Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival

by Gregory A Kompes

  “How have you remained so calm? There have been five attempts on your life in a very short time period.”

  “No one tried to kill me today. And, for that I am truly grateful.”

  “Most people would be scared shitless.” Elmer rubbed lotion into Chris’ dry heel.

  “Back in the early days, people were arrested for being us; there used to be beatings and worse on these streets of New York.”

  “I know, I know, you were born a poor black girl—”

  “Someone said I should stop with that, that it’s not politically correct.” Chris shifted feet so Liz could reach the other one. “Fine. Fine. Well, we know Benny’s dead and that he had something to do with the second poisoning attempt and we guess the first one, right? Not sure about the Molotov cocktail at my door. Not sure about the gas line being cut. And, not sure about the backdrop falling from the fly space. We know very little. The cops seem to know even less. We haven’t seen a cop in days, maybe that’s good.” Chris finished off his bourbon and enjoyed the sound of the ice cubes in the glass.

  “Do you want more?”

  “Oh, yes please.”

  He maneuvered out of the couch. With no tits or heels, Elmer barely stood five feet tall. He took the glass and went into the kitchen. “More ice?” he called.

  “Yes, please, and just bring the bottle.”

  “Yes, your majesty!” Liz handed the glass to Chris. He pointed at the speaker. “See, all those men singing. That’s why that show was a huge hit. People love to hear men singing.”

  “That and watching their tight dancer asses.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Elmer clinked his bottle against Chris’s glass and took a long swallow of beer. “I want to blame all of this on Folgate, but it doesn’t make sense.”

  “What, Honey? What doesn’t make sense?” Chris sipped.

  “That is the first time you’ve ever called me Honey.”

  “Is that okay?”

  “Yes. So long as you don’t start making honeydew lists.” Elmer laughed at his own joke. “Get it? Honeydew like the melon? Honey like the boyfriend? To-do, like the errands?” He waited a beat; Chris rolled his eyes dramatically. “Anyway, it can’t all be Folgate. Why would he want to blow your kitchen up? If he got caught, that would be the end of his career. It doesn’t make sense to set fire to this building, does it? It’s brick, anyway, so that wouldn’t burn. Has to be an attempt on your life.”

  “All these things are attempts. Thankfully, not successful ones.” Chris thought for a long moment. “You know, a few months ago, I don’t think I would have cared if someone had killed me. But, now…”

  “Now, you have all of us. Me. Frank. Nancy Ann. Matilda…Jericho?” Liz was back to rubbing Chris’ feet and calves with lotion.

  “Yes, all of you. I’m the richest drag queen in Manhattan. Ring a bell so Clarence will get her wings.”

  Your skin is healing very well. Liz lightly tickled Chris’ soles.

  “Stop! Stop. I’ll spill my drink. I don’t know about Jericho. He hasn’t been around in awhile.”

  “He’ll find his way back. His name is on the marquee. Okay, so we know that Benny is, was somehow connected to Folgate and Jimmy. His look alike was in that photo in the paper. But, Benny is dead. Wait, have you heard from Folgate in a while?”

  “Not since the health inspectors came. That was months ago. Oh, don’t stop rubbing.”

  Liz, with more lotion, went back to the task. “We should contact him, see if he’s okay, ask a few questions.”

  “We can’t just stop in his office and ask questions, we can’t change our whole way.”

  “That line doesn’t work in the show either. No, I think I can. I have my badge. Sure, it says retired, but it looks pretty damn official; it is official.”

  “What would you ask?” Chris poured more bourbon.

  “We’ll have to make up a list of questions. Tomorrow is going to be a great day. I haven’t been out on the beat, working a case for a long time.” Liz finished off her beer.

  “Now who’s running old lines?” Chris laughed, enjoying the heavy buzz of a night of liquor, knowing he’d sleep hard and solid. “So, get your pad. If I’m going to talk to Folgate tomorrow, I want to be prepared.”

  Forty-one

  Chris and Elmer walked up the small street, arm-in-arm. Chris stopped; Elmer stumbled.

