Trophy Widow by Michael A Kahn

Author:Michael A Kahn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Published: 2015-05-23T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

From Pinnacle Productions I drove to the Jewish Federation, where I had a lunch meeting for a committee of Jewish professional women that I served on. The topic was a fund-raiser for one of our scholarship projects. Talk about cultural dissonance—from a money shot on the East Side to a money drive in West County.

I didn’t get to my office until almost three o’clock, by which time I had nineteen phone messages, including two urgent ones from Benny.

“He wants a full report on Pinnacle Productions,” Jacki said.

“I’ll bet he does.”

“Did you find out much?”

“Too much. I’m not sure what to make of it all. Especially this.” I took the videocassette out of my briefcase.

“All That Jizz?” Jacki said, examining the cover. “Are you kidding me?”

“You think that’s bad? How ‘bout Jurassic Pussy?”

Jacki giggled and covered her mouth. “Oh, no.”

“Their target audience must have the sense of humor of a seventh-grade boy.”

“Is the guy who killed himself on this video?”

“Yep, and so is Samantha Cummings.”

Jacki’s jaw dropped. “Oh, my God.”

“I can’t believe it, either. In fact, I won’t until I see it.” I flipped through the stack of phone messages. “I’m going to return some of these and then we can watch the video. If Benny calls while I’m on the phone, tell him I’m not back yet.”

“Really? You know he’d die to see this.”

“Sure I do, but you know Benny. He’d turn the whole thing into a comic monologue. I’m not ready for that.” I gestured toward the videocassette in her hand. “The stuff I learned today is really troubling. I want to see what’s on this tape and figure out my next move without having to deal with his wisecracks.”

I returned only those phone calls that sounded like they needed returning—just eight of the nineteen. Even so, by the time I finished with number eight, almost two hours had elapsed and the list of messages had grown by six, including another from Benny saying that he’d be over right after his antitrust seminar. That gave us barely an hour.

I called out, “It’s show time, Jacki.”

I turned on the TV, put the cassette in the VCR, and fast-forwarded through the previews for a trio of movies that I hadn’t recalled seeing on anyone’s list of the top ten movies of the year.

“Fasten your seat belts,” I told her as the title words appeared on the screen to the accompaniment of generic lounge music.

The “plot”—such as it was—unfolded quickly. The protagonist was supposed to be a legendary director of Broadway musicals named Rob Rosse. His part was played by a middle-aged, potbellied actor who wasted no time in exposing his principal qualification for his role in the film. It was, to say the least, a daunting piece of equipment—an appendage that would have looked more in scale dangling between the hind legs of a Clydesdale. I suppose it made him the envy of the locker room crowd, but I couldn’t imagine any woman reacting to its unveiling with anything but alarm.

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