The Apostrophe Thief (7 page)

A small, elderly safe was sitting in one corner of the room, doing double duty as a table. Marian pointed to it. “What about that?”

“Empty,” Reddick said. “Besides, I can't even get into the damned thing. Our producer is the only one who ever thought to write down the combination. That old safe has been here so long I doubt if even the theater owners remember how to open it.”

When Marian asked who actually dealt with stolen theater memorabilia, Reddick couldn't help her. He pointed out that the legally owned material was sold through legitimate auction houses. Sotheby's, for instance, wouldn't touch one of the stolen copies of
The Apostrophe Thief
.

“And none of the old copies of
Three Rings
has surfaced?” she asked.

“Not that I know of. But it's been only a couple of years. Someone's probably sitting on them, to increase the value a little more.”

Just then Perlmutter stuck his head in through the door. “Sergeant?”

Marian thanked John Reddick for his help and stepped out of his office. “Something?”

“They came in with the cleaning crew,” Perlmutter said. “Three of them. The crew thought they were stagehands—one was carrying a tool box and the other two were pushing a laundry cart, one of those big ones like they use in hotels. That's how they got the stuff out.”

“And the stage doorkeeper didn't notice anything funny?”

“He wasn't on duty yet. They all came in the front way—the guy getting ready to open the box office thought they were stagehands too.”

“What time was this?”

“Around nine, in the ay em.”

“Description?”

“One middle-aged man and two younger ones. The older man was short, stocky, and wheezed when he talked. One of the younger men was tall, dark hair worn in a ponytail, didn't talk much.”

“And the other?”

Perlmutter grinned. “A hunk,' unquote.”

“Okay, it's a start,” Marian said. “We'll have to get the cleaning crew to look at mug shots—you can start picking out possibles. Mind if I use your phone while you're in court this afternoon?”

“Help yourself.”

They stopped for greaseburgers and coffee before going back to the station. Then Marian spent the afternoon calling auction houses as well as all the listings under “Collectibles” in the yellow pages. No one had ever seen a
Three Rings
script offered for sale, and no one could (or would) give her a name of someone even remotely associated with the black market in souvenirs; most of those she spoke to got huffy when she asked. A touchy subject, evidently. Shortly after four she called it a day.

When she got home, Marian tapped out the number Holland had given her. It turned out to be a voice-mail service; she left a message saying there was a play she wanted him to see Saturday night.

5

The next day Marian went to an auction.

An auction house in Sheridan Square was advertising a collection of “cinema and stage treasures”; the
pièce de résistance
was to be one of Madonna's girdles. Marian took the subway and arrived just as the doors were opening.

Inside, she paid a fee and received a printed program listing the items to be auctioned. Marian had decided not to flash her badge; she'd probably get a better reception if she posed as a collector. But she didn't see any playscripts listed and wondered if she was wasting her time.

Rows of padded folding chairs were set up facing the auctioneer's desk, currently unattended. Marian sat down near two not particularly well-dressed women. The woman closest to her had a beaked nose and bulging eyes, giving her an avaricious look. “What's your field?” the woman asked unexpectedly.

“Uh, playscripts. I'm looking for a copy of
Three Rings
.”

“Huh. You won't find it here.”

The other woman, a plump blonde, leaned around the beak-nosed one and said, “What do you want that one for?
Three Rings
flopped, didn't it?”

“Actually, it's the director's copy I'm looking for,” Marian improvised. “I collect John Reddick.”

That made sense to the two women; specialists were commonplace. “Scripts run high,” the woman with the nose said. “Personally, I don't bother with paper.”

“Paper?”

“Scripts, posters, play programs, autographs … you know,
paper
. I think personal items are so much nicer. The last thing I got was Tyne Daly's travel alarm clock. From when she was touring
Gypsy
? I just loved her in
Cagney and Lacey
.”

“I collect stage props,” the blonde said happily. “Last month I got the original spear Raul Julia carried in
Man of La Mancha
.”

“It's a repro,” the first woman muttered.

“It is
not
. I wish you'd stop saying that.”

