Night Film(11)

I heard keys jangling, the front door banging open. A mop clattered to the floor. Madame Tolstoy had to be alerting Beckman he had a guest.

I pulled out my BlackBerry, took a quick photo of the URL, and clicked the browser closed, stepping back to the mantel just as I heard footsteps racing down the wood floors.

“Cocksucker,” a voice bellowed behind me.

Beckman appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a tightly belted trench coat, which gave him the appearance of a potato tucked into parcel paper.

“Get out.”

“Hold on—”

“The last time we spoke I made it quite clear you were dead to me. Olga! Call the police and tell them we have a dangerous intruder.”

“I’d like to patch things up.”

“One cannot patch a friendship that’s been blown to smithereens.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

He glared at me. “Betrayal isn’t ridiculous. It’s the reason empires fall.” He unbelted his trench coat, threw it over the chair—a dramatic gesture reminiscent of a Spanish matador tossing away his red cape—and strode toward me. Thankfully, he didn’t notice his computer, the corner bright from the lit-up screen.

As livid as he was, it was impossible for Beckman to be physically intimidating. He was wearing gray dress slacks too short in the leg and round gold eyeglasses, behind which his small, kind eyes blinked like a chipmunk’s. He also had a gung-ho hairline. It couldn’t wait to get started, beginning an overeager two inches above his eyebrows. His right cheek was badly swollen as if stuffed with cotton balls.

“I want to talk to you about Ashley,” I said.

The name jolted him as if he’d been shocked by a live wire. He muttered something under his breath and moved over to an armchair, sitting with a faint whoopee-cushion wheeze. He removed his shoes, propping his feet—sporting bright yellow argyle socks—on the leather ottoman in front of him.

“Ash Cordova,” he repeated, rubbing the slackened, novocained side of his face. He turned, barking over his shoulder, “Olga!”

She appeared in the doorway on the phone, seemingly with the police.

“For God’s sake, Olga, what’re you—put the phone down. My God. This is my dear friend McGrath. Could you bring him something besides tea? Tea doesn’t make a dent in the man.” He looked at me. “Still drinking heavily in daylight?”

“Of course.”

“Glad you’ve retained your personality’s best quality. Bring the premium vodka, would you?”

Olga disappeared, and I sat down on the couch. Beckman still hadn’t noticed the glowing computer screen, diverted by the three cats that had just materialized from wherever they’d been hiding. There were eight in the apartment, some very exotic Eastern breed with blue eyes, black faces, fur like shag carpeting, and irritating Greta Garbo personalities, deigning to make public appearances only when Beckman was present.

He bent down to stroke one as it rubbed the ottoman.

“Which one is that?” I asked, feigning interest because there was a direct ratio between your interest in Beckman’s cats and his good mood.

“McGrath, you’ve met him on countless occasions. This is One-Eyed Pontiac. Not to be confused with Peeping Tom or Boris the Burglar’s Son.” He arched an eyebrow. “I just got another kitten, you know. Found another trademark. It’s quite embarrassing I missed it.”

“Nine cats? They can send you to prison for that.”

He pushed his glasses back on his nose. “I’m calling him Murad, after the cigarettes.”

“Never heard of them.”

“They’re an obsolete Turkish brand, popular in the 1910s and ’20s. Murad means ‘desire’ in Arabic. The only brand that ever appears in a Cordova film is Murad. There’s not one Marlboro, Camel, or Virginia Slim. It goes further. If the Murad cigarette is focused upon by the camera in any Cordova film, the very next person who appears on-screen has been devastatingly targeted. In other words, the gods will have drawn a great big X across his shoulder blades and taped an invisible sign there that reads FUCKED. His life will henceforth never be the same.”

Murad. Every one of Beckman’s cats was named after some very specific detail in Cordova’s films, a trademark or silent signature. They ranged from split-second walk-on roles (similar to Hitchcock’s cameos) to tiny props within the mise-en-scène that symbolized looming devastation (much as the appearance of an orange in The Godfather films foreshadowed death). Most weren’t obvious but extremely obscure, like One-Eyed Pontiac and Boris the Burglar’s Son.

I slid forward to sip my tea, stealing another glance at the computer, still shining. Beckman rolled up his sleeves and, frowning, seemed on the verge of following my gaze.

“What have you heard about Ashley?” I asked.

His face darkened. “Tragic.” He took a deep breath, settling back into the armchair. “You remember Véra and I saw her perform years ago. Weill Recital Hall. A stunning experience. The concert was to begin at eight. Everyone was waiting. It was eight, eight-ten, eight-twenty. A bearded man stepped onto the stage and nervously announced, ‘The concert will begin shortly. Please be patient.’ The minutes trickled by. Eight-thirty, forty. Was she going to arrive? People were getting angry. ‘With what we paid for tickets?’ Naturally, I’m looking around to see if her father showed up. A lone figure in the back, army fatigues, gray hair, the all-seeing expression, and his usual round black glasses turning his eyes to dead black coins.”