Spur of the Moment

by David Linzee

  The problem was that the stage machinery at SLO was not up to the spectacular effects for which von Schussnigg was famous. One coup de théâtre in Act III was still going wrong, and opening night was tomorrow. So the cast, who would ordinarily have been enjoying a day of rest, were going over it again and again.

  The only cast member who didn’t mind was Renata. She never got enough rehearsal, and the moments leading up to the tricky bit happened to be her character Mercédès’s best number in the whole show. Like everyone else she was “marking,” singing at half-volume to save her voice for tomorrow, but otherwise she was working hard, trying to imagine herself into Mercédès’s head. There were gestures and expressions she wanted to refine, for one of the few moments when the audience would be looking at her.

  She and Carmen’s other sidekick, Frasquita, were standing at the giant slot machine, pulling its lever and telling their fortunes. In the original, ordinary playing cards were used, but Bernhard von Schussnigg wanted the slot machine to symbolize the mechanistic workings of Fate as Carmen perceived them.

  Renata pulled the lever and peered at its screen. Nothing actually happened, of course, as the screen was too small for the audience to see, but she imagined four ripe red cherries rolling up. Renata liked cherries. Her face beaming with delight, she sang of the very rich, very old man she was destined to marry, and of her enviable future as a rich widow.

  Then Amy Song, who had been feuding with von Schussnigg for weeks and was in a very bad mood this morning, trudged over to the slot machine, muttering Carmen’s lines about trying her luck. She pulled the lever.

  A trapdoor in the stage swung open. Swiftly and smoothly a wooden frame bearing a giant canvas ace of diamonds arose. Just as it reached its twelve-foot height, another ace of diamonds dropped like a guillotine blade from the ceiling.

  “Carreau!” Carmen sang, back to the audience, staring up at the cards.

  As the second ace of diamonds settled into its slot, an ace of spades shot up from the stage floor, followed by another ace of spades dropping in to complete the row.

  “Pique!” Carmen sang, putting her hands to her head in terror as she read her fate.

  Next she was supposed to sing “La mort! J’ai bien lu” but Amy Song clapped her hands and threw back her head, laughing delightedly, because this was the first time in a dozen run-throughs that one of the cards hadn’t moved too slowly, or too quickly, or simply gotten stuck halfway. The other cast members were applauding or hugging one another. Hearty cheers resounded from the back of the theatre, where the technical crew were gathered around their control board. Even Bernhard von Schussnigg, seated in the auditorium, smiled. As the ruckus died down, the stage managers could be heard calling the end of rehearsal.

  Walking offstage, Renata switched on her cellphone. No call from Dick Samuelson. She decided to go to his office and see if his secretary had heard anything. She stepped outside. It was noon, blazing hot, and she was sweating by the time she reached the Peter J. Calvocoressi Administration Building.

  Samuelson’s office door was open. He was standing behind his desk, talking on the phone. Don was not there. His suit, back on its hanger, was lying on the sofa. As she entered, Samuelson hung up the phone with one hand and lifted his coat off the chair back with the other. “Renata, I’m sorry, I have to go. That was Phil Congreve.”

  An experienced unimportant person, Renata knew a few tricks for delaying important persons long enough to get her questions answered. “That’s okay, Dick. Where’s Don’s suit?”

  He had to detour round the other side of the desk to pick up the suit and hand it to her. “You might as well take it home. He won’t need it until the preliminary hearing, which is two weeks off. Oh … the judge denied bail. I’m sorry, I should have texted you.”

  He was out the door by now. She chased him down the corridor. “How do I get to see him?”

  “Just go on over. Anytime this afternoon. You’re on the list.”

  “I will. Dick, how is he? How did he take it when he realized he’d have to go back to jail?”

  But they were descending the stairs, and she had lost Dick’s attention. He was staring straight ahead. Renata followed his gaze. Standing before a window overlooking the parking lot, between a potted ficus tree and the front doors, were Congreve, whose high forehead was corrugated with anxiety, and another man whose back was to her.

  As they drew near she saw that it was Bert Stromberg-Brand. He was wearing a black suit and white shirt with open collar. Above his graying beard, his features were locked in a stern but serene expression. He looked like a mullah.

  “Come on up to my office, Bert, we’ll talk,” Congreve was pleading. No wonder he wanted to get Bert out of here, Renata thought. The lobby resounded with a clamor of footfalls and voices. People were streaming through the doors, heading for the parking lot and lunch. They looked curiously at Bert as they passed. He paid no attention to them. His feet were planted on the glossy tile floor. He was gazing over Congreve’s shoulder into the lot, as if he was expecting someone.

  “I’m not here to talk. Just give me a check for three hundred thirty thousand dollars.” He glanced at Samuelson and Renata. “She can tell you. That was my demand on Saturday night. Between then and now, your employee murdered my wife. I don’t see that as any reason why I should alter my demand. You might see it as a reason to comply. Don’t you think?”

