“I was just wondering if you’re my Elyot and I’m your Amanda. If we really, truly belong together or if I’m just caught up in the plot of Private Lives. That does happen. I do know that about myself.”
“As do I, and I for one am still glad you turned down the Glenn Close role in Fatal Attraction.” I gazed into her eyes, getting totally lost in them. “I’ll make a deal with you. If you’re still wondering about it, say, two weeks from today, I’ll take you out to the Monkey Farm Cafe. We’ll drink Pabst Blue Ribbon and dance to the jukebox until we drop, then ride home to the farm with the top down and I’ll tear your clothes off. How does that sound?”
“That all depends. Are you going to do anything after you tear them off or will you just fall asleep on the bed with your mouth open while I’m standing there in my birthday suit?”
“Not to worry, I’ll drink strong coffee all day. An entire pot.”
Thunder rumbled off in the distance. The afternoon sky was darkening.
Merilee glanced at the windows, her brow creasing. “Dini’s genuinely sick. Do you suppose she has pneumonia or something?”
“If she had pneumonia the doctor would have already put her on antibiotics.”
“I’m afraid she’s going to collapse in the middle of our performance.”
“What will you do if that happens?”
“Sabrina has understudied her part. She’ll take over.”
“Who’ll play Louise the maid?”
“One of the prop girls learned Louise’s lines. A college kid.”
“Nona Peachy?”
“Why, yes. How do you know her?”
“She introduced herself. Wants to be an actress, as you may have gathered. Her father, Doug, was an actor before he traded in his dream for a white picket fence. Did some off-Broadway. Ever work with him?”
She frowned. “Doug Peachy? I don’t think so. Why?”
“Just curious.” I gazed over at her. “You haven’t left anything to chance, have you?”
“First lesson you learn in the theater, darling. Be prepared for anything.”
There was a flash of lightning outside of the window now, followed several seconds later by a rumble of thunder.
“Hoagy, do you think I can actually pull this off?” Merilee asked me with a slight crack in her voice.
“Are you getting the jitters?”
“My teeth are practically chattering.”
“Of course you’re going to pull it off. You’re Merilee Nash. The best of the best. Trust me, this is going to be a great night. And it’s all because of you.”
“Can I kiss you again?”
“You can kiss me until the cows come home.”
“What time do the cows come home?”
“Haven’t the faintest idea. I’ll ask Mr. MacGowan.”
She kissed me tenderly before she said, “I may take a little nap after all. Will you stay?”
“I’ll stay.”
She dropped right off, breathing softly and slowly. Actors are famous for being able to do that. It’s how they maintain their energy level during those long, grueling days and nights when they’re on location shoots. Me, I lay there thinking about my meeting tonight at eleven at the ruins of the brass mill with the drugged-out sleaze who had the power to totally ruin her life.
Me, I didn’t sleep.
Chapter Six
The precurtain champagne bash was an absolute trip. The big tent billowed in the wind, lightning crackled, thunder boomed and the rain came pounding down on us while an accomplished jazz trio from New Haven played heavenly highlights from the Cole Porter and George Gershwin songbooks, which are as heavenly as heavenly gets.
The weather hadn’t scared off one single person. That’s how much the Sherbourne Playhouse meant to the New York theatrical world. Limos and town cars surrounded the town green for blocks in every direction. Broadway’s top director, Mike Nichols, was there with his wife Diane Sawyer. Meryl Streep and Sigourney Weaver were there. So were Neil Simon, Arthur Miller, Elia Kazan and Stephen Sondheim, each of them accompanied by assorted wives or partners. Jackie O, wearing an eerily serene smile on her eerily lacquered face, arrived with her tall, dark and handsome son, John, who I still say should have just become the next Tom Selleck instead of trying to be an assistant Manhattan D.A. The incomparable husband-wife acting duo of Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy showed up. So did that pretty fair husband-wife acting team of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. Newman was sixty-eight that year, and I just want to say if I ever live to be that old I want to look as good as he did.
