“Mom.” Mark stepped around Wetzon to greet his mother. He was half a head taller than Smith already and still growing.
“Smitty,” Mort called proprietarily. Maybe Carlos hadn’t told him of Mark’s connection to Smith.
“Mom, I’m working. I can’t talk now.”
“I’ll see you later, babycakes,” Smith said, her voice catching on babycakes. She seemed to be searching his face. “Joel and I are going to Gloucester for the afternoon....”
“What a great idea,” Wetzon said, with more enthusiasm than she felt. Smith was definitely rattled. “It is a good idea, isn’t it, Mark?” She placed herself between Mark and Mort Hornberg, in the center of the orchestra with JoJo and Poppy. Mort motioned to Mark, calling again, “Smitty.”
“Smitty?” Smith blinked, as if there was a cinder in her eye.
“They’ve nicknamed Mark, Smitty,” Wetzon said. Blocking Mort, who was sliding out of the row toward them, she said through her teeth, “My partner is Smitty’s mother. So watch yourself.” She controlled the urge to smack him, as Smith had done, on his wound. Instead, she took his good arm, turned him around and steered him firmly toward the orchestra pit. Maybe with a little luck she could push him into it.
“I didn’t know he had a mother, for Chrissakes.” Mort yanked his arm away from her. “Let go.”
“Spare me, Mort.” When she sneaked a look, Smith had gone and Smitty was standing in the aisle as if his limbs had rusted and needed oiling. Poppy, the opportunist, rose from where she was sitting with JoJo, but her husband was too fast for her. Darting around Wetzon, Mort reclaimed Smitty.
“Damn!” Wetzon punched the palm of her hand and her shoulder bag slipped into the crook of her elbow. Wasn’t opening a new show problem enough without all this added sexual intrigue?
“Sit yourself down and relax, girl.” A cool, smooth hand touched hers. “Nothing you do is going to change anything.”
“Fran, do you see what’s going on?” What a question. She knew from experience that Fran missed nothing.
“I have eyes.” He rubbed his swollen knuckles on the hand clutching the death’s head cane. “And I’ve been a manager for almost fifty years. Best to stay out of it.”
“He’s so young, Fran, and Mort is such a—” She stopped. It served no purpose to go on about it. He didn’t understand, but that was all right. He was a different generation.
“Dilla’s the one who brought him in for Mort.”
“That’s so ugly—even for Dilla. I don’t think anyone knew how young he is.”
Fran’s look was kindly in spite of the cold blue of his eyes. He squeezed her hand. “Let nature take its course.”
“I guess you’ve seen it all over these years.” Maybe this was a good time to sound him out about Lenny Kaufer. She sat down in the aisle seat in front of him. “I’ll bet you have stories to tell.”
JoJo slid out of the center row and moved down the aisle toward the stage. He gave her a knowing glance. Now what was that about?
“Yeh.” Fran winked at her. “But I’m not talking. I want to go out with my boots on.”
“How did you get started in this business, Fran?” She unbuttoned her coat.
The old man grunted. “My Uncle Bert was in the business. House manager at the Palace. He knew everybody. Everybody. You had to have a connection in those days.”
“I don’t think it’s changed any. Who did you start with?”
“The best,” he said. “Lenny Kaufer.”
She willed herself to sound casual. “Lenny Kaufer? He’s a legend.”
“Nobody like him. Lenny trained me.”
“That must have been an incredible experience, Fran. I always heard that nothing happened at any box office anywhere without Lenny Kaufer knowing about it and sanctioning it.”
“He was the best—”
“Who was? Move it, Leslie.” Aline sat herself down, squeezing into the aisle seat, hardly giving Wetzon a chance to slide over one. She wrapped her cashmere cloak around her. Her wrist was in a cast.
Fran closed up. Wetzon felt it. Damn Aline. On the other hand, maybe she could get them both started and shake out something interesting. After all, Aline had been around almost as long as Fran.
“So?” Aline said. Her pug face was layered with pancake, the blue eyeliner smeared. A ring of mascara crawled from the puffy bags under her eyes.
“Oh, Fran was reminiscing about the old days—with Lenny Kaufer.”
Fran’s swollen hand stiffened on the cane.
“Lenny Kaufer,” Aline mused. “What a classy guy.”
