The Last Curtain Call

by Juliet Blackwell

  The table rattled, and for a moment, I thought we were experiencing one of the area’s frequent small earthquakes. Then I realized the shaking was caused by my wildly jiggling leg. I willed myself to stop.

  No doubt about it, this project was making me nervous.

  On the other hand . . . it was my chance to renovate a historic theater. A great old theater. Haunted or not.

  I gazed at the Crockett Theatre through the café’s pristine plate-glass window. Once upon a time, its grand façade had lit up in a gaudy electric extravaganza boasting thousands of colored lights—red, orange, yellow, blue—that flashed in a sequence controlled by an ingenious device similar to a music box, and attracted admiring viewers like moths to the flame. For several decades, the huge marquee had announced the showing of movies from the earliest silent films to My Fair Lady to The Shining.

  But now the only letters on the marquee spelled out closed for renovation, with the “c” hanging at a crooked angle, and the “v” missing altogether. Plywood had been nailed over the windows of the octagonal ticketing kiosk and the main entry doors, and multicolored graffiti tags bedazzled the golden bricks of the once resplendent “Moroccan Renaissance” façade.

  I had been to the Crockett only once, as a child, for a double feature of The Sound of Music and The Jungle Book. It was a rainy Saturday, and my mother needed a break. My parents made their living flipping houses long before it became fashionable, and because we didn’t have a lot of money, we lived in the homes during the renovations. Mom had told Dad he was on his own for the afternoon, and took my two sisters and me to the movies at the Crockett Theatre. I was too young at the time to realize how old-fashioned the films were; if my mom liked something, then that was good enough for me. Mom loved The Sound of Music, and the four of us hummed along with Julie Andrews in the nearly empty theater. After the movie we went out for ice cream and sang “My Favorite Things” all the way home.

  I imagine the theater had been run-down even then, but to my childish eyes, its elaborately tiled and painted ceilings were magical, the golden icons enchanting. As Hildy had said, walking into that picture palace was like walking into a dream. I remembered gazing up at the massive curtain and the bas-relief lions that crept along the molding, staring at the “stars” sparkling high overhead, munching on Red Vines and popcorn and wondering if I could talk my dad into sprucing the place up a bit—even then demonstrating a propensity for lost architectural causes.

  It was the one and only time I had been to the Crockett Theatre.

  After a stint playing third-rate films and rereleases of old movies, the once-fine movie house had tried hosting a few Maker Faires, served a short time as an indoor flea market, and held Sunday services for a neighborhood church. But finally its doors had shut for good, decades ago.

  “She’s a grande old dame, isn’t she?” Gregory said, breaking into my reverie. “Hard to believe there were plans to demolish her for a parking lot.”

  “Really? Did the consortium save it?”

  “Not exactly. A Mr. Calvin Delucci inherited it from his father. He leased it out to a variety of folks over the years, always hoping to scrape together the funds to bring it back to its former glory, but he never managed. I imagine he found the scale of the project much greater than he had anticipated.”

  “And the Xerxes Group bought it from Mr. Delucci?”

  “Actually, no. He passed away suddenly just as he was starting the work. His widow continued to lease it out for a number of years, then offered to sell it to the highest bidder. Eventually she agreed to sell it to the city, which was about to sell the lot to a developer when a neighborhood group stepped in to save the building from the wrecking ball.”

  In the way of the Bay Area, the once-downtrodden Mission neighborhood had undergone a revival, and the sad old theater was now worth a fortune. Or at least the land it stood on was worth a fortune.

  Sharing the block with the theater were a tattoo studio, a donut shop, two mediocre taquerías, and a dusty-looking jewelry store. Not long ago this neighborhood had boasted reasonable rents and attracted a lot of working-class families, immigrants as well as native-born. But with tech giants like Google moving into the area, a whole new group of young people with money were making themselves at home and taking advantage of the interesting, diverse neighborhood.