Knowledgeable Broadway critics such as Frank Rich from the New York Times and Howard Kissel from the Daily News made the trip out. So did celebrity critics such as Rex Reed, pretend critics such as Dennis Cunningham from Channel 2 News, and gossip columnists such as Liz Smith and Cindy Adams. Camera crews from Entertainment Tonight and Inside Edition cruised the tent, as did paparazzi by the dozen. Big-time magazine editors such as Tina Brown of the New Yorker and Anna Wintour of Vogue had shown up. So had the likes of Gore Vidal, Dominick Dunne and George Plimpton, who still hadn’t forgiven me for having sex on his pool table during a Brazilian poetry reading back in my bad boy days. Connecticut governor Lowell Weicker and his wife, Claudia, were there to provide the state’s seal of approval.
And, as I’ve discovered is always the case at such an event, a notable celebrity was there whose presence made absolutely no sense whatsoever. In this case it was Long Island’s own Gentleman Gerry Cooney, the former Great White Hope of the heavyweight boxing world, whose career in the ring had ended three years earlier when George Foreman knocked him cold in the second round. Gerry looked trim, fit and very suave in a tux, though not as suave as I did.
Everyone was dressed to the nines. Everyone, that is, except for Kate Hepburn, who showed up just a bit later than everyone else, decked out in a hooded yellow rain slicker, gingham shirt, torn jeans and an ancient pair of Keds sneakers. “By gum, this is a perfect night to see Noël Coward!” she cried out valiantly in that quavering voice of hers, her eyes positively gleaming with excitement. There was no getting around it—fifty-four years after she’d starred on Broadway as Tracy Lord in The Philadelphia Story Kate Hepburn, age eighty-six, was still yare. And still in a class all by herself. Everyone rushed to greet her as the tent billowed and the thunder boomed and the rain poured down.
I had to hand it to Mimi. If there was one thing the former supermodel knew how to do it was pull off a high-profile bash. There was an endless supply of Dom Perignon, waiters everywhere with trays of caviar and chilled shrimp, which thrilled Lulu to no end. There was laughter and genuine excitement in the lightning-charged air.
Which isn’t to say that Mimi, who looked fabulous in a sleeveless silver cocktail dress, seemed to be having much fun herself. She looked so incredibly tense that I grabbed her and whisked her around the dance floor while the trio was playing Gershwin’s “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.”
“You’ve done a fabulous job,” I assured her.
“Do you really think so?” she wondered, her tall, lean body as taut as an ironing board. “I can’t afford to fail at this level, you know. Everyone finds out.”
One of the volunteer ushers ducked inside the tent and announced that the curtain would rise in fifteen minutes, which set off an immediate buzz of anticipation. The assembled luminaries began making their way out of the tent. Many of them paused to help themselves to a complimentary umbrella for the quick dash across the lawn in the pouring rain. Others said the hell with it and just dashed. The musicians and waiters remained behind. The plan was for everyone to return to the tent and resume the party after the curtain—joined by the triumphant cast members.
Inside the little playhouse I could hear the rain pelting down on the roof, but the blue tarps seemed to be holding. The aisles and seats were dry as the high-spirited audience members got settled in with the assistance of the volunteer ushers. So far, so good—although the rain was expected to continue for at leas
t two more hours, by which time I expected the Oscar-winning cast members would need snorkels and fins to get down to their dressing rooms.
But first, they had a show to put on.
Lulu and I watched from the back of the house as the lights went down and the curtain rose, the better to take it all in. Merilee, as Sibyl, was the first of Coward’s honeymooners to appear onstage. Merilee immediately got a huge roar of applause from the audience as she stepped out onto the French hotel terrace. Not only because it was she who’d put this production together but also because she was bravely standing there, holding an umbrella against the rain that was pelting down on her. The tarp over the stage hadn’t held, evidently. As Merilee stood there, regarding the view from the hotel terrace, Marty soon joined her under an umbrella of his own and got a rousing ovation himself. And so they began. I don’t know if the two of them got a lift from the packed house of celebrities or if it was the added challenge of playing the scene while standing in the rain, but they totally nailed it. Marty was dry, wickedly droll and his timing was impeccable. His Elyot was the perfect counterbalance to Merilee’s splendidly simpering Sibyl. But that was Marty, curried mutton scent and all.