  “I just don’t think this is a good idea,” said Chris. He looked at himself in the dusty glass of a closed shop. With the skilled pinky of an artist, he corrected his lipstick. “It doesn’t feel right; you dressed like a man, me as a woman.”

  “But, you never really dress as a man.” Elmer freed his hand from the crook of Chris’ elbow. “I do it all the time. I had to for my day job. Thirty years. Forty, fifty, sixty hours a week. Don’t try and do the math, I’ve done it. Poor Liz had to be kept shut away and quiet for more than sixty-thousand hours. Just imagine.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine that. I’ve been lucky to have lived my life the way I wanted.” Chris reached for Elmer’s hand, but Elmer held it to himself. Chris dropped his untaken hand to his side and shifted his attention further up the empty street.

  “You have been lucky and you’ve done well. Yet, over the past few weeks, it seems someone, or everyone, is trying to eighty-six you and you don’t know why and aren’t you lucky to have met Liz who introduced you to me?” Elmer’s tone had grown dark and serious.

  “I don’t like you talking about yourself in the third person. You’re here; you’re both Liz and Elmer; and, now, you’re free to be either of them any time you want.” He took a step, then another; he waited for Elmer who finally took the two steps to catch up. Chris led the way up the street to the corner. The Folgate building stood tall. Built of red brick in 1901, that’s what the cornerstone proclaimed. Those red bricks, now chipped, pitted, and sandblasted, were nearly pink. Despite the obvious effort to keep the building neat and tidy, the wall nearest them had been tagged with blue spray paint letters in an intricate pattern. Chris decided they spelled “BITCH” but there were certainly many other combinations. Of all of them, he liked the outcome of bitch the most. “I still say this is a bad idea.”

  “Well, I’ll drive this train. You can stay out here if you want. Or, sit in the lobby.” Elmer opened the elaborately, rococo designed metal door with its stained-glass inserts that spelled out F-O-L-G-A-T-E in a high arch. “Has his family owned this building for over a hundred years?”

  “Their name is carved into the frieze around the top.” Along with the frieze were gargoyles with varied, hideous faces randomly placed among the Folgate Building’s five stories who kept watch over New York City. “This is one of the tallest buildings in this area. Most are one or two stories because there’s no reachable bedrock to support taller structures. So, either there’s bedrock underneath us or they jammed pilings deep into the earth.”

  Elmer again opened the door. Reluctantly, Chris walked inside. The lobby was circled with impressive, highly polished wood panels.

  “What do they call this pattern?” Elmer asked.

  “Something like fire or…flame, maybe?” Chris ran his hand along the wood where the seam showed the two panels reflecting each other.

  “How may I help you?”

  Chris turned toward the woman. She couldn’t be more than twenty-two or twenty-five. He whispered, “We don’t have an appointment.”

  “We’d like to see Mr. Folgate if he’s in.” Elmer took over, his voice stern, authoritative.

  “Which Mr. Folgate?” She held herself with poise. Her skirt was flat and straight in black wool. Her top, a butter yellow, softer, perhaps cashmere.

  Elmer turned and looked deep into Chris’ eyes.

  “Senior,” said Chris, unsure what result this might bring.

  “Oh, yes, well, please follow me.” The woman le
d the way toward a small elevator in the corner. It was exposed on three sides; all its cables and works visible to riders and watchers. The three got into the brass cage, metal frame doors closed, and they ascended slowly, smoothly to the fifth floor. The woman then allowed Chris and Elmer to step out.

  The floor, covered in deep, plush carpet, Chris imaged a shade of blue the same as in Nixon’s oval office. The windows were covered with heavy, damask curtains—even without a ruler, it was clear: each window’s paired fabric panels opened exactly the same number of inches.

  An older version of the man in the newspaper photograph walked up to Chris and Elmer. “Christopher Marlowe, how wonderful to see you again. It has been a long, long time, now hasn’t it?”

  Chris brushed his lips near Folgate’s check. “It has been a very long time. The club is hopping again, you should come out some evening and see what we’ve got going on.”

  “Are you…Marcie, please bring us,” he turned to Elmer, “coffee? Tea? Soft drink? Bourbon?”

  “Coffee,” said Elmer. “With cream.”

