“Of course. Of course.” Mario, a good Italian Catholic, grouped his right fingers and thumb together and touched his forehead, chest, and then his left and right shoulders, making a sign of the cross. “May she rest in peace.” He kissed his still gathered finger tips. He smiled at Chris. “We’ve missed you, Mr. Marlowe. We’re like you, holding out. If you can do it, so can we.”
Chris smiled toward Mario; the man turned and headed through the swinging doors into the kitchen.
“I’ve never noticed this place before,” said Elmer. “There’s no sign or anything.”
“No, there’s no sign. Only certain people know about Mario’s.”
Chris’s eyes finally, fully adjusted. There, in the corner, a small bar without a bartender, a mirror ball, still and without sparkle, at the ceiling’s center; an upright piano, beat up a bit, stood against a far wall. Chris had played that piano, back in the beginning, before he’d headlined, played that piano in men’s clothing, at first, and later in women’s. Mario had barely flinched. He’d met them, those men with connections, those men who ran the city from their various fields. Some thought of them as “Family” others as “Gangsters.” Chris thought of them as men, strong men, with connections and fidelity.
There were no other patrons now, but Chris always thought of Mario’s filled to the brim with old men, movers and shakers, making smoky deals over two-martini lunches.
“Chris, talk to me.” Elmer took Chris’ hand.
Chris allowed his hand to be taken, but still, he didn’t look at Elmer. He didn’t want to cry any more. He’d been so tearful these past weeks. What he wanted…What did he want? There weren’t answers to those questions now, not that he could easily share with Elmer. He disliked that name. He preferred to call his friend, his lover, Liz.
“Chris?”
Without a word, Mario set a bread basket on the table. He nudged a tall, filled wine glass in front of Chris and another near Elmer.
Chris smelled the warm garlic bread, retrieved his hand from Elmer, and took a large slice from the basket. He pulled off a bit of bread and popped it in his mouth, avoiding his lips. “Mmm.” He ripped another piece off the slice and ate that one. Next, still avoiding any form of eye contact with Elmer, Chris drank a large swallow of Chianti. Those old days now washed over him. The stories those men had told; the truth those men told; the lies. Jimmy got him the job when Chris wanted extra money for a trip to Paris. He’d only been the piano player, not much different than the kid who now played at Tamburlaine between Chris’ sets. Chris tinkled the keys, listened to the conversations, and kept his mouth shut about what he saw and heard.
No one had ever been murdered in front of him, although many had been scared to the point of wetting their pants. He’d never seen a gun, or even the bulge of one. There were never any of those things you see about the Family on television. Instead, there were those who belonged, those who didn’t, and those who sought favor one way or the other. Those men, they had all been solid. Nigel had been solid. But, Chris couldn’t talk about this, not to anyone, not to Elmer, not even to Liz.
“I can’t tell you any of it,” Chris said before another long swallow of wine that emptied his glass. Just as the empty hit the table, Mario replaced it with another full glass. He took the empty and silently reentered the club’s shadows.
“How could you not tell me about Nigel before we walked into that building? How could you not trust me?”
It was Chris’ turn to take up Elmer’s hand. “Oh, dear Liz. I hoped beyond all hope that Nigel would be out and the snot-nosed kid would be there.”
At last Chris looked into Elmer’s eyes; Elmer whispered: “It felt like a slap across the face.”
“Oh, dear, that was never, never my intention.”
A long silence enveloped them. Chris felt awkward holding Elmer’s hand at the odd angle their hands had come together.
Mario solved the issue by bringing two heaping plates. “Pasta primavera in an Alfredo sauce.” Again, he stepped away and virtually vanished from sight.
Chris knew what Mario knew. Wait for the moment, use it, let it go.
“If you knew Nigel could help you with this, why hadn’t you gone to him before?” Elmer focused on his food.
“I didn’t know if he was still alive.” Chris felt the tears rise and he pushed them back down. He had to stop all this crying. “I hadn’t heard of his death, but you saw how old he is, how frail, how…. Let’s just eat, okay?”
