Night Life

by David C. Taylor

  Murmurs of greeting.

  “Tom went over to the office to make some calls, Michael. I could have someone call over for him.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll see him later.” He was relieved his father was not there, and troubled by his relief. “If you don’t need Marco for a few minutes, I have to talk to him.”

  They went to the male dancers’ dressing room with its long row of mirrors above dressing tables littered with hairbrushes and combs, full ashtrays, boxes of Kleenex, its familiar smell of face powder, cold cream, makeup, and sweat. The theater had been Cassidy’s playground, the cast and crew his babysitters.

  “Alex Ingram?” Marco took a deep drag on a thin black cigarette and waved the smoke away from his face. “That bitch is why I’m breaking in a new boy three weeks before previews. He missed rehearsal again a couple of days ago. That’s one time too many.” He snapped his fingers. “He’s gone. There are plenty of boys out there dying to work.”

  “He was in this show?” Cassidy had come to talk to Marco because Marco knew all the gypsies, but he had not expected that. “Tell me about him.”

  “A good dancer. Classically trained. You can tell someone who’s come out of a good ballet school. He’d be better if he understood the value of real work. Lazy. A little flamboyant, the extra gesture, the head toss, hands flying, too much hip. He wants to be the boy in the chorus everybody’s watching. You have to hold him down sometimes.” He blew more smoke and then looked at Cassidy sharply. “Why do you care about a Broadway gypsy?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Dead? How?”

  “Someone killed him.”

  Marco’s face paled. “Oh, my sweet Mary, and here I am being a bitch about him. When? How?”

  “In his apartment sometime two days ago. Late afternoon.”

  “Well, he should have come to rehearsal. He wouldn’t have been home then, would he?” Then he slapped himself gently on the cheek. “Oooh, Marco. Nasty.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “He came by to say he couldn’t make rehearsal. So I fired him. A couple of days ago? I guess that was the day he was killed.”

  “How’d he take that?”

  “As if he couldn’t care less. Told me to take a flying fuck at the moon. Said he didn’t need a crappy little hoofing gig.”

  “What’s a gypsy doing walking away from a job? Didn’t he need the money?”

  “I don’t know. He said the next time I saw him he’d be rolling in it.”

  “How was that going to happen?”

  “It wasn’t from working as a room service waiter at the Waldorf. That’s what he did between gigs.” Marco thought for a moment. “You know, that’s funny. Alex was one of those guys who always tapped you for five or ten between paydays. Not lately, and when I stop to think, his wardrobe went way uptown.”

  “Who were his friends? Who do I talk to?”

  “Oh, God, I don’t know. Did Alex have friends? If he did I certainly wasn’t one of them. He could be charming as hell when he wanted something from you, but the moment he got it, he was gone. Let me ask around.”

  “Women?”

  “Could be. He hit from both sides of the plate. He was a very ambitious boy; he’d fuck anybody or anything to get ahead. Beautiful to look at, sunny exterior, but one cold bitch underneath.”

  “Where did he hang out?”

  “Oh, you know, the places. The Village. Bird Alley. You know Bird Alley, Michael?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, yeah. You were in Vice. I forgot about your sordid past.”

  A dancer stuck his head around the doorjamb. “Marco, do you mind? I want to get something out of my locker.”

  “Go ahead, Victor.”

  The dancer was taller than most, dark haired, and with high cheekbones and a cast to his eyes that hinted at Asian blood. He smiled at Cassidy with even white teeth. “I’ll only be a second.”

  “If you think of anything else, friends, people he owed money, anything, give me a call.”

  “Of course.” Marco stubbed his cigarette out and got up. “You look like shit, Michael. You should take better care of yourself.” He touched Cassidy on the arm and left.

  The dancer named Victor lit a cigarette from a pack in his locker and was now rummaging for something else. Cassidy got up and headed for the door and then stopped. I’m getting too stupid to do this job, he thought. “Did Alex Ingram have a locker?”

  “Alex? Sure. Why?”

  “Which one?”

  “That one.” Victor nodded at a locker across the aisle. It was held shut by a cheap padlock. Cassidy wrenched at it, but it wasn’t that cheap. He found a screwdriver among a scatter of tools on a table, worked it into the lock hasp and levered.

  “Hey, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be doing that.” Victor looked alarmed.

  “I’m a cop.”

  “Oh.” Victor stepped back. “A cop? What did Alex do?”

  “He got killed.”

  “Oh, no.” Victor sat down heavily on a bench in front of one of the makeup tables. “When?”

  “A couple of days ago.”

  “Jesus.” The cigarette burned unnoticed between his fingers.

  “Were you friends?”

  “Friends?” As if the question startled him. “Well, you know, a drink after rehearsal, that kind of thing. I didn’t really know him all that well. But, I mean, you see a guy every day, you don’t think about him getting killed. Who did it?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  The lock gave with a snap. Cassidy worked it off and opened the door. Rehearsal clothes, leg warmers, an old gray wool scarf hung on the hooks. A couple of pairs of dance slippers and some used socks tangled on the floor. Glossy head shots of Ingram were taped to the inside of the door. There was a shelf at the top that held a tin of aspirin, a jar of Bengay, and a small bottle of Listerine. It was too high for Cassidy to reach to the back. He looked for something to stand on. Victor turned to stub out his cigarette to show that he was not watching.