“Yeah,” Fran agreed, loosening up some.
“And what a power. He controlled the ice on every show for years.”
“What are you talking about, Aline?” Leaning on his cane, Fran heaved himself to his feet. Wetzon thought she heard him say, “Stupid bitch,” but Aline obviously didn’t.
“Come off it, Fran. They didn’t call him the Iceman for nothing.”
“Gossip like that,” Fran said, caressing the head of his cane, “is not good for your health.”
35.
“Can you believe that?”
Aline scrunched her nose and poked her thumb over her shoulder as Fran’s massive silhouette lumbered up the aisle. She was wearing a different pair of glasses today, one hundred percent retro. Rhinestones decorated the wing-tipped corners. “Acting as if he’s Mr. Clean. Everyone knows he inherited the Icecapade from Lenny.”
“Really?”
Aline nodded her head emphatically. Rhinestones glinted. “Why do you think the old fart is still hanging in there? He doesn’t want to let go.”
“I always thought Fran loved the business; that’s why he’s still around.”
“Oh, I suppose we all love the business; otherwise we’d be”—her eyes flicked over Wetzon—“working on Wall Street.”
Was that meant to be snide? Wetzon wondered. She was about to respond in kind when Aline added, “Take it from me, Fran is socking the money away.”
“A little like having an annuity?” Wetzon asked, keeping her spikes in neutral.
“More like running a racket.” She readjusted her cloak and glared at Wetzon as if Wetzon was in it with Fran.
“How’d you hurt your hand?”
“Oh, this?” Aline held out her arm, studying the cast as if she’d just seen it for the first time. “You know, aging bones, accident in the home. I flung out my hand to make a point and collided with an open door.”
“Aline, is there a Mrs. Lenny Kaufer?”
“Yes. Celia. But she didn’t last long after Lenny died. She never opened her mouth, not even then, when she could have. You know, she was one of those walk-three-paces-behind-your-man sort.” Aline craned her fat neck. “Where is that boy? I’m starving.”
Laughter came from the stage, and the cast applauded. Carlos danced into the wings, then reappeared in the orchestra, where Mort was standing. The one pass door from the stage to the orchestra was on house left. Wetzon’s hands grasped the arms of her seat, but Carlos and Mort exchanged a few words, then threw their arms around one another.
“What did I tell you?” Sunny called. She was sitting across the aisle behind Twoey, her hand resting ever so lightly on his shoulder.
“I concede, Sunny.” Wetzon turned her attention back to Aline. “So I guess Lenny Kaufer left his family pretty well fixed.”
Aline’s immense bosom trembled as if something were inside rattling the fleshy cage to get out. “Well, now, that’s quite another story—Oh, there you are, ducky.” Aline’s assistant, Edward Gray, had made his appearance carrying a fat plastic shopping bag. All kinds of lovely junk food smells emanated from the bag.
Wetzon’s stomach growled. Definitely time for lunch. Memories of the road came hurtling back from some deep recess, how everything was measured by meal breaks. Rehearsal, meal break, rehearsal ...
“Birdie! Wanna have lunch?” An entirely recovered Carlos bounded up, exuding energy.
“And here I thought you were all mine.” He skimmed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Aline, darling.” Bending, he and Aline exchanged cheek kisses.
“I do have a business to run.” Wetzon rose. The Theatre was like quicksand, sucking her back, almost making her forget she was part of the dynamic (she yawned) headhunting team of Smith and Wetzon.
Carlos did a deep plié. “Have you seen Sam? There’s an itty-bitty change I need—”
Aline shook her head. “I suppose you saw the Globe.”
“How could I miss it? Birdie, I’ll meet you at Remington’s in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.” Off he went to confer with JoJo.
When Wetzon turned back to Aline, Aline and Edward were feeding each other french fries. A burger dripping melted yellow cheddar sat in an open plastic container, precarious on the arm of Aline’s seat. Entirely engrossed in Edward and her food, Aline didn’t even look up when Wetzon said, “See ya later.”
There was always a telephone near the stage door. She came up through the pass door into the wings. Across the stage someone snapped, “I’m tired of taking the heat for you.” Kay’s voice, tough and uncompromising. “Get your fucking act together.”
Who was she talking to?
