“Is there something you’d like, Chris?” Matilda had finally taken to calling him Chris and he was pleased about that.
“No, just checking in on everyone, seeing how your night went.” Chris thought about asking if there was any leftover chicken fried steak. He didn’t want to keep her there any longer than required.
As if she’d read his mind, Matilda said: “Chris, I put together some leftovers for you to take home.” She opened the service fridge and pointed to a big, brown paper bag with Chris’ name written neatly on it. Like an overgrown lunch bag.
“Thanks, that’s very kind.”
“I know it’s your favorite!” She smiled brightly.
Chris didn’t know how she did it, working fourteen-hour days, six and sometimes seven days a week. It’s what chefs did, he’d been told. He walked out of the room with a good-night to Matilda, and down the hall. The Ain’t cast headed out with nods, pats on his back, and a chorus of “Good-nights.”
The man playing the Andre Shields role, Jesse Roma, thin-waisted, flat-stomached dancer’s body, dressed sharply in a torso hugging shirt, that showed every muscle and nipple, and skinny jeans, that showed just about everything else, held out his hand and shook Chris’. “Headed in to sing a bit, boss. I was hoping you’d be playing.” His eyes were big and bright, his body compact and tight.
Chris’s heart skipped a beat. He felt the actual heat coming from the dancer. “Nope, it’s Jason tonight.” He wished it were him. This man excited Chris.
“Maybe we’ll do our Amos and Andy routine. Make all ’em libral queers uncomfertable.”
Chris laughed. “It’s our job to entertain so be sure to take the sand up on stage so you can dance for the folks.” He liked that he made Jesse laugh. Twenty years ago he’d have this man shoved up against a wall somewhere, with something of his shoved into one of Jesse’s orifices; not caring who saw them together. Coffee and cream.
“Yassuh, massuh boss, sir.” Jesse released Chris’ hand and headed into the barroom.
Chris continued backstage. The theater, dark except for the Exit signs and the single work light on the stage, smelled of humanity and grease paint. He walked out to center stage and stood, peering into the darkness. Chris felt the wind just before the crash. Less than a foot from him a rolled up backdrop crashed to the floor. One step this way or that and it would have clocked him. He stood, in shock, as a flock of people ran into the theater.
“Chris? What the hell happ—” Nancy Ann was on stage, next to him. She seemed to appear from nowhere. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. It didn’t hit me, just scared the shit out of me.”
Liz Nashe pushed through the crowd. She got up on stage and hugged Chris. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m okay. I don’t know what happened. The thing just crashed behind me.”
“What were you doing here on stage?” Nancy Ann asked.
“I do this every night. I walk the whole club several times a night, actually. But, I always come in here after the last show…after I visit Matilda and she tells me what leftovers I’m taking home…after I say good-night to the last cast. I come out here in the dark, look to the back of the house, and for a moment, I’m seventeen again. It’s just a moment. My moment.” Chris felt his knees go soft. He didn’t know who, but a flock of hands helped him off the stage and into a chair. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
The stage lights flashed on. Nancy Ann and someone Chris didn’t know hauled an extension ladder on stage and got it open. The stage manager was up the ladder examining the ropes and bars that the backdrops and scrims hung from.
“This rope is frayed. I’d swear it’s been cut with…”
“Don’t touch anything. Call the police,” Liz shouted into the room.
“More police. They’re going to have to open a precinct here at Tamburlaine.” Chris leaned his head against Liz’s shoulder.
“Maybe that would keep you safer.” Liz patted Chris’ hand.
“Maybe it would.” Chris sighed. It was going to be another long night of questions and answers with the New York Metropolitan Police Department. He wished he hadn’t had so much bourbon while singing at the piano. He wondered if the accident would make the news. Any press is good press, as the saying goes.
