorial screams could be heard through the brick walls.

I got in his apartment one morning after he had gone to rehearsal by picking the lock (given the size of the place, it’s amazing he even bothered to lock the door). I’m quite aware of the illegality of such an action, but it’s really second nature to me at this point in my career. On the rare occasions I’ve been caught in the act, I’ve escaped with a bit of creative lying without any problem. And if I ever do get carted down to a precinct house, I know a few people in high places who owe me favors.

I looked around but couldn’t find anything that stood out as having to do with Jeremy the dog. My suspicion was that if he had the collar, Jim had already removed the jewels to hawk individually. Meaning that hiding a ruby or sapphire would be very, very easy, even in a small apartment like his.

A dumb and usually useless trick I like to use when investigating someone’s apartment without their express permission is to see who they’ve been calling. One of the reasons this story stands out in my head is because it’s one of the few times this tactic has been successful. Jim had a single phone in the kitchen, and I pressed redial and listened. I know my tones, and it was definitely a 917 number – a cell phone here in the Empire State. After a few rings, a man picked up and said in an angry tone: “I told you never to call me at work Jim! Jesus! This better be important!” I didn’t answer, and after a moment, the phone clicked, then went to a dial tone.

But everything was already sorted itself out in my mind. I had met the man on the other end of the phone before. He had a distinct voice that was easily recognizable, though to be sure, I’d have to do a little more shadowing.

I arrived back at Margaret’s 5th Ave. residence at about 9:00pm that night, but didn’t enter. Instead, I sat in the car with my eye on the doorman. It had been his voice, no question about it. And it all made perfect sense – Jim couldn’t get near the apartment, let alone inside it, without risking arrest and prosecution. Gossip travels fast, and someone would’ve seen him. But who would suspect the doorman? The guy who always smiles, nods his hat, holds the door for you and helps carry your parcels. Commit a felony? Not him! Somehow, Jim must have gotten him to help in the crime. Get in her place, put the dog under his coat, get out, maybe even change the surveillance tape with one from the day before.

As I began to rethink my brief conversation with the doorman, I realized that his words sounded very similar to those of a man who has just been thrown out of a million-dollar marriage – in other words, exactly what I’d expect to hear if I ever had a conversation with Jim. Perhaps over the past six months, Jim had been slowly updating him on the rising hell that was his marriage, until the doorman felt sympathetic to him. In my experience, sympathy comes cheap. And when thousands of dollars are involved, sympathy is at bargain basement prices.

The doorman, a heavy-set man with thin-rimmed glasses, beady eyes, and a chubby mug, left just before midnight. I started up the car and followed at a distance, and he didn’t seem to notice. He walked around the corner and stopped next to the crosstown bus stop. Big surprise – he couldn’t even afford a cab home. The bus came about half an hour later, and I followed him all the way over to 1st Ave., where he lived in a worn brick building on the corner.

The proof arrived as soon as I rolled down my window: YIP YIP YIP YIP coming from the upstairs window. As the doorman arrived at his front door, a woman came out and began yelling at him about the dog, telling him to shut it up or she’d kick him out. He desperately tried to get past her and away from the conversation, but she wasn’t budging.

The natural option at this point might seem to be to go to the cops and let them know where the dog and collar is – but then, that isn’t what I get paid to do. I’m not a cop, nor am I getting paid by the cops. I’ve been hired by Margaret, and my duties are to her. Furthermore, the job I’ve been paid to do is to find and return Jeremy to her. No clause stipulates that any kind of punishment be enacted on the thief or thieves.

Finally, the woman let the doorman enter his apartment. I saw a light go on on the third floor, then off again. A few minutes later, the door opened, and the doorman came out walking Jeremy on a leash. The studded collar had been replaced with a much cheaper band.