The stage was raked on a steep angle and dotted with myriad marks. God, she’d hated dancing on a rake like that. Injuries galore. She hoped dancers were getting hazard pay for that now; they certainly hadn’t in her time. Wetzon slipped around the back near the redbrick rear wall. How many times had she done this when she was a dancer?
The cue board and monitors were stage left and she could just make out Kay and Phil. Poor Phil. Too much, too soon. He was clearly out of his depth in Hotshot. Kay’s assistant, Nomi, was standing at Kay’s elbow. Two against one. Maybe she should ... No, she thought. Stay out of it. It’s between them.
Just off the stage were the star dressing rooms, two or three depending on the stars, because one could be used as a suite—for someone the caliber of Liza Minnelli. Since there were no real stars in Hotshot, the dressing rooms had been assigned by raffle. Three downstairs, the rest upstairs.
A pair of actors, laughing, intense, came down the stairs where the chorus dressing rooms Wetzon knew well were like maids’ rooms in old mansions: rabbit warrens. They brushed past her with distracted apologies, and she followed them to the stage door. Something in the air coming in from the alley, an odd pungency, vaguely gamy, made her nose tickle. She squelched a sneeze.
The ancient call-board was a thicket of personal messages, phone numbers and advertisements, the grubby menus of several local restaurants. Sitting on a pillow in a thrift-shop swivel chair was a stubby woman in gray cords and gray oxfords with gum soles. Her stiff orange hair protruded like an unkempt hedge over the tabloid she was reading. The Improper Bostonian. Wetzon had never heard of it.
An actress was baby talking on the only phone near the outside door.
“Excuse me, is there another phone backstage that I can use?”
The orange-haired woman looked up from her paper. She had a mole on her chin that sported two stiff black hairs. “The men’s smoker—Go back and make a right—”
At that moment the actress hung up and dashed out the stage door. The phone began to ring.
“Aw, for Chrissakes,” the stage door person growled from behind her paper. “Damn gypsies.”
The phone continued to ring. Wetzon picked it up. “Yes?”
“Please deposit another seventy-five cents,” a digital voice intoned.
“I haven’t made a call—” Wetzon looked at the stage door person. There was no movement behind the newspaper.
“Please deposit another seventy-five cents,” the operator repeated.
“Look, here,” Wetzon said. “I have to make a call to New York. The party that owes you seventy-five cents has left the building. I would appreciate it if you would clear the line so that I can make my call.” She hung up and waited. The phone was mum. Her nose tickled again and she sniffed. Sour apples.
She picked up the phone, put a coin in and dialed “O” and her office number. When the operator came on, Wetzon said, “Collect, please.” She sneezed.
Walt Greenow in a plaid flannel shirt came in from the alley with one of the theatre stagehands. Both carried cables and boxed equipment. “Hey, Leslie,” Walt said. They squeezed by Wetzon and disappeared down the corridor. They seemed to have brought the fermenting smell in with them.
“Excuse me,” she called to the orange-haired woman. “Isn’t that a peculiar odor?”
Lowering her paper with deep reluctance, the woman gave a thunderous sniff. “Aw, for Chrissakes! They did it again.” She rose and threw her paper on the chair. “Keep your eye on the door, wouldja?” She didn’t wait for an answer.
The phone stopped ringing. “Smith and Wetzon,” B.B. said.
“I have a collect call from Wetzon in Boston—” the operator began.
“Okay,” B.B. said. “I’ll accept.”
“Hey, Birdie!” Phil Terrace materialized from the corridor. “Has anyone seen Mort?”
“Hi, B.B.” Wetzon shook her head at Phil and he opened the stage door and went into the alley.
“What’s that godawful smell?” Poppy Hornberg was carrying a piece of silvery fabric. “Leslie? Have you seen Mort?”
No one paid any attention to the fact that Wetzon was on the phone. “No, I haven’t,” she said. Poppy frowned and went back into the house.
“Wetzon—” B.B. said.
“Did Phil go out?” Fran Burke was standing at her elbow.
“Hold on, B.B.” To Fran, she said, “Yes, about a minute ago.”
Fran lumbered past her, pushed the stage door open with his cane, and called, “Phil?” There was no response, but Fran went out anyway, came back into the theatre, shaking his head. He looked furious. “If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him.” He thumped back the way he’d come.
