“It’s not what you think, Kay,” Wetzon said.
“What am I thinking, Leslie?”
They watched Kay march down the side aisle. Wetzon looked around. “Come in here, Mark.”
“But it’s the ladies’ room.”
She smiled. “This is show biz.” Opening the door, she called, “Anyone here?” When no one replied, she pulled Mark in and shut the door. She took the empty cardboard box from him and dropped it on the floor near the waste bin. “How long have you known?”
“I felt different, but I didn’t know why. When I went away to school, I knew....”
“Oh, baby, it’s not going to be easy for you. You know that?”
“I know.”
He didn’t know, but she let it pass. “How did you get into this Theatre stuff?”
“Dilla. She caught me sneaking in and hanging around rehearsals.”
Wetzon sighed. “And what about school?”
“I told them Mom wasn’t feeling well and I took the train in the afternoon about three or four times a week—whenever I could get away.”
“Where did you stay?”
“At Dilla’s and Susan’s. They sort of adopted me. I told them I was an orphan.”
“Oh, Mark.” Smith would absolutely die. “Your mother is here, you know, and she’ll see you, so you’re going to have to tell her—”
“God, Wetzon, I can’t tell her I’m gay.”
“No, I guess you can’t, but you can tell her you’re working on the show. Promise me you’ll do it.”
“Okay.”
“How did you get on the show anyway?”
“Dilla introduced me to Mort. And Carlos, too, of course.”
My God, Wetzon thought. Dilla was pimping for Mort. “Were you hanging around the theatre at the meeting the night before Dilla was murdered?”
He nodded. “I’d just gotten there. It was raining so hard, I got soaked. I don’t think anyone really noticed me. They were arguing about something and then Carlos left. He was really mad. I hung around for a while, until Sam and Aline left. But then Mort and Dilla had a big fight.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. Something about how she always covered for him, and when she needed him, he turned her down. I didn’t know what to do so I went outside. It was sleeting and raining, and I was freezing, but I’d closed the stage door and couldn’t get back in because it was locked. And I didn’t have an umbrella. Mort was supposed to take me to dinner—we’d had this plan—but I guess he forgot.”
“Where did you stay that night?”
“I called Carlos. He let me stay with him.”
“For just that night?”
“For the weekend.”
Wetzon sighed, disheartened. “Was the front of the theatre dark? Was anyone around?”
“You mean when I got locked out?”
She nodded.
“I ran around the block to Forty-fifth Street to the front, but that was locked, too,” Mark said. “I could see someone inside, in the box office, but she wouldn’t let me in.”
29.
“I broke the news about Smitty to Mort,” Carlos announced.
“And?” She was really angry with Mort, but she was probably wrong to be. How would he have known Mark was only seventeen?
Wetzon and Carlos were stretched out, shoes cast off, side by side on Carlos’s king-size bed. A bottle of a French cabernet sauvignon and a double order of scrambled eggs and bacon were history.
The company had broken at midnight, and everyone was ravenous. Carlos and Wetzon had rushed back to Carlos’s room and ordered room service.
“If he wasn’t such a nice kid, I’d be only too happy to see the Barracuda suffer.”
“He is a nice kid. Carlos, he told me he’s gay.”
“Didn’t I tell you, darling Birdie? Carlos is never wrong about that.”
She kicked him. “Oh, go on. You always say everybody is gay.”
“But darling,” Carlos drawled, “everybody is.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“You say.” Carlos chortled diabolically, and she kicked him again.
“Let’s get serious here,” she said sternly.
“Okay.” He laughed and threw his arms around her. “We’re getting old together.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Birdie, I worry about you.”
“Carlos—” She pushed him away. “What’s this?”
“What if something happened to me?”
She felt a stab of fear. “Is anything wrong?” She sat up. “Are you okay?”
“No. I mean, yes. I’m fine.” He raised himself on his elbow and leaned his head on his hand. “It’s not that.”
“Swear”—she traced a cross over his heart with her finger—”and hope to die.” He shivered an exaggerated sensual shiver. “I’m not kidding,” she said.