The stage lights did flicker a couple of times when the wind really gusted—which made more than a few audience members gasp—but Merilee and Marty paid no attention and, mercifully, the power stayed on.
Soon, the two of them retreated back into their hotel room and, lo and behold, Amanda and Victor emerged onto the neighboring terrace, which called for another ovation for Greg and Dini. It was obvious to me that Dini was still feeling wobbly. She had to clutch her umbrella in both hands to hold it aloft. But Dini Hawes was a trouper to her core. Her voice was strong, her timing razor sharp. I’d heard from Mimi that Doctor Orr had made a black bag house call to the inn that afternoon. I wondered if he’d given her a B12 shot. Greg did his best to help her through it by keeping his arm around her. Since he and Dini were husband and wife in so-called real life Greg was able to turn it into a totally natural, romantic gesture. Somehow, he also became Victor in a way that he hadn’t been before.
Honestly, the four of them were so wonderful that after a few minutes I forgot all about the rain that was pouring down on the stage. Besides, the rain wasn’t that outrageous a distraction while they were standing there on the terrace in act one. They were supposed to be outside. It was raining. So what? The real challenge would be how they coped with act two inside of Amanda’s Paris flat. There was always a chance the rain would stop by then but the intensifying downpours gave little hope of that.
As Coward’s two couples realize with a mix of shock and horror that they’re honeymooning in neighboring hotel suites the curtain slowly fell on act one. There was an immediate roar of applause from the packed playhouse. A few of the assembled luminaries left their seats to have a cigarette in the lobby or use the restroom but most of them stayed put, which Merilee taught me many years back is a very, very good omen. Behind the curtain, the stagehands went into high gear moving furniture and props around during the intermission so as to transform the hotel terrace into Amanda’s flat.
Mind you, it turned out to be a much longer intermission than anyone had anticipated. And they didn’t have to bother to account for why it was raining inside of Amanda’s flat. Because, as it happened, there was no act two. The show could not go on—and not because of the weather.
But because one of the play’s four stars didn’t survive the intermission.
IT WAS MARTY who found the body.
Lulu and I weren’t far away when he did. We’d gone backstage at the act break. I’ve always enjoyed watching the hubbub of the stagehands changing sets. Coop was all-business as he bossed his crew of able young volunteers through the process of converting the hotel terrace into Amanda’s Paris flat. Up went one backdrop, down came another and, presto, we were indoors looking out a pair of windows at the rooftops of Paris. The sofa, easy chairs and end tables were carried to their marks on the stage floor. Props were placed here and there. True, the rain had not stopped falling on the stage. But Coop cleverly rigged a painter’s drop cloth over the sofa as a decorative canopy, which not only gave the flat a bohemian atelier look but would also serve to keep the actors who were on the sofa dry. Actors who had to move around onstage would simply have to carry an umbrella. The audience wouldn’t mind. In fact, I felt certain they would get a big kick out of it.
Sabrina sat in the wings on a folding chair in her frumpy maid costume and full makeup, watching them work. “I took in act one from here,” she informed me. “I thought it would help me get a feel for the pace. It’s going well, don’t you think?”
“Very well,” I said, noticing that she was trembling slightly. This was her professional stage debut, after all, and that’s no small thing—especially considering how many theatrical giants had made their own debuts on this very stage, including the one who sat out in the house right now wearing Keds. “You’ll be fabulous. And you look terrific in that costume.”
“Thank you,” she said, clamping her plump lower lip firmly between her teeth. “We decided it made sense for me to change into full costume before act one because there isn’t enough room for all three of us in the dressing room at once. Plus Dini gets really locked in and doesn’t like to break her concentration. The twins wanted to go down and visit her but she made them stay in their seats. Mimi’s watching them.”
“Where’s Glenda?”
“She went down to check on how Dini’s feeling. No way Dini can tell her what to do. God, Glenda’s so bossy. I hate Glenda. Don’t you hate Glenda?”