“B.B.? Are you still—” But her words were knocked out of her by someone, who flew by and out the stage door, slamming Wetzon hard against the wall. Her ankle gave a bad twist. “Yeow!” She dropped the phone.
“Hello? Wetzon? Wetzon?” She could barely hear B.B.’s voice as the earpiece swung back and forth, clunking against the wall.
She grabbed it and spoke into it. “B.B., I’m sorry. It’s like Grand Central Station here. I’ll call you later.” She hung up the phone. Then she put her weight gingerly on her complaining ankle. You klutz, she thought. It didn’t feel like a sprain, but she’d be wise to ice it, and quickly. Damnation! Everyone connected with this show was like the walking wounded. Wrist casts, banged heads, arms in slings, sprained ankles. All she’d wanted to do was make a simple phone call.
Who had bulldozed her? Where was he going in such a rush? Angry, she shouldered open the stage door and stepped outside. The snow was a blessing. She took a deep, cleansing breath, and saw Mark shivering against the brick wall of the theatre. His face was drawn, terrified. He seemed to be rubbing his hands in the snow.
Concerned, Wetzon reached out to him, but he backed away. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?” Mark stumbled and she caught him. “You’d better come inside.” He wasn’t wearing a coat and his lips were blue.
Slinging Mark’s unresisting arm over her shoulder, she half-supported him into the theatre and dropped him into Cerberus’s empty chair, on top of the crumpled newspaper.
He clutched her hand desperately. “Don’t leave me,” he pleaded.
He seemed about to say more, and she said, “Not yet. Just breathe.” Closing her eyes, bloody dots danced on her lids. Bloody dots and flashing lights. Her ankle throbbed.
She opened her eyes, still patting Mark’s shuddering back. On the floor, snow and grit melted into a rusty soup. Mark jiggled restlessly, humming under his breath. Wetzon crossed one leg over the other. Her right boot had a ring of crusty reddish mud around the bottom, near the sole
. And the sole of her left, when she checked, was laced with blood and melted snow.
It came to her slowly: Someone had tracked blood to the stage door where it had bled into the snow.
36.
“Mark?” Wetzon’s voice was hushed. “What’s going on here?”
The braying of a wounded animal issued from somewhere in the depths of theatre. Wetzon jumped. Ahead of her, the shadowy corridor was a maze of unexpected turns. The cry came again. Now voices seemed to be responding.
“It’s Mort—” Mark looked possessed; he was half-standing, about to take flight.
The stage door to Allen’s Alley behind the theatre was half-open; voices were coming from the alley. Footsteps thumped down the hall, accompanied by the braying, and the orange-haired woman appeared, her face a ghastly green. “Call the cops,” she gasped, swaying. “There’s a stiff in the smoker.”
Outside, the rumble of voices stopped. Phil Terrace burst through the door, brushing snow from his jacket. He took off his oversize cap and shook it out. His face was shiny, a kind of oily sheen mixed with melting snow, and his expression was expectant. “Leslie?”
He knows, Wetzon thought.
The doorkeeper was beginning to panic; her arms became uncoordinated wings. “It’s Mr. Hornberg. I saw his cap. Call the cops. Someone bashed Mr. Hornberg’s head in.”
Speechless, Wetzon looked at Mark. He knows, too; she thought. She stumbled to the phone, her hands shaking, and dropped the receiver. “You do it, Phil. Call 911. Someone’s murdered Mort.”
Phil gaped at her. “Huh?”
What was he waiting for? “Call the police. You must—” Wetzon took a ragged breath and lunged for the dangling receiver.
Moving swiftly, Phil placed himself between her and the phone. Cerberus of the orange hair screamed, “Call the cops!”
“What are you doing, Phil?” Wetzon demanded. “Are you crazy? Get out of my way.” Behind her, someone grabbed her shoulders. Her ankle protested.
Fran Burke was holding her. His wool coat glistened with unmelted snow. “Easy, girl.” Where had he come from? She pushed back at him. “Get out of my way, Fran. Someone—Mort—has been murdered in the men’s smoker. Ask her.” Wetzon pointed to the orange-haired woman. The orange-haired woman burst into tears.
Murder: The Musical Page 20