“I swear; dear heart.”
“Well, fine then.” She flopped down on the bed beside him again, facing him, elbow on bed, head in hand. Now they were bookends.
He laughed at her. Then he got serious again. “I’d like to see you settled.”
“You’re just jealous ‘cause I’m still playing the field.”
“Ha!”
“You are not my father, you know.”
“Forgive me.” He fluttered his long dark lashes. “I just care. I want you to have someone steady—like Arthur. He’s my rock.”
“I could marry Alton. He’s a rock. What do you think? Is he too old for me?”
“I think if you love him—fine.” Carlos looked at her, his eyes bright.
“I love him. But—”
“But what?”
“He’s so easy to be with.”
“That’s a but?”
“Don’t start.” Wetzon closed her eyes and rolled over on her back. She’d had too much wine. “It’s too smooth.”
“What is?”
“The relationship.”
“Oho. The earth doesn’t move.”
“You got it.”
“And with Silvestri?”
“A veritable earthquake.”
He took her hand. “Well, la di dah, darling. I guess there’s your answer.”
They lay side by side for awhile, silent.
“I ought to go. Otherwise I’ll fall asleep here.”
He grinned. “And ruin your reputation.”
She reached over and tickled his side along his ribs, and he coiled up like a satisfied snake. “You’re in great shape,” she said enviously.
He poked her and she rolled off the bed gracefully, landing on her feet. “You’re not so bad yourself, Birdie.”
“Mark said someone was in the box office Friday night after you left in a huff.”
“Yeah? I guess the treasurer could have been there that late.”
“The treasurer is Phil’s mother. She must have gotten Phil the job as Dilla’s assistant.”
“No, I don’t think so. I think it was Fran, but I’m not sure.”
“Fran?”
“Well, you know Fran and Dilla had this cautiously adversarial relationship.” He patted the bed next to him. “Come on back.”
“Cautiously adversarial. Interesting way of saying they hated each other. They had to work together, though. Maybe Dilla wanted a piece of the ice. Carlos, do you think Fran could have killed her? He could have bludgeoned her with his cane. Do you know how heavy it is? It must be weighted.”
“I don’t think Fran has the strength in his arms to lift that cane over his head.” He patted the bed again.
Wetzon lay down. “My skirt is getting wrinkled.”
“Take it off.”
“Going straight, darling?”
“Au contraire.”
“Gideon Winkler was on the plane with Joel.”
“Oh?” Carlos shot upright.
“He told Smith he was coming up to fix the show.”
“How does he know the show needs fixing? We haven’t e
ven had an audience. The long knives are out.”
“It’s not enough that I succeed, my friends must also fail.”
Carlos fell back against his pillow. “I’ll think about it tomorrow.”
Neither spoke. Wetzon listened to their breathing.
“If Smith finds out Mark is gay, she’s apt to kill him. Or herself. Mark is scared to death she’ll find out.”
Carlos yawned. “She’ll get over it. Besides, that one would never kill herself.”
“Maybe she won’t find out.” She yawned, too. She was having trouble keeping her eyes open.
“Ha! It’s hard to keep those things a secret.”
“He promised me he’d tell her he had a job on the show and will leave it at that. He’s not about to tell her ...”
She woke with a start. Carlos was snoring next to her. Sitting up, she looked at her watch. Two-thirty. Her skirt was a mess. She tried to smooth it. She took her jacket and coat from the chair where she’d tossed them, picked up her purse, stuck her feet in her shoes. At least the nightmare hadn’t come.
She gave Carlos a gentle kiss. “Good night, doll.”
He murmured, “Love ya,” and rolled over.
Turning out the lights, Wetzon stepped into the hallway and closed the door, arranging the do-not-disturb sign on the doorknob. The hallway was empty. No one around at all. How different it was now. The Theatre she’d been part of had been so sexual. Not sexy, but sexual. Everybody was doing it. And when they weren’t doing it, or planning to do it, they were thinking about doing it. The fire escapes in the tacky hotels had been gridlocked after rehearsals or performances. Partners changed frequently. Married in New York meant single on the road. It was as if creativity made everyone horny.
