Charles paced his room, knew he must find August, and fight—if there was any way to fight anything.
He found August in the lobby, handing out stacks of gaudy flyers to the show people. The whole troupe was there, save for The Genius, who refused to demean himself with anything resembling work, and had wandered off looking for a saloon that served pretzels for breakfast. Oddly, The Genius’ loutishness didn’t affect the rest. They had seen the empty house, and knew what needed to be done.
“On the streets, to anyone who’ll take one,” August said. “Don’t neglect children. In stores, to any that will post them in the windows. In restaurants and saloons, any livery barn, on any counter, in any office, in any station of public place, state office, on any tram, in any seat of any hack—it all depends on you,” August said, quietly. “Hire a newsboy to hawk them.”
“What if we run out?” Ethel said.
“There’ll be more here. We ordered a thousand. Eight thousand people live here.”
“Why didn’t the bills go up in time?” LaVerne Wildroot asked.
“That’s complicated. The bill-poster claimed it was too cold. The house manager seems to enjoy embarrassing touring companies. The newspaper’s gospel is to keep all cash in Boise.”
Several laughed. Boise was cleaning them out of their last nickel.
“What happens if no one buys tickets?”
August smiled. “I hope you don’t mind selling apples on street corners.”
The whole crowd was pretty serious. They each collected an armload, arranged among themselves what areas they would cover, and hastened into the biting wind. There wouldn’t be many people lounging along the streets this December day.
August watched them go, and grinned at Charles. “There’s always a way,” he said.
Charles did what he hated to do, and placed the telegram in August’s hands. August read it slowly, reread it, and seemed to turn into marble. He said nothing for a while, stared into the distance, even though they were in a warm hotel.
“We were running from this,” August said.
“It came faster than we thought.”
“Do you have a Julius Cahn Guide?”
“In my bags.”
The Official Theatrical Guide listed every opera house in every state and in Indian Territory, with all relevant contacts.
“Maybe we can reroute the tour,” August said. “Wherever the rails go. Nevada, who knows?”
“Not much in Nevada,” Charles said. “But there’s houses on the coast not bought up. We’d have competition from the circuit.”
August laughed shortly. Operators of the new circuits knew how to deal with competition, including buying up opera houses, cut-rate ticket pricing, bringing in big-name talent, bribing suppliers such as printers, paying off bill-posters to do bad work, stealing acts. Their inventiveness knew no boundaries.
“Wire Graeb. We need cash. Two thousand. Book us straight down the Rockies, Wyoming, Colorado, starting now. If we can.”
Bland Graeb was the company agent in Chicago, the man who usually cut deals, booked theaters, auditioned acts when needed. It would have to be Graeb’s money, and he would be the naysayer.
“There’s no north-south rail in the Rockies. We’re heading for the coast. Like Portland, there’s the Park Theater, and the Baker. Smaller places. Not bought up—yet.”
“Right into the circuit. But that’s the game.”
“What have we got?”
“Bills. Printer, hotel, payroll coming up.”
Charles grinned. August grinned back. It helped to grin when your neck was in the guillotine.
“How are we gonna get out of here?”
“Sell The Genius to the nearest medical school for a cadaver.”
It would be up to Charles. He was the wizard with the telegraph, and could say more in fewer words. He wondered how he’d pay Western Union for the amount of wire traffic he would launch.
“I’ll go push some flyers,” August said. “We’ve got to fill the house tonight.”
With that, Charles headed for his room to get his Theatrical Guide, and then to the Western Union office, at the station. He had the sinking feeling that it was all for show, all to be able to say that they tried every avenue, every angle.
But August had a firsthand acquaintance with miracles, and scrambling on the streets of Gotham had taught him a thing or two. They had booked this area because the circuits hadn’t started up here, and a touring company could still schedule its route. Back east, there were cutthroat syndicates, swiftly turning the entertainment business into a few fierce rivals. Some of them would even throw up a new opera house across the street from the competition, and then get into price wars to cop the trade.