  Folgate turned back to Chris. “Bourbon’s still your drink, isn’t it?”

  “How kind of you to remember.” Chris took Folgate’s arm; the old man, in a custom fitted suit, silk paisley tie, and highly-shined Italian leather shoes led Chris and Elmer into a big office, a room that took up nearly the entire fifth floor.

  Folgate offered Chris a wingback leather chair. Chris slipped down into the soft leather; a small sigh escaped unwittingly from his lips as the chair seemed to mold perfectly to his body. Folgate took up the matching chair, leaving the leather couch for Elmer, who looked uncomfortable. Chris felt bad for a moment, knowing that it was now impossible to explain his relationship with this Mr. Folgate.

  Marcie returned with refreshments on a silver tray: one coffee, a small silver cream pitcher, two cut crystal glasses, a silver bucket of ice, and a bottle of A.H. Hearst bourbon.

  Folgate picked up the bottle and broke the wax seal.

  “I’m very impressed,” said Chris. He turned toward Elmer and reached out with his well-manicured hand. “This is one of the all-time best bourbons no one has ever tasted, or very few have tasted.” Elmer didn’t look impressed. Chris turned back to his host who was pouring the amber liquor over two cubes of ice. He handed the glass to Chris and then poured one for himself. He’d left Elmer to fend for himself on the coffee side of the table-sized tray.

  “What shall we drink to?” Folgate raised his glass toward Chris.

  “The future of Tamburlaine,” said Chris.

  “Of course,” said Folgate.

  Chris sipped the bourbon, enjoying the soft, cool play of it on his tongue. “Damn that’s good.” He sipped again.

  “So, what brings you all the way up here to see me?” Folgate added a splash more bourbon to each glass before sitting back in his chair.

  Chris surveyed the room with its big, carved desk, the map table with its flat drawers. A wardrobe he guessed housed a television. The pool table and old-fashioned racks of cues. They probably weren’t old-fashioned when they’d been installed.

  “Are you stalling? And, who is your friend?”

  “Oh, where are my manners? This is my great good friend, Elmer.”

  Mr. Folgate gave a big wink to Chris.

  “You know, in the old days, well, you remember? ‘Great Good Friend’ was the code.”

  Chris sipped again, wanting the taste never to leave his mouth.

  “I know and remember better than you.” Folgate smiled a broad, toothy smile. Chris could tell they were new choppers.

  “Well, there have been some strange events happening lately. They may be related or they may be random,” said Chris.

  “And, you two are the Hardy Boys?” Again, that kind, broad smile.

  “Yes.” Chris leaned forward and, as much as it pained him, he set his glass on the tray.

  “This is no bedtime story, Folgate. Chris’ life is at risk,” said Elmer, sounding hardboiled, like a Chandler character.

  Nigel Folgate added more bourbon to Chris’ glass, giving him his full attention. “Tell me what is wrong and I will move heaven and earth, will do all I can to help you.”

  Elmer wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.

  Chris said: “Well, your nephew. I’m assuming he’s your nephew? He’s bought up all the buildings in Tamburlaine’s block.”

  “But not Tamburlaine, right?” Nigel picked up Chris’ glass and handed it to him.

  “Thank you. You’re correct. I can’t…” Tears well up in his eyes.

  “Of course not,” whispered Folgate.

  A silence enveloped them as Chris took another drink.

  “Tell him,” encouraged Elmer.

  Folgate never took his gaze off of Chris’ face.

  “Okay. I was poisoned. Everyone is pretty sure it was in my bourbon.” He again set his glass down. “After that, Benny, my bartender, disappeared. Later, I was poisoned again, this time with some odd patch, you know, like people wear when they’re trying to quit smoking? The one they tried to stick to me had an odd combination of poisons from South America. A bit later, Benny was discovered dead and so was the guy who stuck the patch on me. The police say it was from the second poison that they both died.” He pointed a finger toward Elmer. “That’s when I met Liz…Elmer by day.”

  Folgate turned toward Elmer, smiled broadly, and winked.

  “There’s more. Tell him the rest,” said Elmer.

  “Some boys, young men, threw Molotov cocktails at me—not very tasty.”