Thirty-seven
The early assessment: the lines holding the backdrop were cut, not worn. The inspector conjectured a line attached to the backdrop was connected to a small device below the stage. It wasn’t on a timer, but remote activated and that the time registered on the dial synced with the moment of the accident. The perpetrator had to be in Tamburlaine at the time of the occurrence because the infrared eye wasn’t very strong.
Liz and Nancy Ann helped Chris home after the hours of police questioning.
“Who would have access?” Liz closed the kitchen door and got a pot of coffee brewing.
Nancy Ann held out a chair for Chris who did not sit.
“I would like some bourbon,” he said.
“I thought you were still on water.” Nancy Ann said in a mothering voice.
“I would like some bourbon.”
“Fine.” Nancy Ann rooted around the cupboards. Chris gave directions.
Liz took charge. “Take him into the living room and get him settled on the couch. I’ll bring coffee and bourbon for all of us.”
It might have been her tone, but more than likely it was Liz’s age that motivated Nancy Ann to follow directions and guide Chris into the living room.
“I’m not a fucking invalid!” he yelled. “Sorry. My nerves are about shot. Maybe it’s time to dump the club and move to Florida. Someone is trying to kill me. It’s time for this to end, but the police don’t seem any closer today about knowing who is doing all of this.”
Liz entered the room with a tray and set it down on the coffee table. She served shots of bourbon and cups of coffee to Chris and Nancy Ann.
“Where are your tits?” Nancy Ann blurted out.
“Never something to ask a lady.” Chris chuckled.
“Fuck, they were heavy and annoying and I slipped out of them. That’s certainly one advantage of being a drag queen. You can just slip out of the padding and bumps and curves when you’re done with them.”
Everyone laughed.
“Let’s work through a few things. Who has access to the basement?” Liz opened a small, black notebook and, like a ’40s reporter licked the end of a pencil.
“Me,” Nancy Ann began. “And, all the tech crew. We open the trap door twice a night and swap the sets.”
“How many on the crew?”
“Four of us.”
“Matilda and her staff,” Chris said, finishing his bourbon and holding out his glass for a refill.
“How many?” Liz asked as Nancy Ann poured more bourbon for Chris.
“Don’t know really. Nine or ten, plus Matilda.” Chris touched Nancy Ann’s arm.
“Yeah, but those girls aren’t going back into the dust and dirt of the basement.” Nancy Ann took a sip of bourbon, made a face, and set the glass down.
“The four bartenders and the bar-backs. They use the dumbwaiter all night to hoist beer and booze upstairs.” Chris felt a mix of emotions. There were a lot of people working in the club. It felt good to employ so many people again. But, any one of them could be the person, or the point person, who’d tried to kill him.
“Well, you should include the waiters. I’ve never seen them down there, but they could, right? Early or after hours.” Nancy Ann sipped coffee. “Mmmm. This is good. Better than he ever makes.”
“Hey now. Don’t kick a guy when he’s down.” Chris laughed.
“And, if we’re including the waiters, five of them, right?” Nancy asked.
“Right. Then we should include the cast. Ten for the first show and six for the second. Three musicia
ns both shows. All the drag queen waiters.” Chris finished another glass of bourbon.
“Slow down there, cowboy.” Liz turned the page of her book. “And, who might be pissed at you?”
“Obvious choice is Folgate. He’s been after my piece of property for a while. It’s difficult to imagine that he’d kill me. Scare me maybe, sure, but kill me? He has no idea what would happen to the property with me gone.” Chis pulled a chenille throw off of the couch. Nancy Ann helped him tuck it around his shoulders.
“Anyone else? You’ve lived a long life. What about that photo? What connection did that bring back for you?”
“What photo?” Nancy Ann asked.
Chris began: “I was thinking about it when we went upstairs. When Jimmy owned the club, he introduced me to Franz. Franz gave Jimmy the first paintings.”
“The Picasso at the bar, right?” Nancy Ann asked.
“First. Right. There was a story in the paper about Franz and Jimmy and the Streetwalkers. I went into the basement this morning and dug it out.”