He collected his treasured copy of the Julius Cahn directory, with all its resources, along with ads on most every page pushing theater products, makeup, costumes, lighting, baggage. Charles would need to consult every Oregon and California page to put a schedule together.
There were plenty of houses in Oregon and Northern California. But he had no way of knowing which ones the Orpheum circuit was buying. Graeb would know, and would know how to set up a tour down the coast. Compete with the circuit.
He composed the most important telegram of his life: ORPHEUM CANCELING FOLLIES COAST TOUR REBOOK FOLLIES COMPETING HOUSES JANUARY FEBRUARY ENDING FRISCO WIRE TWO THOUSAND REPAY WITH BOOKINGS URGENT POMERANTZ
Twenty-one words. Reroute the tour, send money. Twenty-one words that could start the wires humming with bookings and confirms and credit. Graeb would know what to do—if he chose to do it.
He took it to the Western Union office, paid the per-word tally, and watched the grouchy telegrapher start tapping on the brass key. Everything rested on it. If Graeb could set up a tour, and send money, Pomerantz could book hotels and passage. It had to be. He didn’t like to think of the alternatives.
He watched the man finish up, knowing the SOS would reach Graeb swiftly, and a reply would come swiftly from across the continent. He had an odd, hollow feeling as he braved the cold.
It was odd how Ginger intruded on his thoughts just then. Ginger’s father had made an offer. Return to Pocatello. Prepare for the concert stage. And, unspoken, get rid of her husband. But she had rejected all that. And if Graeb didn’t produce, she might find herself broke and stranded. But she had plowed ahead with all the optimism of an eighteen-year-old, a trait that Charles Pomerantz no longer possessed. The thought opened something tender in him.
Graeb replied with breathtaking speed. Sorry. He was now contracted to book acts for the Orpheum Circuit and could no longer operate as booking agent for the Follies. He would be glad to book acts into the Orpheum circuit.
Graeb was throwing the dog a bone. He’d rescue the acts but not the show.
Somehow Charles had sensed it. He hadn’t heard from Graeb for a while.
So this is where it all ends, he thought. The flyers wouldn’t do much, maybe fill a few seats, and then there would be bills unpaid, the acts unpaid, the Follies falling apart. Maybe even before they had finished their run in Boise. You had to deal squarely with the acts. Not ask them to work if you had no way to pay them. Maybe there would be no shows, not the one tonight, not tomorrow, not the next day.
He guessed that this evening’s performance would be the last one. And then what?
Maybe the end of his marriage to Ginger, too.
He hurried back to the telegrapher, this time with a reply to Martin Beck. Book Follies in Orpheum Circuit? Buy Follies? Need answer fast.
He sat down on a hard bench in the rail station, hoping for a fast reply, and one clattered in twenty minutes later: NO.
The Idaho Statesman was next. He corralled the manager, who stared flinty-eyed at the offending visitor from the dubious world of theater.
“We’d like to do a free Christmas show at the Columbia, a matinee the day after tomorrow. Absolutely free, to celebrate the holidays. Would you give it push?”
“An ad c
osts the same for out-of-towners as for locals,” the manager said. “Three columns, ten inches, twenty-seven fifty.”
“Ah, I’m talking about a free show, a Christmas show, for all the good people of Boise, and we need a good story in your paper tomorrow.”
“You could have a column-inch in the classified section for eighty cents. A bargain, given what it’s worth.”
“Ah, we’re not talking business, Mr. Hardesty, we’re talking a free show. Good, lively variety, free to men, women, children of Boise.”
“We don’t give anything away, especially at Christmas, Mr. Pomerantz,” Hardesty said.
“That I believe,” Charles said.
“You sell theater seats; we sell advertising space,” Hardesty said.
“Merry Christmas,” Charles replied.
Charles clamped his hat down, and ventured into the cold. At the hotel he discovered some of the troupe, cold, rosy-cheeked, and cheerful. They had unloaded every flyer, and maybe it would fill those seats. But in his pocket were wires that would wipe away that cheer in an instant. He spotted August, who was looking cold and gaunt, and with a nod, summoned August to an alcove.