  “His burns were pretty bad,” said Elmer.

  Folgate nodded, but remained silent.

  “Someone cut the gas line at Tamburlaine. The kitchen staff discovered it before any damage occurred. And, most recently, someone dropped a drape pipe, nearly fell on me, on my head. Booby trapped or something from the basement.” Fear rose into him as he finished. Someone really did want him dead.

  “This has all happened in the past few weeks?” Folgate poured more bourbon into Chris’ glass.

  “Well, the first poisoning must have been three or four months ago.” Chris didn’t drink, but settled once again deeper into the chair.

  “And, why have you come to see me?”

  Chris didn’t respond; instead, he looked deep as he could into Nigel’s eyes. They’d known each other, quite intensely, for a very brief time.

  “Is the painting still there?” Nigel asked.

  “The Streetwalkers remains.” Chris smiled. “I thought this would be easier. Seeing you.”

  Nigel set down his drink and took Chris’ hands into his own. “Oh, my dear, you mustn’t get upset. The memories should by now all be good ones, no?”

  Yes, he was an old man; Chris wasn’t a spring chicken either, but Nigel must be nearly ninety.

  “You’ve done a remarkable job keeping Tamburlaine going all these years. Don’t let yourself begin to believe you haven’t fulfilled your debt to him. That has been paid in full, with interest over and over; the paper has been burned to ash. You have to know that.” Nigel kissed Chris’ hands.

  Elmer blurted out: “We think the…younger Folgate has something to do with all or at least some of the attempts on Chris’ life.”

  “I didn’t want to get you involved,” said Chris to Nigel. “I was hoping you weren’t going to be in your office today. But, you’ve always been here.”

  “Every day, seven days a week, like clockwork. Now, finish your drink. And, then you and your friend will go and I will find out what I will find out.”

  Chris begrudgingly tossed back the bourbon, the ice cubes tinkled playfully against the crystal. He stood. “Thank you, Nigel.”

  “No. Never. No thanks required. Never. You are the one to be thanked.” He led them back to the elevator. Marcie waited to take them down t
o the lobby.

  Chris stopped, kissed Nigel’s cheek, rubbed at the lipstick left behind.

  Nigel raised his hand to his cheek, and for a moment, he held Chris’ fingers. “This color has always looked good on me.” Nigel’s smile now included tears.

  Chris walked through the door Elmer held open for him. The sun spied down from its zenith, bringing every pane of glass into luster, blinding anyone caught walking on the street at that hour. This, Chris believed, was, in fact, that harsh light of day so many spoke of. He had, for decades, avoided this light: too many pores were visible; no foundation covered cleverly enough; no walk of shame was worthy of that light.

  “What was that?” Elmer hissed. “Why didn’t you tell me first that there were several Mr. Folgates and second you knew one of them intimately.”

  “This is not an appealing side you’re showing.” Chris shoved his hands into his pockets, hoping for a pair of sunglasses to be hiding there among the butterscotch candies and wadded up tissues.

  “Not an appealing side of me? Chris, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on. Things are happening so fast, but yet seem to be moving in very slow motion.”

  “Here,” said Chris as he opened a dark door and entered, not exactly holding the door for Elmer. It took Chris’ eyes a moment to adjust.

  “Here?”

  “Oh, Liz, you just have to trust me every once in a while.” Chris shaded his eyes for another moment. “They have great food here. One of the lesser known secrets in our little neighborhood.”

  “Chris!” An old man, short, stout, apron up to his white-shirted chest, a clean towel over his arm, tripped over himself to meet Chris where he stood.

  “Mario!” The two kissed each other’s cheeks. “Can you squeeze us in for lunch?”

  “Of course, of course.” Mario led Chris and Elmer to a round booth in a far corner. He lit the candle and placed a small hurricane glass over it.

  Elmer remained stunned, although he sat and scooched into the booth.

  Mario, without a pad or pen in hand, asked: “What can I bring you and your friend?”

  “Two glasses of the house red and whatever pasta the chef creates for us.” Chris didn’t bother to take notice that Elmer might want something different. “And, some of that wonderful bread. Still Mama’s recipe?”