Liz produced a photocopy of the article from her bag. “Upstairs? Upstairs where? The club doesn’t have a second floor, does it?”
“Just the catwalk and light booth.” Nancy Ann took the printout. “Here. Chris has an art gallery upstairs here.” She pointed toward the staircase.
“An art gallery?”
Chris ignored the question. “So, there in the picture is a very young Folgate; that’s Nigel. Liz came up with some head shots of guys who recently died. One could have been a young Folgate and the other was my old bartender. I knew him as Benny, but he had a German name. They both did.”
“Henri Dietrich or Herman Junker,” Liz supplied.
“Before we go any further—” Nancy Ann began.
“That’s all we have right now,” said Liz, thumbing through the notes in her book.
“Still, it didn’t seem like a big deal before, but now it does. And, since I waited to tell you, Chris, well, it feels like it’s getting bigger and bigger.” Nancy Ann looked away and then back at Chris.
Chris took her hand and stroked it. “You can tell me anything.”
She blurted out: “I’m Jimmy’s niece.”
“Who is Jimmy?” asked Liz?
“The guy who built Tamburlaine. The…” Chris watched Nancy Ann, her hand shook in his. He patted it, not speaking for a long moment, but never straying his eyes from hers. Finally, he said, “That explains so much. When I’m with you, I feel this sense of calm. I always feel like I know you better than I do. I think you’ve got so much of his energy in you.” He touched her cheekbone. “You haven’t been trying to kill me to take over the club, have you?” Chris only half joked when he asked.
“No! I would never! I can’t believe you would think that. I didn’t even know until a few weeks ago. I walked into Tamburlaine and it felt like coming home. The energy, the way it was laid out. The people, especially you, Chris. I called my mom and she didn’t want to talk about it. I pressed her and she came up to the city to visit me. She brought a big photo album. It was filled with pictures of her and an uncle I’d never met. No one in the family had ever mentioned him before. No one. It was strange and a little creepy.”
“Well, Jimmy was pretty out there; he embraced the freedom of the times. He never talked about his family and I never asked. We all had secrets about that stuff. Most of our families didn’t want us. We became each other’s families often because we lost the real ones.”
“It’s just so sad.” Nancy Ann wiped at her nose. No one spoke for a bit. “So, I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid. And, then I decided not to do Jericho’s next Broadway show, but instead to focus on Tamburlaine, and I lost him. I became scared that when I told you who I discovered I was that you’d think I wanted something from you and I’d lose you and Tamburlaine, too.”
Chris didn’t know what to think. A wave of nausea came over him. He leaned forward, quickly refilled his glass, and swallowed a mouth of bourbon to wash away the taste. Again he wondered who he could truly trust; who might actually be in his corner. Without answers, he patted Nancy Ann’s hand. “Well, we’ll work this one out, too.”
“See, I was afraid if I told you…”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. I just have to process this a little.” Chris turned to Liz for guidance.
Not one to miss a sign or cue, she said: “Well, it’s time for me to do a little more digging. Chris, I really think you should stay home for a few days.”
“I’m not going to let some anonymous asshole keep me from my life or Tamburlaine. And, if I’m going to die, it’s going to be there. So, fuck them!” He tossed back more liquor.
“I’ll stay with him,” said Nancy Ann.
“Yeah, but what if you’re the killer?” Chris asked.
“What if Liz is?” Nancy Ann asked.
“Yeah, what if…this isn’t some elaborate suicide thing is it?” Liz asked.
They all paused, and then laughed. Chris thought about Nancy Ann. She’d been working with Jericho for years and years. That would be a pretty long setup for a random meeting with him. Chris decided there and then that he’d trust Nancy Ann. The duo was a trio. In his best Ethel Merman impersonation, he sang: “Together, wherever we go.”
Liz set her glass on the table. “I feel like I’ve had too much. I’ve missed something.”
“I love fighting crime. Jericho told you that we took down a terrorist ring last spring, after the flash mob at the train station, right?” Nancy Ann knocked back her shot of bourbon, made a face, and let out a sigh. “It’s time to do it again.”