August read the wires, and seemed to sink into himself.
“I just offered a free matinee, Christmas matinee, and asked the paper to push it, and guess what?”
“Eighty cents an inch in classified.”
“You were there?”
“Same idea. Ahead of you. Fine fellow, Hardesty.”
“You want to tell the acts?”
“We’re a square outfit. The worker deserves his pay. My earliest lesson in life.”
“Now or before or after?”
“Not before. It colors the show. Not now; they’ve headed for their rooms. After the show. I’ll keep the acts around for a few minutes.”
That’s how it would be. Charles found himself peering straight into August Beausoleil’s soul just then. He knew August’s story, at least in general terms, and what he saw then, he swore, was the abandoned boy, get tips or starve, cadge a nickel here, a nickel there, buy candy, live on, find a basement warm enough to keep from frostbite, watch the people, the ones who never noticed a starving kid watching them. August was still young, or would have been if fate hadn’t broken his body. But now his face was the color of whey.
There it all was, radiating from August’s worn face. But there was more. August Beausoleil had survived from his eighth or ninth year by his wits.
“Come on up, Charles,” he said. “We have things to talk over.”
Charles was glad to. It was fine to be in a warm hotel room, proof against the cold streets of Boise, drawing up a last will and testament for the Beausoleil Brothers Follies.
47
NO LINE formed at the Columbia Theater box office. August watched a few people, hurried by a bitter wind, buy tickets and scurry inside. The flyers had little effect. The weather wasn’t helping. The sarcastic review in the Statesman didn’t improve matters.
Beside him stood the manager of the Overland, a Mr. Poole, who wanted cash immediately or the troupe would be evicted forthwith. August had persuaded him to wait for the box office receipts. There were twelve rooms to pay for, at two dollars each.
Minutes before showtime, August slipped into the box office, extracted the cash, and handed it to Poole, who smiled maliciously and hurried back to his hotel. The troupe would sleep warm one last night.
August hurried into his tails and top hat, and peered out upon a sea of darkness. There were so few people they seemed to vanish. And more were in the balcony than in the orchestra. He focused hard, and counted fifty-something. They sat in deep silence, and one could swear that there was no audience at all. Not even a sniffle or cough to signal human presence.
The performers were oddly quiet. They knew. And just because they were performers, and proud, they’d do their best this night. They had already figured out the rest: There was no brown pay envelope awaiting them. And no more Beausoleil Brothers Follies. And no tickets back to Chicago or New York, where they might scrape by until they could find a job. They knew that at the end of this show, he would gather them on the bare-lit stage and apologize, and tell them it was over, and he had no remedy. He hadn’t said it, not yet, but they already understood it. Some would be angry, some bitter, some blue, and most would put up a false front, joke, and wonder what the next day would bring.
He eyed his pocket watch.
“Throw on the footlights, and lower the olio,” he said.
A moment later, he stepped onto the narrow downstage strip, peered out into the silence, and tipped his hat.
“Ladies and gents, I’m August Beausoleil. This is my show. I want you to enjoy it. You all gather right here, in front. You up in the balcony, come down and have a seat right here. We’re about to give you the best show we know how to do, and we’re all hoping you’ll have a fine time this eve. We’ll start in a few minutes.”
With that, the curtain rang down, and he watched the handful gradually filter in, and settle in the rows just a little back. Those were the best seats. No one sat in the first row. Just a few people settled there, many solitary, leaving empty spaces between them and the next person.
At a nod, the curtain rose, and he welcomed them, and introduced the Wildroot Sisters, who did just fine, lots of sparkle and smiles. August relaxed. Every performer would do whatever it took this evening. Do it from the heart. Do it without pay. Do it without knowing what would happen on the morrow.