Elmer played with his food.
“Okay?” Chris pushed.
“Okay.”
The juke box came to life, an ancient machine that played records. Louis Prima sang: “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” Chris turned his head to see who had played the song; he had sung it many times, but with a much different connotation than Mr. Prima. The younger Folgate stood in the unsettling yellow glow. He cracked his knuckles, eyes boring into Chris.
“Should I do something? Call the precinct?” Elmer asked.
Whatever arguments or differences they had dissipated in a flash. They were together; they were one.
“No,” said Chris. “There’s no longer anything to fear.”
Elmer whispered: “Do you mean because of Nigel?”
“You, boy, what are you doing in here?” Mario crossed the room. With poise, the waiter had Folgate’s arm behind his back propelled him toward the door.
“Watch your back old man, and you, too, Marlowe.”
The waiter gave one final shove and Folgate flew out onto the street. Into the bright light, Mario yelled, “Never come in here again.” His actions as deft as Tamburlaine’s Rocko.
Chris applauded quietly with appreciation. “My hero.”
“Sorry for the disruption, Mr. Marlowe. That damn kid is trying to close my business. He’s called the health department several times, the police department, the liquor board. It’s been one battle after another for nearly a year.”
“I know it. He’s after Tamburlaine, too.” Chris wiped the corners of his mouth with the cloth napkin.
“Lousy bischero,” Mario muttered on his way back into the shadows. He returned with two very small cups of very strong coffee, a piece of cheesecake, and two forks. He placed these in front of his guests. “On the house.”
“Thank you,” said Chris. “My favorite.” He took a small sip of the coffee.
Elmer remained silent, not touching his cup or the dessert.
“Well, you wanted to know the story, right?” Chris kept his eyes on the cheesecake. “So, here goes. Oh, we were all so young—”
Christopher Marlowe, in very high heels and short everything else, stopped center stage, alone in the spotlight. He opened his perfectly lipsticked lips and, to the great surprise of everyone sang Puccini’s “O Mio Babbino Caro,” a Capella; perhaps not as well as Maria Callas, but incredibly well. The entranced audience in the Tamburlaine Theater applauded nearly seven minutes at the conclusion. All the while, Chris performed deep curtsies in the manner of an opera singer.
The next evening’s performance sold out. Again, at the show’s conclusion, the audience stomped their feet and applauded long and loudly. As Chris performed his deep curtsies, that night dressed as Callas with a chignon and a flowing gown, a handsome man handed him a bouquet of yellow roses. Chris liked that the flowers were yellow and not red. He preferred the lighter colors. He sank his nose into the bouquet, all the while connecting visually with the man who’d given them.
That man waited for Chris near the hallway that led backstage. When Chris appeared, in flared slacks and a gauzy blouse, his face makeup softened, his hair still in its knot, the man approached; without warning, he kissed Chris with passion. Around them, as the cast walked past, they sent out catcalls and crude remarks; Chris kissed the man back for a long while.
He breathlessly introduced himself: “I’m Nigel.”
“You should buy me a drink or something. It will never do to make out here in the hallway like children as the world watches.”
“Oh, I can’t do that,” said Nigel. His eyes, the palest blue, bore into Chris’.
Chris wanted to make a joke. People loved his jokes. Nothing came into his quick-witted head. “Why not?”
“I belong to another.”
With a flick of his wrist, his fan opened. Chris flashed it back and forth, closed it with a snap, and pushed Nigel away with the fan’s tip. No word spoken, he made his way into the bar. At the sight of him, the crowd went wild. He sat at the end of the bar, playing the role of queen, allowing others to kiss his hand and buy him drinks.
“That is how we met,” Chris said. With the cheesecake gone, he motioned to Mario for the check.
“Wait, there must be more,” said Elmer.
“Well, of course there’s more.” Mario brought the check; Chris placed a hundred-dollar bill in the leather folder. “Keep the change.”