“There should be dramatic music or something,” said Liz.
“Ba, Ba, Baaaah,” Chris sang.
Thirty-eight
The city building inspector shut down the theater while they checked all the pulleys, ropes, cables, and apparatus involved in the theater backdrops and lights. Chris had already given Nancy Ann permission to immediately fix anything that was now or might soon become a problem.
Liz forced Chris to take the day off, so the two of them lounged in Chris’ living room, eating. Chris took a messy bite from a corned beef on rye, dropping crumbs all over himself. Mustard smeared his cheek; he was happy. Liz wiped the mustard away with her napkin.
A whole day had passed without someone trying to kill him. He’d made a point, at Liz’s suggestion, to take different routes on errands and to Tamburlaine. She suggested he shop at different stores and eat at different restaurants. Anything so he wasn’t in his usual routine. That’s how they’d ended up with deli sandwiches from the Jewish place instead of eating in Tamburlaine’s kitchen today.
Liz had figured out quickly everything that had happened to Chris was connected to how he lived his life. Not the actual how, but the patterns involved in the how. “You always show up at the theater at the same time. You always walk the place at the same times. You eat at the same restaurants, even order the same dishes, over and over. That is why it’s been easy for your tormentors to make their attempts.”
Chris nodded, but ate instead of talked. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good corned beef sandwich. No one cooked corned beef like the Jewish deli around the corner. All these years, they were still there. Another generation of sons cutting and slicing and pulling pickles from the big barrel. Chris thought of the sons’ grandfather who was the one pulling pickles from the barrel when Chris first moved into the neighborhood. There were still sides of beef being hauled through the streets back then. The old man had done a double take when Chris walked in in drag, but then took the order and made a wonderful sandwich. Never flinched, never said a bad word. For weeks, months after, he had all the drag queens ordering in their sandwiches from the Jews around the corner. Their business, even in the dead neighborhood, had survived. There weren’t cow carcasses being carried around now. The gutter didn’t r
un red in the afternoons when they hosed off the sidewalks. But, you could still get a great corned beef sandwich.
“You know, if Jericho hadn’t been with you the night of the fire, that you probably wouldn’t have been so quick to react and protect him. You might…”
Chris dragged himself back into the moment. He swallowed. “What are you saying?”
“If Jerry hadn’t been with you the night of the fire, you might have fought back or egged on the guys on the street. But, because there was someone else there, you went into mother hen mode. It probably saved your life.”
“Maybe.” Chris ate a chip. He wanted to turn up Rusty Warren singing “Somewhere I’ll be Looking for You,” but he didn’t want to be rude. He liked Liz, liked being around her. Having someone your own age to commiserate with is a blessing, especially if you’re a queen of a certain age.
“It was the same thing with the other almost fire, the gas leak,” he continued. “You broke your pattern by taking Nancy Ann to the light store. That was clearly something you’d never done before. If you hadn’t been with her, you probably would have been eating lunch in your corner in the kitchen—that’s where the fire damage was the worst. And, we know that the first poisoning by a bartender who knew you, was by a guy who is now dead. Killed by the second poison. It had to be connected.”
“You’re very good at this.” Chris patted Liz’s hand. “How’s the roast beef?”
Liz offered her sandwich toward Chris who took a small bite.
“Hmm, good.” He ate another bite of corned beef, then offered the sandwich toward Liz. She shook her head.
“Benny worked for me for years. Why try to kill me now?”
“My guess? Someone paid him.”
Chris asked: “So, what about the second poison and the backdrop?”
“Well, I’m not sure about the second poison. The why of it. But, you always come off stage through the audience and shake hands. They knew that. I didn’t think at first that the fire and the poisonings were connected. But, since we know Benny probably poisoned you the first time, and we know he died by the second poison, he had probably talked to whoever is in charge of all this about your penchant for patterns.”
Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival Page 16