By comparison, Wall Street, where money and power were the sex, where people were horny for the next deal, next conquest, not the next body, had seemed dull to her when she’d changed careers.
Now, however, the road was tame. Circumspect. AIDS had made everyone fearful. Spontaneity was abandoned. Even safe sex wasn’t safe anymore. She walked down the hall to her room.
Where had she put her key? She searched her pockets, then her bag. There it was at the bottom of her purse, under her makeup pouch. She put it in the lock and turned it, opening the door.
The light from the hallway streaked into the dark room. Hadn’t she left all the lights on? God, had the Ritz taken to turning off lights on a timer or something?
She closed the door and groped on the wall for the light switch. Then stopped still. There was something soft on the floor.... She searched for the doorknob. Near the second bed there was a faint movement, a shift of the shadows.
She froze. Someone was in the room with her.
30.
Although overwined and sleep-befuddled, Wetzon threw open the door to the hall and stepped out, flipping on the overhead light as she did so. “Gotcha,” she said softly. Like papa bear; she thought, let’s see who’s been sleeping in my bed.
“Ow! For pitysakes!”
Wetzon jumped back into the room and slammed the door. Smith, in a white silk nightgown, was sitting up on the second bed, rubbing her eyes.
“Smith! Goddammit. What are you doing here? And in my bed!” She noticed at once that all of her things were now lumped on the bed she had intended to use to lay out her clothes.
“I can’t believe you woke me out of a sound sleep just to ask me that,” Smith said querulously, hand protecting her eyes. “Turn off that light.”
Wetzon switched on the lamp on the chest of drawers, taking in the fact that Smith had spread her accessories out on the top of the bureau. She flicked off the overhead light. “How, may I be so bold as to ask, did you think I was going to get into bed?” She began sorting out her clothes from the pile on the bed, feeling Smith’s eyes boring into her, sizing up her humor, which was getting worse by the second. There were no hangers left for Wetzon’s clothing. “Shit, fire, and corruption!” She kicked the closet door shut.
“Sweetie pie, really. I thought you were out for the night.”
“And whom would I be out with, pray tell?”
Smith shrugged her fabulous shoulders delicately. “Well, there are a few people connected with the show who are not queer. One or two. For example, a technical person who is rather attractive and who appears to be crazy about you....” She had that smug look on her face that made Wetzon crazy.
“What are you talking about, Smith?”
“Walt.” There was that smug look again.
“Walt? Walt Greenow? How the hell did you meet him?” It was astonishing how quickly Smith had made herself at home in Wetzon’s theatrical world as well as Wetzon’s room at the Ritz. “Crazy about me? Read my lips. Walt Greenow is not crazy about me. I ran into him last Saturday for the first time in over ten years.”
“You never know how to accept a compliment.” Smith’s tone had changed slightly from sugar-coated wheedling to a plaintive whine.
“Give me a goddam break, will you?” Wetzon rummaged in her suitcase for the extra-large T-shirt. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“I thought we should be together at this time.”
Wetzon stared at her partner. Had she found out about Mark? No, she couldn’t have. She’d be a basket case if that had happened. “Oh, yeah?”
“Besides, my room at the Four Seasons was a disaster.”
“Disaster, darling? You don’t know from disaster,” Wetzon said, and regretted it immediately. But Smith took no notice.
“It was the size of a broom closet.”
“How tragic.”
“There’s an AMA convention in town and not another decent room anywhere.”
“So lucky me, I have a roommate.” Wetzon picked up her coat, which she’d dropped on a chair. “Dammit, why didn’t you leave me any hangers?” She dropped her coat back on the chair. It was no use. She undressed and put on the T-shirt, then switched on the night table light.
“We can get more from housekeeping tomorrow. Don’t be so disagreeable. It’ll be such fun. You and me together.”