  “Your wife gave us the gift that’s made it possible for us to mount a wonderful production of Carmen. The work is done. It’s ready. Tomorrow night the audience will see it, and they’ll say—”

  “Is this your way of telling me the money’s spent? In that case I won’t take a check. It’ll have to be cash.” He nodded his head toward Samuelson. “Send this guy to the bank.”

  Congreve repeated desperately, “Let’s go up to my office. Please, Bert.”

  Bert was gazing into the lot, and now he said, “Ah.”

  Renata turned. In the lot, a white van was pulling up. Channel 5 News was painted on the side.

  Congreve frowned, causing his jowls to droop further than usual. “What are they doing here?” he whispered.

  “I called them. Also Channel 4 and Channel 2 and Channel 30.”

  Samuelson said, “Mr. Stromberg-Brand, please, let me go out there and tell them it’s some mistake.”

  “Nope. Once they get their cameras set up, I will repeat my demand. And I will tell the whole story of Radleigh’s strategy for getting the gift from Helen. The whole story.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Congreve.

  “That’s going to be your line, is it? That you didn’t know what Don was up to that weekend in Chicago? I guess we’ll just have to see how that goes down with the media.”

  Renata wondered what Chicago had to do with anything. She glanced at Congreve and Samuelson, but they seemed as baffled as she was.

  Samuelson said, “Please, sir. Think this over. We understand your feelings toward Don. But it will not do anybody any good to bring the media in.”

  Bert paid no attention. Outside the truck was raising its high, stout antenna. Men in T-shirts and shorts were taking equipment out of the back. Another man, who must have been the on-camera correspondent because he was wearing a dress shirt and tie and had an expensive haircut, was walking up the path to the building.

  As he opened the door, Bert stepped forward. “Hello, I’m Stromberg-Brand. You want to set up right here?”

  The correspondent looked at him blankly, then turned to the other three, “Anybody know where Bryson is?”

  They stared back at him. It was Samuelson who recovered first. “Keith Bryson?”

  The correspondent nodded. “We got word he was on his way here.”

  “I’m Stromberg-Brand,” Bert repeated. “I called you. You’re here for me.”

  But the correspondent was turning away and the door was closing.

  Samuelson pulled Congreve a couple of steps away, whisperin
g urgently to him. The lawyer seemed to have some idea what was going on, but Renata was clueless. What would America’s most media-friendly billionaire be doing here? Waiting in airports in Europe or America, she often saw Keith Bryson’s handsome head on magazine covers and television screens. He’d started out as one of those Silicon Valley boy wonders. Dropping out of Stanford, he had invented some bit of software—she forgot what it was, but everybody in the world had used it every day for a few years, until it became obsolete. By that time Bryson had cashed in and moved on. He started up quirky little enterprises: a company that made umbrellas that wouldn’t turn inside-out in the wind, a chain of undertakers specializing in low-cost ecological funerals, a string of vegan, gluten-free sandwich shops. People were surprised that they made money, until they decided that everything Bryson did would make money. Once they made up their minds, it became true. He was a billionaire several times over. Now he spent his life traveling the world, being photographed and admired. He ran triathlons and sponsored racing yachts, gave TED talks about emerging technologies, wrote bestsellers about management technique, did stunts for charity that showed he didn’t take himself too seriously, and dated film stars. He was the sort of person who never showed up in places like St. Louis.

  She noticed that other SLO employees were coming up to the window while talking into their cellphones or thumbing text messages. True or not, the rumor of Bryson’s imminent appearance was spreading fast. Everyone was staring at the unremarkable parking lot as if a crack had appeared in the earth, or a tsunami on the horizon. Another news truck, this one from Channel 4, pulled up behind the first. Then a huge black SUV lumbered into view. A trio of broad-shouldered, short-haired young men with Bluetooth devices on their ears climbed down from it. Politely but firmly, they began to clear the path from the parking lot to the building. A helicopter passed noisily overhead and everybody looked up, expecting Bryson to descend like the president, but it continued on its way.

  A nondescript sedan pulled up and the passenger door opened. An oooooh rose up from the crowd that Renata could hear even through the glass wall. Many people had their phones over their heads, taking pictures. A slender man in worn blue jeans and a check shirt stood up from the car. The famous face bore an expression blending affability and alertness. The outfit and the expression were familiar from a thousand photographs.

  One of the security men came up beside Bryson and pointed toward the Calvocoressi building. The other two fell in behind him. Behind them came the media people, some with video cameras perched on shoulders, others shouting questions.

  Bryson spotted Bert through the glass and nodded and smiled to him. They knew each other? Renata’s bafflement deepened. The security man opened the door and Bryson came through. He was as oblivious to Congreve and Samuelson as he was to the crowd behind him. He was interested only in Bert. He put out his hand, and Bert, who seemed to be in a trance, slowly reached for it.

  “Bert, I’m so sorry for your loss. Helen was a wonderful woman.”

  So he knew her too, Renata thought. Probably like everybody else, she was adjusting to the jolt of seeing a celebrity in real life. She’d experienced it a couple of months before, bumping into Renée Fleming in a corridor of the Metropolitan Opera House. It wasn’t the face and voice that threw you—they were familiar—it was the contrast with the everyday environment that was so jarring. You had never believed until now that the celebrity occupied the same world you did.