The crowd clapped tentatively, a small, hollow chattering of hands, and then August headed into the next act, and next, and next, and the show glowed, and the audience had a good time, and no one left at the intermission. And when the show ended, the audience clapped, stood, and left, braving the Idaho winter.
Everyone in the show, including the musicians, simply waited on the stage, in the dim light of a naked bulb above. August wouldn’t be surprising them. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s over. We had enough to pay your rooms tonight. We don’t have pay for you. Tonight’s take came to fifteen, after the hotel took its cut. Each act and hand gets a dollar. It buys a telegram or a meal.”
“What happened?” Wayne asked.
“Orpheum Circuit bought several houses where we were booked, and shoved us out. Our agents won’t lend us cash. One went to work for Orpheum.”
“You owe us,” The Genius said.
“Yes, I do.”
“Then shake what you’ve got in a sock and pay us.”
“You gave people a lot of fun, sir. You added to the show. That’s all I have in my sock.”
“What are we supposed to do?” asked Art Grabowski.
“Wire your agent,” Wayne Windsor said.
“Orpheum is hiring,” August said. “Wire Bland Graeb in Chicago. Our agent. Or Martin Beck, who’s running the circuit from Chicago.”
“Oh, God,” said Ethel Wildroot.
“I’ll help,” Wayne Windsor said. “This is show business. I’ve been there. Most of us have. Anyone wants to send a wire, tonight, tomorrow, I’ll pay. Anyone needs a meal, I’ll arrange with the eatery next to the hotel for tomorrow.”
No one thanked him.
“If acts want to send a joint wire to Graeb, I’ll word it,” Windsor added. “One wire, several signing it.”
The odd thing was that no one agreed. The theater was growing cold. The manager didn’t burn an extra nickel’s worth of coal.
“This is a badly run deal,” The Genius said.
August didn’t argue. If there was justice, The Genius would soon be back in Butte as a barstool entertainer, cadging drinks and sleeping in cellars.
The whole company stood paralyzed. For a loquacious band of performers, they were oddly mute, struggling with fear, maybe anger, maybe helplessness. And there was the cold, the piercing, bitter cold worming straight into them.
That’s when LaVerne’s stage-door Johnny, Stanford Sebring, showed up, warmed by a black alpaca topcoat.
“Hey, ba
by, I’m taking you for a nightcap,” he said.
“I don’t think so, Johnny.”
“Hey, what’s this? What’s the trouble?”
“We’re closing, Stanford.”
“Well, we’ll have a party. I’ll spring.”
It seemed surreal. At the last, most of the company repaired to Darby’s Saloon, down the street, to make merry, and lift a glass to the Beausoleil Brothers Follies, though a few including Harry the Juggler and some accordionists headed back to the refuge where they would welcome one last warm night. A familiar thought passed through August’s mind: eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.
Charles helped Ginger into her coat, and donned his own. They would go, of course. August could almost name the ones who’d go for the last hurrah; the ones who were less anxious, who’d weathered storms, who’d fallen from peaks, climbed out of troughs, figured out ways, make compromises, bandaged hurts, smiled at life. He would go, too. No matter what he felt.
He wanted to soak in guilt, but wouldn’t let it happen. He had not let anyone down. But some stern executioner in him was surveying his neck. He had wrestled his demons since boyhood, wrestled the Accuser who blamed him for his misfortunes. It was the Accuser lurking in him, condemning him, even now, with a new tragedy unfolding by the hour.
“I will join you,” he said.
Darby’s proved to be a politico’s saloon, redolent of cigars and sharp with whiskey. The place was almost empty. Boise was not known for its nightlife. The keep eyed the women unhappily; this was the home of sovereign males. But when the performers were at last seated at what was probably a poker table, the keep eyed the clock, which said ten thirty, sighed, and approached.
“Closing in half an hour, but I’ll serve up a quick one,” he said.
Bourbon neat all around, except for their host, Stanford Sebring, who settled for a sarsaparilla. August thought the Wildroot girls were exploring new ground; LaVerne, though, seemed at home with the amber fluid before her.
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