“Very kind of you, Mr. Marlowe. Don’t be a stranger.” Mario offered his hand to Chris, who allowed the assistance as he slipped out of the booth and headed for the door. Elmer did his best to keep up.
Forty-two
“So, what happened after that? Who was the other person?” Elmer asked.
Chris drank a swallow of bourbon while Elmer rubbed his feet. It felt good to be home; to have had a great meal, to be here with a new lover who he really liked, a good glass of booze in hand.
“Chris, who was the other person?” Elmer grabbed Chris’s foot with a bit of pressure.
“Oh, Nigel?”
“Yes, Nigel. You never finished the story.”
“Jimmy, that’s who. I’m not sure how they met; probably at Tamburlaine. Older man, young guy. But, that’s where the Picasso came from. The Streetwalkers have been up in the office ever since then. That would’ve been sometime in the late ’70s, just before Jimmy got sick.” Chris drank more bourbon.
“Okay, so why is Nigel so supportive of you? The two of you had an intimate moment this morning.”
“Was that just this morning? It’s been a very long day.” Chris nudged Elmer, who switched feet. “No, we never kissed or had sex or anything like that. Jimmy hung on for a very long time. He survived thrush and the sarcoma’s and everything else that horrible disease threw at him. We were in and out of the hospital for more than eighteen months. Along the journey, Nigel never wavered; he kept cash flowing at Tamburlaine; he brought in an accountant; and, more importantly, he did all he could to make Jimmy happy. That’s where the Jasper Johns and the Warhol and—”
“We’re sleeping in a dead man’s bed?” Elmer stopped rubbing Chris’ feet.
“This was forty years ago; I’ve had several beds since then.”
“But, all the paintings in there? Those are all gifts to Jimmy from Nigel?”
“Yes.” Chris stared into space, remembering the smell of paint. “The artists were trying to break in and working hard to make a living. Jimmy loved the energy of those paintings. There were many nights I lay in bed with Jimmy, sometimes with Jimmy and Nigel both, getting stoned or eating shrooms and getting lost inside those paintings.”
“And, that’s why you’ve never sold those, right?”
“Right,” said Chris; more bourbon, but no tears. “So, Nigel and I have a great respect for one another. And, after Jimmy was gone, it was Nigel who financed Tamburlaine and this loft for me at very favorable terms.”
“But, you said it was family who financed…”
Chris watched Elmer process what he’d been told.
“Oh. Family. Got it. We can scratch Nigel off the list.”
“As far as I’m concerned, he’s never been on the list.” Chris sat up, pulled the clicker off the table, and changed the CD to Ruth Etting.
“Do you ever listen to anything from this century?” Elmer stood and stretched, exposing his little potbelly as his shirt rose. He scratched that belly before heading into the kitchen. He returned a moment later with a freshly opened beer.
“Only when the children bring music into the bar for me to play. I don’t care for it, it’s not the same as these great old torch songs about love and angst.”
“You know, CDs are quite passé. Everyone is streaming; listening to digital downloads.”
“I moved from records to cassettes. Cassettes to eight tracks; back to cassettes. Then to CDs. I feel like I’m done upgrading over and over. The CDs play just fine. And, I’ve got nearly a hundred of them loaded into the player. I like it, like a miniature juke box.”
After a long pause, Elmer asked: “So, who do you think is on the list?”
Remembering the juke box from the afternoon: “Hmm. The younger Folgate.”
“Who is new in your life?” Elmer had his small notebook and a pencil out. Chris watched him, waiting to see if he’d lick the pencil tip again like the old-time reporters, but he didn’t.
“Are you serious? We’ve done this a dozen times,” Chris said. “There’re all these people, the actors, the kitchen staff, the bartenders. All of them are new to me. There are hundreds of people passing through the doors every night.” A sigh escaped. “Sorry, I don’t mean to get testy. I don’t like to think that there’s someone out to kill me.”