  In between the dollar shops and discount stores, there were now trendy cafés and bars, boutiques and bookshops, arty installations and hopping nightclubs.

  Case in point: The café where we were sitting used to be the kind of place where you could get a weak cup of coffee and a piece of brightly colored fruit pie from a revolving display at any hour of the night or day. Now it served only locally sourced food and fancy cappuccinos, and the breakfast menu offered no fewer than three vegan and gluten-free options.

  Also, the prices were through the roof. This meal was going on the mysterious consortium’s bill.

  “The city resisted at first, but apparently the preservationists stirred up quite the brouhaha—you may have heard about it at the time. There were pickets and demonstrations, and eventually the city caved and coughed up some redevelopment money through grants and tax credits, even billboard revenue.” Gregory shook his head. “San Franciscans. You gotta love ’em.”

  “And that’s where the consortium comes in.”

  “Exactly. In conjunction with the city funds, the Xerxes Group can bring the Crockett Theatre back and still make a profit. Or at the very least, not lose too much money,” he said with a crooked smile.

  Our server brought the bill, and Gregory smoothly placed his credit card on the little tray before I could even make a polite stab at it.

  “Thank you for brunch,” I said.

  “My pleasure.” Gregory sat back and gazed at me. “Mel, the consortium members are not wild-eyed dreamers. They understand that the renovation of a run-down, neglected twenty-thousand-square-foot theater will take time and cost many millions of dollars, and they’re prepared to go ahead. I assume you have studied the proposal and looked into our financials.”

  “Of course.”

  “I would expect nothing less.”

  Still, I hesitated. As charming as Gregory Thibodeaux was, it made me nervous not to know exactly for whom I was working. On the other hand, Stan Tomassi—Turner Construction’s office manager and an old family friend who lived with my dad and me—had spent days poring over the consortium’s renovation proposal and crunching the numbers and, after walking me through it all, had given it a thumbs-up.

  And Turner Construction needed the work. We had ramped up our operation and hired new people to complete a couple of large-scale projects—one a castle reconstruction in Marin, the other a lighthouse remodel in Richmond—and it was time either to take on another big project or lay off a good number of the crew.

  Letting people go was, hands down, my least favorite part of running a business. Worse, even, than filling out workers’ comp paperwork. And that was saying a lot.

  Also . . . I wasn’t convinced another contractor would be up to the job. Not to brag or anything, but when it came to historical renovations in the San Francisco Bay Area, Turner Construction had few peers. The Crockett Theatre deserved the best.

  “The building dates from 1923, which was early for a movie theater—it was probably used for other kinds of entertainment before talking films, such as vaudeville acts, that sort of thing,” Gregory said as he tucked his papers into a sleek briefcase.

  “Do you know a lot about the early film industry?”

  “I’m no expert. I just read up on things for the job. The consortium funded a smaller theater remodel in Roseburg, Oregon, a few years ago, so I did some research. Back in the day, theaters were rivaled only by churches and courthouses when it came to lavish buildings. It was an interesting era—for many people, going to the movies wasn’t just a form of entertainment, or a distra
ction from daily life and worries. It was a window into other worlds, a way to see places and people they might otherwise only read or hear about. We’re so inundated with images today that we forget how isolated people were not all that long ago.”

  “You sound like a history buff.”

  “One of the perks of this job,” Gregory said with a smile. “I love old things.”

  “Have you ever heard of an actress named Hildy Hildecott? She was in a few early Charlie Chaplin films, I think.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” he said. “But like I said, I’m no expert.”

  The waiter came back with Thibodeaux’s credit card slip, and I noticed he added a generous tip. You have to like that in a person.

  “We do have one special request,” Gregory said as he tossed the pen back onto the bill tray. “It is rather . . . unorthodox.”

  I steeled myself: He was going to ask me to rid the theater of ghosts. Or to convince the ghosts to stick around so as to attract those who enjoyed the idea of hanging out with spirits from beyond the veil. Either way, I assumed ghosts would be involved.