  A stagehand appeared at the door. “Victor, company meeting. They need you now.”

  Cassidy waited until Victor left and then dragged a chair to the locker, got up, and reached in. He found a crumpled cotton T-shirt, and when he pushed it aside he felt something taped to the back wall. He scratched the tape loose, pulled out a small, stiff buff-colored envelope and got down from the chair. The return address was for a photographer on Lexington Avenue. Red string wound around two cardboard buttons sealed the flap. The envelope held only a fifty-cent piece. Cassidy examined the coin, then found a fifty-cent piece in his pocket and compared them. They were identical. There was nothing to indicate why Ingram would have hidden his, but he had hidden it for some reason. Was this what Ingram had been tortured for? It seemed unlikely. Cassidy flipped it in the air, caught it, sealed it back in the envelope, and went out.

  * * *

  The company gathered on the lighted stage with the anxious looks of schoolchildren in detention. They talked quietly among themselves. Some smoked. A couple of the dancers tried out steps together. They all were avoiding a heavy balding man in a dark suit who stood at a wooden table sorting a sheaf of papers he had taken from his briefcase. He handed them to an assistant director who distributed one to each of the company. Three people dropped theirs as if they were reluctant to grasp them. Some read the handout. Others waited for the man to speak.

  He rapped on the table for silence and when the murmuring stopped, held up one of the papers. “This is a standard loyalty oath. I’m going to read it to you. After I’ve read it, you can sign your copies and bring them to me here.” He fished glasses from the breast pocket of his jacket and put them on, cleared his throat, and read: “‘I hereby swear that I have not and will not lend my aid, support, advice, counsel, or influence to the Communist party or any other affiliated party or organization that espouses the overthrow of the United States Government.’” He took off his glasses and
tucked them away. “There are some pens on the table for those who do not have one. Please return the pen after you use it.” The murmuring started again. Someone said, “Ah, shit,” and was quickly shushed. People shuffled forward to sign.

  “Excuse me, but why should we sign?” The man who asked was an older actor named Simon Clay who had, Cassidy remembered, been in at least four of his father’s productions and usually played the loyal male servant, or the older, suave uncle, the judge, or the father’s best friend. He had a narrow, patrician face and thick silver hair.

  The man with the papers looked at him. “Why wouldn’t you sign? You’re a loyal American, aren’t you?”

  “We were hired to act and dance and sing. It’s none of your business what we think politically.” He looked around for support. A couple of people nodded but did not speak. Other cast members avoided his eyes.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Simon Clay.”

  “The man made a note. “Do you have something to hide, Mr. Clay?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Loyal Americans, people who have nothing to hide, have no reason not to sign.”

  “It’s not right.”

  An actress in a green-and-yellow sundress said, “Just sign it, Simon. It doesn’t matter,” and then leafed through her script to distance herself.

  “What happens if we don’t?” Simon insisted. “Do we lose our jobs?”

  “That’s up to the producer. He’d certainly be within his rights to wonder whether you’re a real American and if you belong in the show.”

  “Christ.” For a moment Clay seemed unsure of what to do next, but he could feel the weight of the company’s eyes, and after a moment he went to the table, angrily scrawled his signature, and then jerked upright and stalked out of sight.

  Cassidy passed Albert London, who stood in the shadows near the doors smoking and watching the people onstage sign their loyalty oaths. London shrugged in embarrassment as Cassidy went by. “Dangerous times, Michael. Sad and dangerous times.”

  Cassidy pushed through the doors and out into the brightness of the lobby. He stopped to light a cigarette and the street door opened, and his father came in followed by his wife, Megan, a striking blonde, a former dancer who at thirty-four still went to the barre every day and still moved with a dancer’s grace.

  “Michael.” Tom Cassidy did not hide his delight. He was a big man with big emotions, and he hugged his son hard. He missed Cassidy’s wince of pain, but Megan did not. Megan missed little.

  “Dad.” He put one arm around his father’s broad back in return and looked past him to where Megan watched the two of them with no expression. “Megan.”

  “Hello, Michael.” No smile, just an appraising look.

  “What are you doing here?” his father asked. “Did you watch rehearsal? How far have they gotten? Did you see the eleven o’clock number? You have to see the eleven o’clock. It’s terrific. It’s going to stop the show.” He listened at the door. “What are they doing in there? I go away for five minutes and they stop working.”

  “They’re signing loyalty oaths.”

  “Oh, that.” He saw Cassidy’s look. “What?”

  “Nothing.” But the tension between the two of them was already there.

  The father heard the accusation in his son’s voice. “Some of the investors asked for it. They want to be sure we’re working with the right kind of people. They want to be comfortable. What am I supposed to say? They sign and go on about their business. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “If it doesn’t mean a thing, why ask them to do it?”

  “Everybody’s doing it. What’s the big deal?”

  “If they don’t sign, do they lose their jobs?”

  “Nobody’s going to lose his job. I know everyone in there. They’ll sign.”