“I don’t hate her, but I’m glad she’s not my mother.”
Mimi joined us there in the wings in her shimmering silver cocktail dress, the twins in tow. Both girls were pouty and glum in their sleeveless blue dresses.
“How come we can’t see Mommy?” Cheyenne asked Sabrina.
“Because she’s trying to stay in character.” Sabrina smiled at her. “You’ll understand when you become actors.”
“I don’t want to be an actor,” Durango said. “I want to be a fire jumper.”
“That’s a pretty dangerous job,” I pointed out.
“I’m not afraid,” she said, crossing her arms before her defiantly.
“Sabrina, could you watch the girls for a sec?” Mimi’s voice had an edge of urgency. “I need to call my plumber to see if he can find us a few more sump pumps really fast.”
“No prob. We’ll watch them swirl the furniture around. It’s like magic.”
I joined Mimi as she darted toward the stage door phone. The door to the courtyard was open despite the windblown torrents because the tropical air was so steamy it was practically suffocating back there.
“It’s getting really nasty downstairs,” Mimi informed me grimly as she reached for the phone. “I’ve never seen the water this deep.”
I started down the spiral staircase toward the dressing rooms to check out the flood conditions for myself. Lulu was with me until she came to a sudden halt halfway down. She could hear the rats scrabbling for higher ground.
“Come on, don’t be such a wuss,” I said to her. “You’re bigger than they are. Most of them, anyhow.”
The dimly lit basement corridor was now a rushing river. The crew had set planks atop cinder blocks just like in the dressing rooms so that it was possible to step your way along. But the water was so deep that it was starting to slosh over the planks. The extremely loud sump pumps were running during intermission but they didn’t seem to be accomplishing a whole lot.
Mimi came down the staircase a moment after me. “Sweet Jesus, it’s like being belowdecks on the Titanic.”
“Any luck on those extra sump pumps?”
“He said he’d see if he could find any. He didn’t sound very optimistic.”
I sloshed my way down the corridor toward the dressing room, Mimi sloshing right along behind me. “You’ll ruin your sandals,” I warned her.
“G
ood, that’ll give me an excuse to buy a new pair.”
We arrived just in time to witness a sight I would gladly have missed—Marty barreling out of the men’s dressing room wearing a pair of billowing powder blue boxer shorts, heavy brogans, argyle socks and nothing else, his innumerable fat rolls jiggling as he charged straight across the hall into the tiny men’s bathroom. It was a rock-solid certainty that the great Martin Jacob Miller would suffer an uncontrollable case of the shits before and after act one of every performance of every show in which he appeared. The man was famous for it. He slammed the door shut behind him and let out a loud groan, followed by a succession of simply awful bowel eruptions.
Lulu moaned unhappily. Last night it was headless Old Saxophone Joe. Tonight it was rats and Marty’s poop.
Greg was in the men’s dressing room changing into a tweed suit that must have been hot as hell to put on.
I caught his eye through the open doorway and gave him a thumbs-up. “Going great!” I called out.
“Absolutely terrific, Greg!” Mimi chimed in.
He beamed at us gratefully. “Thanks. Feels really, really awesome.”
Mimi and I found Merilee and Dini changing costumes in their dressing room, or trying to. It wasn’t easy with the water rising over the planks. Or with plus-size Glenda crowded in there with them demanding to know how her ashen-faced daughter was feeling. Not great, apparently. Dini’s eyes widened suddenly, and she clamped a hand over her mouth, darting across the hall to the ladies’ room to vomit.
Lulu let out another moan. This was definitely turning into her worst twenty-four hours ever.
“Dini will be fine,” Merilee assured Glenda airily. “She just gets a nervous stomach sometimes.”
“She’s not nervous,” argued Glenda, who was wearing a pastel pink polyester pantsuit and her bone-colored walking shoes for the occasion. “She’s ill. She mustn’t go back out on that stage.”
Merilee steered Glenda toward the door. “She’ll be fine. Now if you’ll please excuse me I have very little time to finish changing.”
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