by Parnell Hall
And down the hall came our stage manager.
So. He lived here too. But what the hell was he doing here now? He was gonna miss half hour.
He strode down the hall, picked up the phone and said, “Hello, Joe Warden here.”
I had to keep from laughing. It suddenly struck me funny that, after all this time, this would be how I would finally learn his name.
I wondered if I’d learn anything else.
Not likely. Joe said, “I can’t talk now, it’s almost half hour,” and hung up the phone.
He went tripping down the stairs and out the door.
Of course. The guy had a car—he’d picked me up in it the day I’d been late. It would take him two minutes to drive to the playhouse and he’d make half hour easy.
But I wouldn’t. Because now I could be sure everyone was gone.
I opened the broom closet, stepped out.
All right, enough fucking around. It was that door, wasn’t it? I walked to it, jerked it open. Yes, that was right. Of course, no one was there.
I slipped inside, began my search.
43.
“WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?” Joe Warden said.
I had a wild impulse to say, “Back in the actors’ house, learning your name.” I stifled it, said, “Sorry, I got hung up. Don’t worry, I’ll be ready.”
He shook his head. “You’re real late,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t blame Joe for bawling me out. For one thing, it was the second time I’d missed half hour. For another thing, while he stood in my dressing room doing it, he had a marvelous view of Nellie Knight’s tits.
I also couldn’t blame him because I’d found what I was looking for. If I hadn’t, I might have missed curtain. Because I was really determined by that time. But, as I said before, it’s a lot easier to find something when you know what you’re looking for. So I’d found it just in time.
Though not in time to call Chief Bob. If I’d done that, I would have missed curtain. As it was, it was going to be close. At least I had a five-minute grace period before my entrance.
Act One went reasonably well, considering where my head was at. As soon as the act broke I went to the pay phone, called Chief Bob and got a recording telling me to call him at home.
Only I’d just used my last quarter. Also, I didn’t have a pencil to write down his phone number. Talk about frustrating.
I went back to the dressing room, got a dollar out of my pants. Then I had to wait till intermission was over so I could go to the lobby and ask lovely Rita, box-office maid, for four quarters. A pen and paper were not readily available, but armed with the quarters, a paper towel and an eyebrow pencil, I finally got the job done and reached Chief Bob.
Who seemed not at all surprised to find out I was still alive. Somehow I thought he would be. But the man was perfectly calm.
“What’s up,” he said.
“I got the dope. We gotta talk.”
“What you got?”
“Not on the phone. I’ll meet you after the show.”
“Okay. Come by the house.”
He gave me the address and directions, which were a mess in eyebrow pencil, but somehow I got it down.
It was on my way back to the dressing room that I realized that once again I had tempted fate by stalling off giving him the solution. Plus, my costume had no convenient pocket, so I had to put the directions to Chief Bob’s house in my pants, where anyone could come into the dressing room while I was onstage and find them, and find out what I was up to.
I worried about that for the rest of the show, and even after the final curtain came down. In fact, if the truth be known, I was looking over my shoulder the whole time as I attempted to follow the smeared directions to Chief Bob’s.
As well as going over my theory and trying to form a plan.
As far as my theory went, I figured it was basically sound. It was the plan I was having trouble with. As far as the plan went, my basic problem was that I didn’t really have a plan. At least, not one that made any sense.
I knew what I’d like to do. If it were possible, what I would have liked would have been to do it like Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie—nail the killer onstage in performance in front of everybody. God, what a scene that would be.
I knew that was outrageous, off the wall and would never work, and that there was a big difference between movies and real life, but given my druthers, that would have been my plan.
Especially since I had no other working plan.
Anyway, with all that rattling around in my head, it’s a wonder I even found Chief Bob’s house.
But I did. After all, he lived in a house only a few blocks from the police station. That figured—in this town, everything was a few blocks from everything else.
Chief Bob met me at the door and introduced me to a plump but attractive-looking woman with a pleasant smile.
“Allow me to present my wife, Deborah,” Chief Bob said. “Dear, this is Stanley Hastings.”
“Oh,” she said pleasantly. “The murderer.”
She and Chief Bob looked at each other and laughed, and I realized they’d rehearsed it.
Deborah excused herself to make coffee and Chief Bob sat me down in the living room and we went over the case.
I must say, I had serious misgivings.
In the first place, the byplay with his wife drove home the point that in this instance I was not dealing with the majesty and solemnity of a big-city police force.
But that was the least of my worries. As I began talking, I realized that while my theory made perfect sense to me, the minute I tried to verbalize it, it sounded like absolute gibberish. I really was taking a button and sewing a vest on it. I had no concrete evidence. I had one fact, which didn’t necessarily have to mean anything, and which certainly didn’t prove anything. The rest was all conjecture.