  “Did you sign one?”

  “Me? Why should I sign one? I’m a loyal American.”

  “How do we know that unless you sign?”

  Megan tried to intercede. “Michael, stop it. Tom, please. Michael, let it go.”

  “Michael, what the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “What else are we going to have to sign about? That we’re not thieves, or murderers? Maybe that we’re not liars. Or we’re not Democrats, or not Republicans.”

  Megan banged back outside so she would not have to listen.

  “I’m a businessman. I’m trying to produce a play, that’s all. Do you know how hard it is to produce a play? It’s damn hard. Is it bullshit? Sure it’s bullshit, but my investors want it. Everybody’s doing it. It doesn’t mean anything. Why do you always fight me? I say black, you say white. I say high, you say low. You might be wrong, you know.”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Okay.” His father started toward the doors to the theater, then stopped and turned back. “Just come in for a few minutes. I’ll get them to run the number. You tell me what you think.”

  Cassidy recognized the peace offering. He tried to push his anger down, but he could still feel its heat. Go now, before it gets worse. “I can’t. I’m on the job.”

  “Oh, well, okay. Another time.” He smiled, but Cassidy knew he was disappointed. He went into the theater, and Cassidy opened the big glass door and went out.

  Megan stood under the marquee smoking a cigarette. “That went well,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a fight every time you see him.”

  “I don’t want it either, but goddamn it.”

  “Stop being so angry at him.”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  She blew smoke toward the marquee and studied him. “When are you going to stop giving me this crap? Is there a statute of limitations?”

  “I don’t know.” He was always surprised at how direct she was. He would admire it if he let himself.

  “I make your father happy. We have a good time together. I’m not a gold digger. I’m sorry about what happened with your mother, but that’s not about me.”

  “We’re not going to talk about that.”

  “We’ve been married six years. I’m here to stay. You have to get used to it.” She spoke without heat, simple statements of fact. “Your father doesn’t know why you’re angry at him. He doesn’t know why you don’t come around. He makes excuses for you. You’re working hard. You’re working nights. But it makes him sad.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Sometimes, Michael, you can be a real asshole.”

  He had no answer to that.

  She flipped the cigarette to the gutter where it landed in sparks and went into the theater.

  He walked south as the evening fell and the lights came on in the city. He watched the people leaving work and hurrying toward home, eager for what and who waited there, and he wondered where they found that ease. He could never remember it in his own home. Not that it had been a battleground when they were growing up, but there was always a low current of tension generated by two people living together who had completely opposite expectations of life. They did fight, and the fights were explosive, but they made up with the same intensity, and for a while the air would be clear like after the passing of a thunderstorm.

  His father’s world was the theater, a business that kept him out late, caused him to travel, involved him, as Cassidy had learned, with other women who offered him something his wife did not. He expected to come home to a perfect American household, a loving wife and three happy, handsome, bright children, the house neat and clean, the laundry done, dinner on the table, whenever he chose to appear. When he left in the morning it was as if in his mind the family remained behind unchanging, locked in amber, until his return. It was not, Cassidy eventually understood, malice or indifference on his father’s part. It was just an inability to consider what happened outside his immediate orbit. He had come from so little and had gained so much, had come so far and was so happy with where he had arrived, that he could not believe that anyone who had not
had that struggle could be unhappy. He was an instinctive optimist, and if he was happy, everyone was happy. How could it be otherwise? He viewed the world through the crack in his own forehead and assumed that everyone saw what he saw.

  What he did not see was his wife’s drift, and when he did notice it, he assumed it would be fixed by Dr. Valentine and his vitamin B12 shots, or by a week in Bermuda, or a trip to Paris. Joan asked for a divorce thinking it would shock him into paying attention, and he agreed to it, thinking he had no right to refuse her. It was one of her many miscalculations about him. Her first had been the idea that he had been sent to save her from a life of middle-class boredom when it was precisely that middle-class regularity he wanted as a sign of his success.

  Her last miscalculation happened one night when Cassidy was sixteen.

  Brian was in the navy by then, finishing his officer’s training. Leah had gone skiing with the family of a friend from school. Cassidy spent the day with his friend Mal Brown and would not be home, if his pattern held true, until after his eleven o’clock curfew. The housekeeper had gone to see her sister in New Jersey.

  Joan made an appointment with Tom, Cassidy learned, for three in the afternoon to discuss the divorce, and Tom swore that he would be there on time. She called him again at the theater to make sure. He assured her he had not forgotten. She took him at his word, which was the next miscalculation. A set malfunctioned, or maybe an actress, or maybe he lost track of time, it was never clear, but he missed the appointment. Cassidy got into an argument with Mal, and so he came home early.

  Early was too late.

  When he entered the house, it was quiet. His mother’s black mink coat was on the upholstered bench in the front hall, dropped there with the perfect understanding that someone else would hang it up in the closet.

  When he saw the coat, he knew that he had dreamed this moment weeks before. He wanted to turn and go, but he could not. In the dream he had been awake and yet in the dream at the same time, as if watching from just outside himself. He had been in this hall. He had gone upstairs, drawn against his will toward some fearful thing that he knew but could not see.