  “I’m not from around here,” he continued. “And apparently I stick out like a sore thumb, though I can’t quite put my finger on why.”

  Look in a mirror, pal.

  “I will therefore need to rely upon your knowledge of the area and your local connections.”

  “To do what, exactly?” I asked, curious. Find a date? Score some pot? Fix a parking ticket?

  “Get rid of the squatters.”

  “Squatters?” I sank back in relief. “Is that all?”

  He blinked. “There are people living in the theater.”

  “I’m not surprised.” In a place like the Bay Area, with its sky-high rents and scores of artists and others living on the edge, you can’t leave a big, dry building vacant without expecting somebody to move in, whether of the four- or two-foot variety.

  He looked surprised. “Well, I’m relieved you’re not put off by it.”

  “Depending on how they’ve treated the place, it might actually be a good thing. Buildings don’t benefit from being left vacant. But . . . isn’t rehousing squatters more in the realm of . . . I don’t know . . . social services?”

  “There are some sticky issues of squatters’ rights, not to mention the involvement of the Crockett Caretakers, the neighborhood preservation association. I don’t know the local players, and I thought you might be able to help us there. Maybe find someone to come in and speak with them. I realize we are in California, and in the Bay Area, I do believe things are done in a certain way. Also, the last contractor wasn’t especially diplomatic. We’re still trying to negotiate on our end, but if our latest efforts fail . . .”

  “Just so we’re clear—Turner Construction builds things and fixes things; we’re not social workers or community organizers,” I said. “But if you don’t make any progress, I suppose I could make a few calls, see what I can do.” As if I knew anything about squatters, much less their rights. But I’d do what I could to ease things along—the last thing I wanted was a Last Stand at the Crockett Theatre.

  “Perfect! You see, your reputation precedes you. The work you did on Ellis Elrich’s Scottish castle in Marin? And then that lighthouse in Richmond? You are indeed a miracle worker.”

  “I can’t promise anything,” I said, wary of committing to something I couldn’t deliver. “I’ll see if I can find someone to talk with them, but like I said, I’m no social worker.”

  “But the interior work can’t start in earnest until they’re out—am I right?”

  I nodded.

  “So that’s where we’ll begin,” Gregory said. “I’ll get to work finalizing the rest of the permits, completing the applications for variances, and jumping through whatever other bureaucratic hoops the city requires, and you’ll shoo those pests out of there.”

  “Are you speaking of humans or rats?”

  “Both. Shall we do a walk-through?”

  I nodded. I was itching to get inside that gorgeous theater. Ghosts and squatters and rats notwithstanding.

  Chapter Three

  On the street in front of the theater, I paused to take some photos of the terra-cotta work on the façade, some of which had obviously pulled away from the structure and been resecured. Unfortunately, the job hadn’t been done well, and the repairs were visible to the naked eye.

  At least, to my naked eye. I had to remind myself that not everyone looks for minute imperfections in every beautiful building they pass.

  I snapped more shots of the octagonal ticket kiosk, and the golden graffiti-covered stone, as well as the original-looking fire escapes, which appeared to have been seriously compromised by nearly a century of exposure to San Francisco’s famous fog. Later I would compare these to historic photos of the theater in its heyday to ensure a faithful renovation.

  As we walked around the side of the building, we were approached by an elegant-looking older woman. She wore a turban and a silk scarf over her pantsuit, her bearing was upright, and though she had to be in her seventies, at least, her broad smile lit up a virtually unlined face. She reminded me of one of those models on a moisturizer commercial, telling you to be at home in your skin no matter your age.

  “Lovely to see you, Gregory,” she said.

  “Coco, how are you?” Gregory beamed, and they kissed each other’s cheeks in the French fashion. “Coco, may I introduce you to Mel Turner, the talented head of Turner Construction? Mel’s firm is partnering with the Xerxes Group to bring this place back to life.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, holding out my hand, but she moved in to give me kisses on my cheeks, as well.