And as for my plan, well, the plan I finally came up with was worse than my theory. Because, even if it worked perfectly, even if it came off without a hitch, there was no reason it would necessarily trap the killer. If the murderer simply said, “That’s very interesting, go ahead and prove it,” Chief Bob and I would be up shit creek without a paddle. And while I was a douche-bag, ambulance-chasing private detective who could be expected to pull a foolish stunt like that, Chief Bob, upholder of the law, pillar of the community and public official, could not.
So before I even got halfway through laying out my plan, I just knew Chief Bob was going to hate it.
I was wrong.
He loved it.
44.
EVEN THOUGH I HAD TOLD Chief Bob my theory, I was still on guard for potential saboteurs on my way back to the apprentice house. It occurred to me that having Chief Bob know just what it was that had gotten me killed would be small consolation to me in the event I actually happened to turn up dead.
And how would the killer know whether I told Chief Bob or not? Assuming the killer knew I knew anything. Or perhaps I should say suspected anything. Or perhaps I shouldn’t say anything, I should just keep my eyes open.
Believe me, I did. As I said, it was not too long ago that I got shot meddling around in something that was really none of my business. Just like the Goobie Wheatly affair. I had been brought here to play a part, for Christ’s sake. That was the job. Anything else was extracurricular.
I became aware of the lights of a car following me.
Son of a bitch.
I told myself I had to be imagining it. I mean, come on, who would be following me in a car? With intent to kill. It just didn’t compute.
But sure enough, the headlights were creeping along about half a block behind.
I considered turning right at the next corner to see if the lights turned. I considered stopping and doubling back to see who was in the car.
I also considered screaming and running like hell.
I did none of the above. It took considerable effort, but I continued walking along at a
n even pace as if I hadn’t noticed anything was wrong.
And the lights kept coming.
That was the bad news. The good news was, they didn’t seem to be getting any closer.
I walked another block, turned onto the street of the apprentice house. And, oh, the towering feeling, knowing I’m on the street where I live.
I quickened my pace, reached the front of the apprentice house. As I turned in at the walk, the car following me pulled up and drove on by.
It was Chief Bob.
He hadn’t offered to drive me home. No surprise there, since like everything else, it was only a few blocks. But he’d followed me to make sure. Either to see that I got home safe or to see if anyone was taking an interest in me.
Which told me one thing: Chief Bob was taking what I’d told him seriously.
I went inside and up to my room.
The place was quiet. That figured. It was after one in the morning, and the apprentices needed their sleep—tomorrow was strike night.
I went in my room and switched on the light.
And discovered I didn’t have a bathroom.
Yeah, I knew I didn’t have one. Even so, it always came as a shock.
I went back out and plodded down the hall. The door next to mine was open and the light was on. So someone was still up. Beth. But where was she at this time of night?
Then I noticed the bathroom door was closed.
Oh, great. Beth was in the john. And she was a nice girl and all that, but at this time of night I was damned if I wanted to stand in the hall for god knows how long while she took off her makeup or whatever.
Plus I really had to go to the bathroom.
So there I was, standing there in the hallway, teetering back and forth from one foot to the other and thinking about the fickleness of fate. I mean, five minutes ago I’d been concerned about getting killed. Now my biggest worry was peeing in my pants.
I’d just had that thought when the bathroom door banged open and Ridley came out.
Ridley?
That didn’t compute.
“Ridley,” I said.
He was as surprised to see me as I was to see him. He blinked at me. “Yeah, what?”
“Where’s Beth?”
I felt like a fool when I said it, but I couldn’t help myself.
It didn’t help when he looked at me kind of funny “She went out.”
“Where?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. She went out with that guy.”
“What guy?”
“That actor. What’s-his-name. The one on TV.”
“Avery Allington?”
“Yeah, him.”
Son of a bitch!
I turned and ran down the stairs.
45.
THEY WERE SITTING AT A table at Morley s. Thank god. If the son of a bitch had got her up to his room at the actor’s house, I don’t know what I would have done. But I checked out Morley’s on the way and they were there.
I strode up to the table, said, “Hi, Avery. Hi, Beth.”
Avery looked put out to see me, but Beth gave me a smile.
Then I said what any red-blooded hero would have said under the circumstances.
“Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom.”
I went in the men’s room and emerged a minute later feeling much better. First off I had taken care of business. Second off they were still there. If Avery had spirited her away while I was busy in the men’s room, I never would have forgiven myself. But no, they were sitting there with their drinks.
I walked over to their table, pulled up a chair and sat down.
Avery Allington gave me the most incredulous look, like he couldn’t quite believe I’d actually done that.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Beth and I were having a private conversation. Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Say, that was some show tonight.”
Avery stared at me in exasperation. I understood his predicament. How do you deal with some boorish clod who’s willfully misunderstanding you? There I was, sitting there, smiling affably like a fool and not taking the hint. And if he lost his cool and got pissed off about it, started treating me in the manner I so richly deserved, he’d look like a schmuck in front of the girl he was trying so hard to impress.
So what the hell could he do?
The way I saw it, he had only one option—accept the challenge and take me on in mortal conversation.
