Read Online Some Like It Hot-Buttered by JEFFREY COHEN - Free Book Online
Authors: JEFFREY COHEN
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I’m talking to women. I consider it a plus, so long as the sigh doesn’t become a groan. “What does Sharon say?” she asked.
“We, um . . . that is, Sharon and I . . .”
Her voice got very quiet and low. “I’m so sorry, Elliot,” Meg said.
We caught up for a while longer, she admonished me a time or two more, and I hung up, promising to call sometime when I didn’t have police questions. We both knew I was lying, but it was a sincere lie, if such a thing were possible.
I knew Meg was right: I shouldn’t investigate Ansella’s murder. But maybe investigating film piracy was exactly the job for a theatre owner. Sure: I had a background in movies. I’d have knowledge and abilities that those trained in crime detection wouldn’t have. I’d be invaluable to . . .
Nah. That argument didn’t even sound convincing to me.
This left me with few options for the rest of my day, so I read the newspaper.
I won’t comment on the national headlines, as some people think that I’m a . . . what’s the term? Oh yes, a throwback/liberal/bleeding-heart/tax-and-spend/pansy/ unpatriotic/left-wing fanatic. Which is ridiculous. I’ve never taxed anyone in my life, unless you count my ex-wife’s patience.
Locally, Midland Heights mayor Sam Olszowy was resigning his office to “spend more time with his family,” which meant that the Middlesex County prosecutor was about to indict him for tax fraud. A special election was being quickly organized, but candidates hadn’t been selected yet. In Midland Heights, whoever wins the Democratic primary will win the election, but in this case, there wasn’t going to be a primary. Therefore, whichever candidate the Democratic Party decided to nominate would take the prize—which was by my count a part-time job whose only benefit was a parking space with your name on it in the municipal parking lot, where no one ever parks unless they’re interested in being mayor. It’s cyclical.
The entertainment section boasted a number of ads for new movies, and my tiny one for “Comedy Tonight: The Only All-Comedy Movie Theatre in New Jersey!” (I could have also listed it as the only all-comedy movie theatre in the Western Hemisphere, or on Earth. I’m only limiting myself because I have no idea if there are any all-comedy movie theatres on Jupiter.) Of course, I couldn’t pull the ads in time to make a difference, and the two dozen people who were planning on attending tonight would become disappointed ex-almost-customers. Even my only “regular, ” a guy named Leo who showed up every night no matter what was playing, would probably desert me out of a sense of abandonment. My business plan was not exactly being executed with colossal skill. As if I had a business plan.
In the sports section, a good number of teams had beaten other teams in games. I didn’t especially care which, but it’s always fun to watch some baseball when you can. It’s the only sport that can’t exist without elegance.
That left the obituary page, and I found myself reading it, something I very rarely do. I told myself it was out of boredom, but the item at the bottom left-hand side of the page was the real reason I was scanning the newspaper at all.
Vincent Ansella, forty-three, insurance executive, had left a wife, Amy of Piscataway; a mother, Mrs. Olivia Ansella of Little Ferry; and a sister, Lisa Ansella Rabinowitz of Red Bank. No children, which I confess made me feel a little better. Apparently, his whole life had been about insurance, since the four-paragraph obit mentioned little else. Once captain of his high school track team, he had still run six miles a day. Until recently. Very recently. Two nights ago.
Because the medical examiner’s report wasn’t complete, the body hadn’t been released to Ansella’s family yet (the obit didn’t mention this, only saying he had “died very suddenly”). But there was a memorial service planned for the next day at Carmeliso’s Funeral Home in
“We, um . . . that is, Sharon and I . . .”
Her voice got very quiet and low. “I’m so sorry, Elliot,” Meg said.
We caught up for a while longer, she admonished me a time or two more, and I hung up, promising to call sometime when I didn’t have police questions. We both knew I was lying, but it was a sincere lie, if such a thing were possible.
I knew Meg was right: I shouldn’t investigate Ansella’s murder. But maybe investigating film piracy was exactly the job for a theatre owner. Sure: I had a background in movies. I’d have knowledge and abilities that those trained in crime detection wouldn’t have. I’d be invaluable to . . .
Nah. That argument didn’t even sound convincing to me.
This left me with few options for the rest of my day, so I read the newspaper.
I won’t comment on the national headlines, as some people think that I’m a . . . what’s the term? Oh yes, a throwback/liberal/bleeding-heart/tax-and-spend/pansy/ unpatriotic/left-wing fanatic. Which is ridiculous. I’ve never taxed anyone in my life, unless you count my ex-wife’s patience.
Locally, Midland Heights mayor Sam Olszowy was resigning his office to “spend more time with his family,” which meant that the Middlesex County prosecutor was about to indict him for tax fraud. A special election was being quickly organized, but candidates hadn’t been selected yet. In Midland Heights, whoever wins the Democratic primary will win the election, but in this case, there wasn’t going to be a primary. Therefore, whichever candidate the Democratic Party decided to nominate would take the prize—which was by my count a part-time job whose only benefit was a parking space with your name on it in the municipal parking lot, where no one ever parks unless they’re interested in being mayor. It’s cyclical.
The entertainment section boasted a number of ads for new movies, and my tiny one for “Comedy Tonight: The Only All-Comedy Movie Theatre in New Jersey!” (I could have also listed it as the only all-comedy movie theatre in the Western Hemisphere, or on Earth. I’m only limiting myself because I have no idea if there are any all-comedy movie theatres on Jupiter.) Of course, I couldn’t pull the ads in time to make a difference, and the two dozen people who were planning on attending tonight would become disappointed ex-almost-customers. Even my only “regular, ” a guy named Leo who showed up every night no matter what was playing, would probably desert me out of a sense of abandonment. My business plan was not exactly being executed with colossal skill. As if I had a business plan.
In the sports section, a good number of teams had beaten other teams in games. I didn’t especially care which, but it’s always fun to watch some baseball when you can. It’s the only sport that can’t exist without elegance.
That left the obituary page, and I found myself reading it, something I very rarely do. I told myself it was out of boredom, but the item at the bottom left-hand side of the page was the real reason I was scanning the newspaper at all.
Vincent Ansella, forty-three, insurance executive, had left a wife, Amy of Piscataway; a mother, Mrs. Olivia Ansella of Little Ferry; and a sister, Lisa Ansella Rabinowitz of Red Bank. No children, which I confess made me feel a little better. Apparently, his whole life had been about insurance, since the four-paragraph obit mentioned little else. Once captain of his high school track team, he had still run six miles a day. Until recently. Very recently. Two nights ago.
Because the medical examiner’s report wasn’t complete, the body hadn’t been released to Ansella’s family yet (the obit didn’t mention this, only saying he had “died very suddenly”). But there was a memorial service planned for the next day at Carmeliso’s Funeral Home in
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