  “It is such a pleasure,” she said. “I go by Coco. As in Chanel, though my actual name is Stapleton. I cannot tell you how happy I am that the theater is at long last being renovated. I myself am in the arts, you see—an actress and singer. I sang on that very stage when I was just a wee girl.”

  “It’s a beautiful place,” I said.

  “Isn’t it, though?” said Gregory.

  “So you’ll be doing the work on our lovely old gal?” asked Coco.

  “If you’re referring to the theater, yes.” Were theaters referred to as “she,” like boats? I wondered. I found the notion vaguely troubling. And if theaters were “she,” then why not private homes? And art galleries? And sports complexes?

  These were the kinds of questions that at times distracted me from the business at hand.

  “I was the chairwoman for the Crockett Caretakers, the community group that convinced the city to preserve the theater. Those mindless bureaucrats wanted to tear it down and pave it over for a parking lot! Can you imagine? Over my dead body!” She handed me a cream-colored, engraved calling card. “Do let me know if I may be of assistance in any way. I have some photos of the theater, from way back when. Gregory, it has been an absolute pleasure. Mel, so lovely to meet you!”

  She glided down the sidewalk and around the corner, trailing a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

  “She seems nice,” I said.

  “She’s a nut,” said Gregory. “We call her group the Crockett Crackpots.”

  I raised an eyebrow, surprised at this expression of vehemence from the previously unflappable Thibodeaux.

  He shrugged and let out a breath. “Sorry. It’s just . . . these preservationists kept the place from being torn down, I’ll give them that. But they’ve got definite opinions about how things should be done. Coco’s very involved, or would like to be, even though she’s not one of the ones risking their own money.”

  “If the Caretakers’ members raised funds, and pay taxes, I suppose they feel entitled to weigh in.”

  “Everyone feels entitled to weigh in when it comes to a place like this.”

  Gregory led the way around the corner and opened a locked security gate in the temporary cyc
lone fence. In the alley to the rear of the building, a small portable trailer had been set up to serve as a guard’s office.

  “Speaking of entitled,” I heard Gregory mumble under his breath as we approached.

  Two men stood outside the security office, talking. One was a middle-aged, balding man in chinos and a button-up shirt who looked like he would feel at home in a downtown law office on casual Friday.

  The other was tall and strong-looking, dressed in a blue-and-gold uniform with custom security company embroidered on his shirt pocket. He had salt-and-pepper hair, tattoos peeking out from under his cuffs and above his collar, and a revolver strapped to his leather belt. He had the kind of mature looks that were hard to date: He could have been anywhere from a hard-living fifty to a hale seventysomething.

  I focused for a moment on his gun. I wasn’t afraid of firearms per se; as my father’s daughter, I had learned to shoot at a young age. But I was very much afraid of guns in the wrong hands, and too many were the wrong hands. Many private security guards simply passed a criminal background check and underwent a brief training course before being handed the means of deadly force.

  As we approached, the balding man fell silent and glared at Gregory. Then he strode past us up the alley, through the gate, and onto the street, disappearing without saying a word.

  I glanced at Thibodeaux, who simply said, “Mel, this is Skeet. Don’t let the uniform fool you; Skeet works directly for the consortium. Skeet, this is Mel Turner. She’s heading up the renovation, so you two will be seeing a lot of each other.”

  “Ma’am,” Skeet said with a nod.

  “Nice to meet you, Skeet.” We shook hands. “I’m curious, with all this security, how do the squatters get in?”

  “They find a way—through emergency exits or the lavatory windows, maybe. Up the fire escape and in through the roof door, I would imagine, is a popular mode of entry. Good exercise, too. There are always ways if someone really wants to get in,” Skeet said. “And there’s not all that much security, actually—it’s pretty much me or Thad, and sometimes Ramon. Not nearly enough men to secure a large building like this. Excuse me a moment.”