  Bryson was a man of average size, but he seemed somehow more solid, denser than an ordinary person. After all those triathlons, his BMI must be an astounding number. His jeans were not some designer brand but ordinary Levi’s. She could see the leather patch between the belt loops: his waist was 30 and his inseam was 32. His graying light brown hair was long enough to curl slightly over his collar and the tops of his ears. His thick, short beard framed a wide mouth and brilliant white teeth. Opera singers showed their teeth a lot and were vain about them, but she had never seen a set of choppers this even and effulgent.

  Keeping hold of Bert’s hand, he turned to Congreve. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  Congreve gave a huge smile of relief. “My office is right upstairs.”

  Bert freed his hand. “No. I’m not going anywhere. I have something to say. I’ve thought it through and I know what I’m doing.” But his voice sounded hollow.

  Bryson clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Fine. Just tell me first. We’re partners now, you know.”

  She did not know what that meant, but Bert seemed to alter before her eyes. Videographers and still photographers were filling the doorway, and maybe it was all the lenses pointed at Bert that made her imagine that a caption was appearing under his face, spelling out “Partner of Keith Bryson.”

  Congreve started up the stairs, followed by Bert and Bryson. More news people were pushing through the doors. Some were still calling out questions. But the three security men stationed themselves at the foot of the stairs, and no one even tried to push past them. Renata turned to Samuelson, but he was wandering away, talking on his cellphone.

  Renata felt like a coat rack, and not just because she was still carrying Don’s suit. Apart from Bert, no one had noticed her in the last five minutes. Now that only she and the news people remained, they were eying her.

  One stepped forward. “Do you work here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have any idea what they’re going to talk about up there?”

  “No. I’m just a mezzo-soprano.”

  One of the men carrying a video camera on his shoulder said, “Hey, she’s the guy’s sister.”

  “What guy?’ a woman with a notebook asked.

  “The killer.”

  “My brother did not kill anyone,” Renata blurted.

  The media people exchanged looks. They were stuck here until Bryson came back down the stairs anyway. Might as well. Tripod legs splayed and cameras locked in place atop them. Lights glared in her eyes. A microphone was pinned to her blouse.

  Chapter 18

  Peter stood outside the doorway of his supervisor’s office and waited to be noticed. At Medical PR, you didn’t barge in the way people did at the newspaper.

  “Pete! Come in. How’s it going? Want to go downstairs for lunch?”

  “Thanks. Sorry, I’m on deadline. The Stromberg-Brand obit for Roger.”

  “Need more time? Want me to talk to him?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Diane the chief medical writer always had time for him and kept looking for ways to make his job easier. You never had a boss like that at a paper.

  “I just had a question,” Peter went on. “Who’s Ransome Chase?”

  “Oh, is he bothering you? Ignore him. Just forward the email to me.”

  “No, I, uh, someone mentioned the name to me, and he’s on my beat, so—”

  “You don’t have to worry about him. We don’t do press releases or articles about him. We steer reporter queries away from him. That’s straight from Roger.”

  “Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Unusual but not unique.” Diane used words with precision. He liked that in a woman. If she wasn’t his boss and married with two kids he would definitely put the moves on her. “What did Chase do?”

  “I’ll give you Roger’s exact words: ‘The purpose of your department is to make good news about Adams U. Medical School. Chase is of no use to you.’ ”

  “Oh. He must’ve done something really bad.”

  “Before my time. All I know is, he’s one doc I don’t have to worry about.”

  Peter’s next questions were: Aren’t you curious? How can you stand not to know? He did not ask them. He thanked Diane and headed back down the corridor to his office. Along the way, he passed four colleagues. Three paused to ask him how things were going. The other invited him to lunch. They were always going out to lunch together in Medical PR. Or meeting for a drink after work. Or having coffee and cake to celebrate somebody’s birthday. Everybody got along. Feuds a
nd grudges were rare. It wasn’t like a paper at all.

  He sat down in front of the screen and started making final revisions to the obit. The fly in the ointment was that your own writing bored you. That didn’t seem to bother anyone else. Why not? Most of them were ex-reporters. He pondered the mystery as he automatically trimmed words and corrected punctuation. He’d asked a few of them if they missed journalism, and they said no, they liked going home at five o’clock. They were all married, and most of them had children. They weren’t counting on the job to make life worth living. It was only Peter who at five o’clock went home to an empty apartment. He was thirty-four, but he’d never been married. Except to the paper.

  Which made him a widower. The Springfield Journal-Register had died the slow, ignominious death that was the common fate of newspapers these days. He had foolishly stayed on until the end. Then he had no choice but to go back home to Edwardsville, to the room he’d last lived in as a teenager. He was the first in his family to make it all the way through college. How proud and hopeful his parents had been … even if he had majored in journalism. Now he was back. There had followed eight months, two weeks, and four days of delivering pizzas and applying for jobs.