The doorman was very, very nervous - that much was obvious. He kept looking over his shoulder, desperately trying to see if anyone was following him. Every time Jeremy emitted a YIP as they walked, the doorman recoiled as if he had been punched in the face. After walking to the end of the block and back, the doorman sat down on the porch, put his head in his hands, and began to cry. While some dogs might offer companionship in such a moment of desperation, Jeremy only barked angrily at a rat that was running down the street gutter.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve encountered a criminal who regrets his wrongdoings shortly after the fact. Any sympathy I might have for such a person has pretty much disappeared, but that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to bend the rules when I see fit. Again, my primary job is to return Jeremy and the collar. Anything else, such as turning in the responsible party or parties, is secondary to this.

I stepped out of my car and walked right up to the doorman. After a moment, he looked up at me, and his face took on an expression of utter fear, as if the worst thing he could possibly imagine was happening. His mouth opened and closed several times, but no words came out. I couldn’t help but think of a fish out of water.

“Thank you for finding my friend's dog, sir. He’s been missing for a few days, and I’ve been terribly worried,” I said in a monotone voice, pointing at the white dog barking at my shoes. “But it looks as if someone has changed his collar.”

“I’m so, so sorry,” he pleaded. “I realized I made a mistake as soon as I got home with this stupid mutt. But Margaret already knew he was missing at that point, and it was too late to go back. Plus Jim was relentless in going forward with the plan…”

“That’s all well and good, sir,” I continued, “but I’m curious as to where his collar has disappeared to. It was worth a bit more than the one he is wearing now.”

“Jim has it,” he said, still whimpering. “It’s in his apartment…he’s got a floorboard in the kitchen that pulls up...”

Cute.

“Listen,” I said to him. “I’m sure my friend is asleep at the moment, so we’re not going to wake her up. However, if you were to go there tomorrow with the dog, I’ll meet you with the collar. After we put the two together, you can bring Jeremy to her and relate the incredible story of how you found him wandering around outside the building. I’m sure she’d be very gracious. Of course,” I added, “if you’re not willing to go to her, I could always send her to you…”

I accompanied this last sentence with my “your ass is mine” stare, and the deal was done. I gave him a time to meet, then drove off.

Early the next morning, I arrived at Jim’s apartment shortly after he left for work. I picked my way in through the door, then went to the kitchen and knocked around for something hollow. The word “floorboard” implies something much larger than what it really was: a small 8inch square of wood in a small nook between the fridge and the sink. I yanked it up and found the collar, with all jewels and tags in place. It was breathtaking in pictures, let alone in person. At the same time, I couldn’t help but think of what a waste of money it was.

I left a note under the floorboard for Jim to find:

Dear Jim,

You took my collar! Not to worry, I’ve got back, and I’ve also decided I’m not too keen on living in the doorman’s small apartment on the East Side. I’ve grown a bit attached to the luxury of my 5th Avenue residence, and being away from it has been very unpleasant for me (I’m sure you know how that feels).

I will give you this warning once and only once: stay the fuck away from my owner. Because if Margaret can’t find something so little as a hairpin in the next few months, I’ll have to assume you’re up to your old tricks. In which case, I’ll be at your door ready to bite your ass at a moment’s notice. And I have sharp teeth.

Woof,
Jeremy

Jeremy was returned, collar and all, to Margaret later that day. The doorman took full credit for the find, and was given a large reward for his efforts (which, of course, he passed on to me). I spoke with Margaret later that day, and I think she got the sense that there was a lot more she didn’t know. Still, the pooch she loved was safely at home with his collar untouched, and she didn’t press for info. Hell, maybe I’ve got Margaret’s vapidity all wrong. Maybe she assumed correctly what went down, and simply didn’t care. Nevertheless, with Jeremy found, my work was finished. I was paid for my few days on the case. To date, Jim hasn’t been seen anywhere near the vicinity of Margaret’s apartment, nor has anything of hers gone missing.

Does this all mean that I’m sympathetic? That when I see a crook crying, I get all soft inside, believe he’s turned a new leaf, and let him go? Not at all. Had I taken Jeremy from the doorman that evening, that little piece of shit would’ve been yipping all night. And frankly, despite my high salary, I still wasn’t getting paid enough to put up with that kind of torture. Also, as far as I’m concerned, I would never have been able to complete the main part of my job description (return dog and collar) without the doorman’s help. So a little leniency was in order.