Surely that shouldn’t be too big a risk for a big TV star like him.
As if to cement the idea, I said, “Matinee tomorrow, you know.”
He gave Beth a look, as if inviting her to share his contemptuous amusement at this pitiful creature bearing yesterday’s news.
“Of course I know,” he said.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t,” I said. “I just found out this morning. That’s the problem with being a fill-in. Everyone forgets you weren’t there the whole time and assumes you know everything. I didn’t know about the first matinee either.”
“Really?” Avery said. He raised his eyebrows. “I’d have thought when you found out about that one, you’d have asked if there were any others.”
I smiled ruefully “You’re absolutely right. Unfortunately, when I found out about the first matinee I was in the diner eating a cheeseburger and it was already past half hour. Joe was less than thrilled when he snaked me out of there, and our conversation wasn’t particularly chatty.”
“You missed half hour?” Beth said.
I turned to her, smiled. “You didn’t hear about that? It was pretty embarrassing. I almost got back too late to hear them laugh at Margie in her nightgown.”
“That I heard about,” Beth said.
“Wasn’t that something?” I said. I jerked my thumb at Avery. “And the other thing about matinees is, he winds up signing autographs for camp kids. It’s funny, huh? Kids can’t even read yet, asking for his autograph.”
“I didn’t see them asking you for yours,” Avery said.
Score one for the good guys. I’d goaded him into it, and he’d said it.
He knew it was a mistake the minute the words were out of his mouth, but it was too late. Beth looked at him, and the look was not kind. He’d just lost considerable ground.
Avery flushed somewhat, and I could feel the anger in him. Still, he kept control, knowing somehow that if he exploded now it was over.
But I wasn’t about to let him off the hook.
“That’s right,” I said. “No one does. Of course, you couldn’t expect them to. I haven’t acted anywhere in years. I’m not an actor anymore, I’m a private detective. I just came out of retirement to bail Herbie out of a tight spot.” I smiled modestly, looked at him. “So if my performance doesn’t measure up to yours, I still have the satisfaction of knowing, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have the chance to perform.”
Avery blinked again. What could he say to that? Tell me I was absolutely right, my performance sucked? Say, yes, his performance was much better than mine?
I’d say it was a fairly good indication of how flustered I’d got him by that point, that it took him a few seconds to fall into what ordinarily would have been his natural response—condescending faint praise.
“I appreciate it,” Avery said. “And you certainly do the job. I think only professionals would be able to tell that you were filling in.”
“That reviewer certainly couldn’t,” I said. “He reviewed me as Walter Penbridge.”
Avery frowned. “What?”
“The guy who reviewed the show for the paper. He didn’t even know there’d been an acting change. He had Walter Penbridge playing Captain Bluntschli.” I shrugged. “Of course, the man didn’t know anything about theater.”
I smiled up at Avery. What can you say to that, schmuck?
Avery raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Were you mentioned in that review?”
Strike two, Avery. Almost as bad as the autograph bit. Belittle a little guy. None too heroic. Sink
in the fair damsel’s eyes.
Beth shifted position uncomfortably. She picked up her drink, took a sip. I noticed she was drinking a martini instead of her usual beer. It probably wasn’t her first. I wondered how many the son of a bitch had plied her with.
“So,” I said. “The matinee tomorrow. Final performance tomorrow night. Then it’s back to New York for both of us. Got a job lined up, Avery? Another show?”
“I have several offers. My agent’s sorting them out.”
I nodded. “Unemployed, huh? That’s a bitch. You have enough weeks to qualify for unemployment insurance?”
His eyes blazed, but he hesitated a moment. I knew why. The bastard obviously collected.
Not that he was about to say so here. “I’ll have a job,” he said. “If worst comes to worst, I’ll do a few weeks on a soap.” He shrugged. “Slumming, I know, but if times are tight, what the hell.”
“If a soap opera’s slumming,” I said, “what do you call summer stock?”
Avery glanced at Beth. He wasn’t about to say anything that was going to offend her, since she was spending the summer here. On the other hand, the real answer that it was a place for a nobody like him to be a star, wasn’t exactly what he wanted to say either.
He took a breath, cleared his throat. “Summer stock,” he said, “is a chance for an actor to practice his craft, without the pressures and constraints of movies and television. It’s an opportunity to try things out, to expand oneself, to—”
I’m afraid I didn’t get to hear the end of that particular pompous speech, because at that point I reached across the table for a potato chip and managed to knock Avery Allington’s glass of Scotch squarely into his lap.
Avery sprang to his feet.
“Shit! You clumsy schmuck!”
Strike three, Avery. Yer outta there.
He was indeed. The Scotch was a direct hit. It looked like he’d peed in his pants, and he had to retreat to the men’s room for paper towels to wipe it off.
Time for my move.
I can’t remember the last time I tried to pick up a girl in a bar, but it must have been at least twenty years ago. And I’d be willing to bet you it didn’t work.