Feeling the conversation slipping away from her, Marian interposed, “You know what I'd like to get my hands on? John Reddick's copy of
The Apostrophe Thief
.”

“Oh yeah? Well, that won't be around yet. The play just opened last week, didn't it?”

“You haven't heard?” Marian leaned forward in her best conspiratorial manner. “Someone got into the Broadhurst and took all the scripts!”

“No!” Both women looked shocked/delighted. “Did they get anything else?” the blonde wanted to know.

“Costumes, some props,
and
personal items as well. Kelly Ingram's hairbrush, Ian Cavanaugh's shaving mug—”

“How do you know all this?” the first woman asked suspiciously.

“I know a cop who works out of Midtown South,” Marian said blandly. “What bugs me is that a friend of mine ran into a fellow who said he had a line on the scripts—but she didn't get his name! I could kill her.”

“She say what he looks like?”

Marian put on a trying-to-remember face. “Short, middle-aged, wheezes when he talks.”

“That sounds like Harley Wingfield,” the blonde said, “but he collects Elvis.”

“A shaving mug belonging to Ian Cavanaugh,” the hook-nosed woman said dreamily. “God, I'd leave my husband for that man! No electric razor—a real, live shaving mug. And he used it before every performance, I bet.”

The blonde had been thinking. “Lenora, what about that guy who's allergic to stage dust? Has some sort of attack every time he goes backstage.
He's
short and middle-aged.”

Lenora came back from dreaming about the shaving mug and said, “Oh, yeah, I know who you mean. What's his name?” Neither one of them could think of it.

“Is he a collector?” Marian asked. “Or a dealer?”

“Both,” the blonde said. “Deals out of his apartment, I think. Most of them do.”

“And you can't remember his name?”

Lenora jabbed Marian's arm with a long bony finger. “There's somebody who can tell you. See the guy in the yellow shirt? He knows him.”

“That's right, Augie knows him,” the blonde echoed.

“Augie, huh?” The fellow they'd indicated was in his late twenties, stoop-shouldered, wearing glasses. Marian stood up. “I'll give him a try. Thanks a lot.”

“Good luck,” they called after her.

The folding chairs were filling up fast. Marian walked down a few rows and found a seat behind Augie; she tapped him on his yellow shoulder. “Augie? My name's Marian. Lenora says you can help me find someone I'm looking for.”

Augie turned a bespectacled face toward her and smiled, lots of teeth. “Hel-
lo
, Marian. Delighted to help, if I can. Whom seek ye?” His speech was pure Bronx, nasal and loud.

“I don't know his name.” Once again she described the man seen by the cleaning crew at the Broadhurst.

“Harley Wingfield,” Augie said promptly. “You're into Elvis?”

“Not Harley Wingfield, and I'm looking for playscripts. This man I'm trying to find, he's supposed to be allergic to stage dust and—”

“Oh, you must mean Ernie Nordstrom. Stage dust does make him wheeze when he talks. Ernie deals everything he can lay his hands on, not just playscripts.”

“Nordstrom, huh? Is he here?”

“I haven't seen him … oh good! They're ready to start.”

“Where can I reach him?”

But Augie just said
Shh
and gave his full attention to the auctioneer. Marian waited impatiently until the first item was sold, a pair of somewhat tattered tragedy masks from an Off-Off Broadway production of the
Oresteia
. Then she leaned over Augie's shoulder and repeated her question.

He turned around and looked at her. “Marian, you seem like a nice lady, so I'm going to tell you straight. You don't want to deal with Ernie Nordstrom. He's not too particular about authenticating his stuff, you know what I mean? I don't think he actually manufactures fakes, but you can't take his word about what he's got.” Augie sighed. “Sometimes he latches on to a genuine piece, but I've heard too many people grumbling about Ernie to put much trust in him.”

“He's the only lead I've got,” Marian persisted. “Where can I find him? Do you know?”

“I don't know where he lives, but you could always try the Zingones.”

Marian blinked. “What are Zingones?”

Augie gave her his big-toothed smile. “You're new at this, aren't you?”

“Brand new. I need all the help I can get.”