Wetzon twirled a circle with her index finger. “Whoopie.” She went into the bathroom. Her creams and lotions were stacked on top of the toilet tank, while Smith had spread out everywhere else. She removed her makeup with an oily pad and scrubbed her face, applying moisturizer generously. A deep frown seemed carved into her forehead and the ends of her lips were turned downward. She gave her reflection an insincere smile, and thought: To hell with you, goody two-shoes. To the tune in her head of “Officer Krupke,” from West Side Story, she methodically transferred Smith’s myriad cosmetics and lotions to the top of the toilet tank and put her own back where they’d been.
All except for her eyeliner, which plopped into the open toilet. “Shit!” Bad deeds were always punished—at least hers were.
“What are you doing in there, sweetie pie?” The lovely thread of uncertainty in Smith’s voice made Wetzon smile even as she fished her eyeliner out of the toilet and dropped it in the wastebasket. Humming, she washed her hands, dosed them with cream, and returned to the bedroom.
“I suppose you talked your way into my room.” She switched off the light on the bureau.
“It’s what I do best, sugar.”
“Have you spoken to Mark?” She pulled back the covers and slipped into bed. God, she was tired.
“Yes, and do you know what my clever baby has gone and done? I’m just so proud of him.”
“No. What?” She pushed aside the second pillow and laid the first one flat, then nestled down into it.
“He talked his way into a job on Hotshot while he’s in Boston.”
“Good heavens. He is certainly his mother’s son.” Wetzon closed her eyes and found she couldn’t open them. “Turn off the light, will you, Smith? I’m dead.” She could feel herself drifting off.
“Sweetie pie, no!”
Wetzon’s body gave a violent jerk, waking her. “Dammit, Smith!”
“Yo
u woke me up, so now you have to stay awake and talk to me.”
“About what?” She reached out and turned off the light.
Smith turned it on again.
Opening one eye, Wetzon saw Smith was still sitting up. “Christalmighty, do you want me to read you a bedtime story?”
“You are an absolute poop. Very well. You may turn off the light, and I’ll just sit here in the dark.”
“I give up!” Wetzon sat up and thumped her pillows. “All right. You have your wish. I am now awake. Talk to me.”
“Weeeelll. Let me see ... I had a lovely dinner with Joel at Joseph’s.”
“Just you two? Not the twin?”
“Oh, no. Audrey, too. It’s so lovely to see sister and brother so close.”
“Oh, yes, lovely.” Wetzon’s eyes were closing again.
“She sticks to him like Velcro.”
“So I’ve heard. Could we turn out that light? It’s hurting my eyes.”
“You’ll fall asleep.”
“No, I promise.” She grinned at Smith. “Not until you give me permission.”
“Very funny,” Smith said, but she reached over and snapped off the light.
A radiant kaleidoscope of rainbow colors dazzled Wetzon’s eyes. She snuggled down under the covers fervently wishing she’d stayed the night with Carlos. “Carlos and I had dinner with Twoey and Sunny Browning.”
“Twoey and Sunny Browning,” Smith repeated in an annoyed voice.
“Yes, they seem quite taken with each other.”
“Humpf! It just goes to show you that I was right about him. He’s a wuss.”
“You’re wrong, Smith. You wouldn’t know a nice guy if you fell over him, but I’m too tired to argue ...”
“Wetzon, don’t you dare fall asleep.” Smith was standing over her, shaking her.
“Go away.”
“I have more to tell—”
“Talk fast,” Wetzon mumbled.
Smith got back into her bed. “Audrey Cassidy’s charming, all things considered. I never thought I’d say that about one of them.”
“Them?” A muffled horn sounded from the street.
“You know. Dykes.”
“The correct word, Smith, is lesbians.”
“Whatever. Mort joined us for a drink, and he and Joel got into a discussion about how much they could give Gideon if he comes in and doctors the show. Mort would have to give up some of his percentage as a director, and your friend Carlos, even more as choreographer.”
Murder: The Musical Page 17