“Chris, I’m sorry, but you have to face this. There have been five attempts at your life. Five. There’s no coincidence here. Someone is trying to kill you. Maybe more than one someone.”
Chris thought about his life. He thought about the changes and the re-found success of the club. He’d recently bought a small Da Vinci sketch with some of the profits. “I know.” He rewound events in his mind. “We know that Benny was connected to the two poisonings; we just don’t know why or who might’ve been behind him. Benny had been around for four or five years. I just don’t think he’d been plotting for that long. Hell, most of those nights, it was just the two of us. He could have easily offed me and left my body in the basement to rot.”
“Do you think Folgate could have gotten to him?”
“Not likely. The two of them never appeared to get along.” Chris went to take another sip of bourbon, but set the glass back down without drinking. “All of this really started right after Ingram showed up.”
“Ingram? He’s been a rock of support.” Elmer made a note as he spoke.
“Yes, he has. But, with his arrival everything changed. I got back in touch with Jerry. The club came back to life—”
“Those are good things, though.” He did it, Elmer licked the tip of his pencil.
Chris felt a warm smile spread through his whole being. “They are.” This time he did drink. “The fires happened after Nancy Ann came onto the scene.”
“But, with Nancy Ann came two dozen actors, Jerry, light guys, the kitchen staff.”
“We’re just repeating ourselves.”
“Who else was in that newspaper photo? Where is it?”
That newspaper photo did have a group of people in it. “It’s in my office at the club.” Chris yawned. “Why don’t we call it a night, Nancy Drew? I’m bushed.”
Forty-three
Chris didn’t go with Liz to run errands. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone. Just him and Rusty. As she crooned and prattled, he cleaned.
Wearing a ratty nightshirt, and nothing else, Chris Swiffered the floors, enjoying the smell of the spray liquid, scoured the kitchen table and counters, and finally emptied the refrigerator of leftovers, before removing the shelves and washing everything there with hot water and bleach.
Chores. He’d never really minded them. He liked when his home smelled of Pine Sol, Lemon Pledge, and Fabreze—how had they lived before the invention of Fabreze? Crisp sheets, clean and pressed, now that remained Chris’ idea of luxury and refinement.
Weekly tasks complete
d, he showered, put on makeup, shiny dress, heels, and wig. He wanted to be at the club early to pay the bills and walk the place. Since the scrim falling and nearly killing him, he hadn’t been walking the club nightly, but he missed it. Knowing what went on in the place saved him money over the years, catching leaking pipes, dead lightbulbs, and occasionally the odd rodent. Better to catch symptoms of decay before they took you down.
Dressed and ready, he walked to the club. The sky still held a hint of sunset color, although it was getting darker and colder earlier and earlier. He pulled his wrap close and walked the rest of the block. He enjoyed the click of his heels on the pavement; he’d missed that while recovering.
New thoughts. Happy thoughts. I am happy and well, he said to himself.
The front door remained locked and there were several guys hanging out, smoking on the street.
“Just a moment, fellas.” Chris ducked into the alley; that door was open. He stepped inside. “Hello?” No one answered. There should be people here, actors warming up or smoking in the alley; Matilda and her crew chopping and prepping. He hit the light switch. Nothing happened. “Hello!” he called out louder; again, no response.
Chris made his way out of the kitchen, through the dining room, down the hall, and to his office door. It was open, unlocked. In the dim light from the high window, the clean spot on the wall verily glowed. The Streetwalkers were gone. The safe: locked. The desk: untouched. The room neat. Chills ran through him. Alone. Who could he turn to?
“Chris!” Liz shouted. “Are you here? What’s going on?”
He rushed toward her voice. “My hero!” he hugged her tight. “I don’t know what’s happened.”
“Are you okay?” Liz whispered.
“Why are you whispering?” Chris whispered back.
“It feels like that part in the movie where we should whisper. I don’t hear any music though, so we should be fine for a bit.”
Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival Page 19