“Buy me lunch and I'll take you there.”

“You're on.”

But they couldn't leave yet. Augie had come to bid on a costume from
A Chorus Line
and wouldn't budge until it came up to the auctioneer's desk. Unfortunately, he had to drop out of the bidding; the costume went to a mustachioed man who'd seemed willing to pay any amount to walk away with the glittery outfit.

“I'm sorry you didn't get your costume,” Marian said as they left.

“Oh, I didn't want it. The seller is a friend, and I was just bidding the price up. Collectors help each other out when we can.”

They went to a place called Alpha House, one of those thousands of Manhattan restaurants that will never play host to the dining critic of the New York
Times
. Augie's last name was Silver, and he worked as a tailor for a theatrical costuming company. “Mostly we do rentals,” he said around a mouthful of salad that seemed to be mostly iceberg lettuce. “Amateur productions, low-budget Off-Broadway, like that. Costume parties. We get a lot of out-of-town business—high schools and universities.”

“Then you weren't one of the companies
The Apostrophe Thief
called on for help Tuesday night?” When he didn't know what she was talking about, Marian explained about the thefts from the Broadhurst. “Not just costumes, but scripts and personal belongings as well. Somebody made a real haul.”

Augie had the same shocked/delighted look on his face that Lenora and her friend had had. “They took all the costumes?”

“All of them.”

“And that's the script you're after?
The Apostrophe Thief?
”

Marian smiled ruefully. “I don't think I have much chance of finding that one—although I'd give ten years of my life for the director's copy. No, what I'm looking for is
Three Rings
. Remember it?”

“Sure, but it didn't run very long. Why do you want that one?”

Marian thought it was time to elaborate on her story. “I'm writing a book about John Reddick—the director? So, I want to get my hands on every script of his I can.” When Augie looked suitably impressed, she added, “He's being very cooperative, but a few of his scripts are missing.
Three Rings
is one of them.”

“And now
The Apostrophe Thief
is another.” Augie nodded. “I see. So you're in the market for
The Apostrophe Thief
as well, then?”

Marian raised her eyebrows. “Damn right. But the thief won't just advertise what he's … Augie, do you know something?”

He shook his head vigorously. “I just like to keep track of what people are looking for. For the finder's fee?”

She pretended to think it over. “I'd be willing to pay a finder's fee. What's usual?”

“Ten percent.”

“That seems high.”

Augie shrugged. “A dealer would charge you twenty.”

Marian groaned. “Okay, ten percent. Do you think you can get a line on Reddick's copy?”

“I have no idea. But I can put the word out, and we'll start with the Zingones.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Do you want me to leave the tip?”

Marian took care of it, and they left the restaurant to head up Seventh. “This Ernie Nordstrom,” she said as they walked, “does he have a partner? Younger, tall, wears his dark hair in a ponytail, doesn't talk much?”

“No-o-o-o,” Augie said. “Can't say I ever heard of one. Ernie tends to work alone.”

“What about another younger fellow, hunk-type?”

“No. Where are you getting these descriptions?”

“Friend of mine. The one time she talked to this Ernie Nordstrom, if it's the same man, these other two guys were with him.”

“Here we are,” Augie said. “Upstairs. It's a sort of unofficial clearing house for show biz collectibles. They know everything that goes on.” He pushed a bell; after a moment something unintelligible squawked over the intercom. “Augie Silver,” he said back. The steel door buzzed open. “What's your last name?” he asked as they climbed the stairs.

“Larch.”

The Zingones turned out to be four siblings—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and Janet. Their place of business was jammed full up to the ceiling with props, stacks of souvenir programs, posters, rack after rack of costumes, shelves filled with books, trinkets, photographs, gewgaws, memorabilia of all sorts. There was a beer tray decorated with one of the Marilyn Monroe calendar nude photos. And a Charlie McCarthy bank; the dummy's mouth opened to receive the coin. Another oral knickknack: a Geraldo ashtray, with a widely gaping mouth as the place to put the butts. There was even an Antoinette Perry Award statuette locked away in a showcase.