Oh yeah, and I hate schmucks and the way they sucker other people. And Jim is, without a doubt, a world class schmuck.

------

Back to work tomorrow (Tuesday) a bit earlier than planned. Getting bored sitting around, and the days have been pretty ugly. My voice mail has a few messages on it, so maybe something promising will come up. I’ll be sure to let you know.

Jeremy The Dog - Part 1

Like I mentioned earlier, Jack’s hefty payment has allowed me to take a few days off. So without any fresh cases to update with, I’ll instead relate one from the past.

One of my more unusual cases occurred a few years ago, when I was hired to find a missing dog. Typically, this type of work is left to photocopied fliers with cute pictures taped on streetpoles, but this dog was different. By himself, Jeremy, a West Highland Terrier, was not a particularly special dog. However, the collar around Jeremy’s neck suddenly upped his worth to over $500,000.

Jeremy belongs to a very wealthy woman we’ll call Margaret who lives on 5th Ave. just south of where Jackie O. had her famous residence. I received a phone call from Margaret, who was quite distraught. Though I was reluctant at first to become a dogcatcher, she offered to pay me twice my normal day rates so long as I started immediately. I agreed, and she instructed me to take a cab to her apartment (on her dollar, of course).

I showed up about a half hour later to a very large building on 5th. Information always pays, so I stopped to ask the well-dressed doorman who Margaret was. He informed me that she had inherited a large fortune from her father, who had been a big man in the oil business. She had recently gotten divorced from her husband of six months, something that wasn’t unexpected if you knew Margaret. According to the doorman, she was the type to quickly shift from one interest to another, and whether tennis to swimming or marriage to single life, it was all the same to her. Lucky for Margaret, she and hubby Jim had signed a pre-nup, meaning Jim got dumped on the street with nothing but a hole in his wallet from the ring he’d bought her. Jim wasn’t very happy with it all, and came around so frequently to see his former flame that Margaret had to get a restraining order. Sightings of Jim had since stopped.

I gave the doorman a $20 for his time, then went up the elevator to the 9th floor. Margaret let me into her apartment, which was extraordinarily large and decked out in a creamy white color, with a wide view of Central Park. I have no idea what the place cost her, but I have a feeling that all the rent I’ve ever paid in my life wouldn’t be enough to cover a single month at this palace.

Margaret gave me at least 20 pictures of the dog, an ugly white furball whose yipping probably made the Son of Sam dog sound like a church mouse. She also gave me detailed pictures of the collar, an antique leather strap studded in numerous rare jewels. Even Jeremy’s heart-shaped nametag was made out of pure gold.

Margaret had called the police a few days ago, but wasn’t convinced they were that serious about recovering either her precious dog or the dog’s precious collar. Margaret seemed to be one of those types I often meet in upper class neighborhoods who overtly imply they should be getting more attention from the cops than people of lesser status.

Jeremy disappeared one day while Margaret was out shopping. She fed Jeremy, went out, and returned an hour later to find the apartment completely empty. Video surveillance showed nothing unusual during the time Margaret was gone.

The prime suspect was, of course, Jim. She confirmed the doorman’s story, and told me that Jim had moved into a small apartment in the West 20’s – a huge downgrade from his former residence with loving wife. The cops had gone by his place to investigate but found no evidence of a dog. No white hairs, no bag of kibble, no water or food dishes, and above all, no yipping. Short of murder or heavy drugs, Jeremy is a tough dog to shut up.

The obvious question was: why would anyone take the dog? Why not just take the collar? As far as Margaret could tell, to hurt her. She dramatically explained that she loved Jeremy more than life itself, and that the collar was only pennies to her. Jeremy, on the other hand, was irreplaceable.

She had asked the cops to keep the robbery quiet, and they had complied. She hadn’t told anyone else, and didn’t want it to make the papers. The cops had suggested that perhaps she had left the door open and the dog had escaped, and maybe it would be a good idea to let people be on the lookout. She adamantly rejected this, however. Jeremy hadn’t escaped, he was stolen, she insisted firmly.

And she wanted him back.