Attack of the Theater People

by Marc Acito

  We repeat our earlier scene, except this time Ziba makes introductions; then we retire to the Palm Room for our meeting, the bodyguard preening so Chad can see he’s packing heat. Chad and Ziba sit opposite Marcus and Paula while I remain standing just over Chad’s shoulder to record him with my crotch.

  “Mr. Severson,” Marcus says, “you are aware of the political crisis in Iran?”

  Chad gives a genial smile. “Somewhat.”

  “So you understand the need to fight the fascist clerical regime that corrupts our ancient heritage?”

  “Of course.”

  “The resistance forces in our homeland need as much funding as possible,” Marcus says. “We have resources. But what we need are more opportunities to grow those resources. Quickly.”

  “I see.”

  “May we speak frankly?”

  Chad nods.

  Marcus acknowledges Paula. “My wife and I have access to great amounts of information, valuable information. But it’s only valuable if we can use it.” Marcus gives a papal wave toward me. “This young man leads me to believe you could serve such a role for our cause.”

  “I would be honored, Your Majesty,” Chad says.

  “Excellent. All our banking is done in Switzerland. We trust that’s not a problem?”

  “Not at all. I quite like Switzerland.” I can’t be certain, but I believe his mouth hints at a smile.

  Marcus sits back in his chair. “Perhaps you could tell us a bit about your experience with these matters.”

  Chad shifts in his seat. “I’m afraid that information is confidential.”

  Marcus glowers. “‘How all occasions do inform against me…’”

  Paula lays a hand on his arm, preventing him from performing act four, scene four of Hamlet. “Mr. Severson,” she says in a jasmine-scented tone, “we appreciate your discretion, but we need to work with someone we can trust. Some indication of your experience would help.”

  Chad hesitates, so Marcus seizes his opportunity.

  In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man

  As modest stillness and humility:

  I know this speech.

  But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

  Then imitate the action of the tiger;

  What is it?

  Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood

  Shit. It’s Henry V. If someone doesn’t stop him, he’ll launch right into “God for Harry, England, and Saint George.”

  Chad clears his throat. “Your Majesty, I’d love to help, but there are limits to what—”

  Marcus snorts, an angry bull.

  Why, man, the Ayatollah bestrides the narrow world

  Like a Colossus, and we petty men

  Walk under his huge legs and peep about

  To find ourselves dishonourable graves.

  He leans in to Chad, his charcoal eyes aflame.

  Men at some time are masters of their fates:

  The fault, Mr. Severson, is not in our stars,

  But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

  I glance at Chad, worried that he’ll recognize the sudden segue into Julius Caesar. But he’s mesmerized, a rat about to be squeezed to death by a boa constrictor.

  The Ayatollah. Why should his name be sounded more than mine?

  Write them together, mine is as fair a name;

  Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;

  Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with ’em,

  Reza Palahvi will start a spirit as soon as Ayotallah Khomeini.

  Upon what meat does this Ayatollah feed,

  That he is grown so great?

  Marcus rises and looks at Chad as if he were shit on his shoes.

  Oh, the shame. Iran has lost the breed of noble bloods.

  He holds out his hand for Paula, who looks just as stunned as Chad. This wasn’t how we rehearsed it. But I’ve got to admit, it’s quite a performance.

  Without another word, Marcus and Paula head for the door.

  “Your Majesty,” Chad says.

  They turn.

  “Maybe there are a few things I could tell you….”

  Chad smiles phosphorescently as we ride down in the elevator. “That’s what it’s fucking about,” he says. “I’ll scratch your ass, you scratch mine.” He adjusts his crotch. “Just thinkin’ about all that money gets me hard.”

  I look at my watch—6:06 Edward Standard Time. Which means it’s exactly 5:55. Which means someone with a haircut above his ears is waiting for me downstairs. Which means Chad’s going to jail.

  But no one approaches as we pass through the lobby. Nor are there any uniformed cops. What’s more, Willow’s disappeared.

  I stall, stopping in the center of the room to make small talk.

  “So,” I say, “how about a drink to celebrate?”

  “I wish I could,” Chad says. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Come on. Just one drink.”

  “Sorry, no time.”

  “But you’ve got plenty of time. Your flight doesn’t leave for hours.”

  “Still, I want to get there in…” He pauses. “How’d you know I’m going away?”

  “Uh…you told me.”

  His eyes narrow. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

  Apparently, I, too, am royal. A royal fuckup.

  Chad looks around, then takes me by the elbow. “How about taking a ride?”

  Having grown up Italian in New Jersey, these are words I never wanted to hear.

  Chad walks me outside, where a black limo waits. I’ve never been in a limousine before. Under other circumstances this would be quite exciting. The driver opens the door for us and we climb in.

  I briefly consider jumping out the other side, but Chad grabs me by the shoulder and thrusts his other arm around me.

  “What are you—”

  “C’mon,” he says, groping my chest, “you know you want to.”

  The car slides into traffic as I slide across the seat, and Chad slides his hands down my thighs. “I’ve seen how you’ve been looking at me all these months. Well, now’s your chance.”

  I squirm underneath him as he reaches for my groin, which is currently taping our conversation.

  “What the fuck…?” He knocks on my crotch. “I knew it!”

  I try to push him off while he tears at my pants.

  “Give it to me, you son of a bitch!”

  “No!”

  We wrestle on the seat, all arms and knees. The car turns a corner and Chad grasps my throat, choking me.

  “Lemme have it, lemme have it.”

  I beat on his back with my fists. I’m drowning. I can’t breathe. I reach up and yank on his hair.

  Chad screams.

  The limo stops and I thrust the door open, tumbling into the middle of Fifty-second Street. Horns blare. Tires screech. The taxi behind us comes within inches of smashing into us. As I scramble to get up, Chad leaps out after me, snatching me by the shirt collar.

  “FBI! FREEZE!”

  I look up, and there’s Willow, surrounded by two armed members of the Coup d’État Group.

  Thirty-seven

  Chad and I raise our hands.

  “Don’t shoot,” he says.

  Willow advances toward us. Given her assertive stride, I see immediately that she’s used Ziba as her inspiration, an effect compounded by her dark wig and tan makeup. “Chad Severson, you’re under arrest for the crime of insider trading.” Her voice is officious, almost masculine. She’s such a terrific actress.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be held against you in a court of law.”

  I’m not sure the FBI administers Miranda rights, but it’s a convincing performance.

  Willow hesitates, flicking a panicked peek at me, the Internationally Recognized Signal for “Line…?”

  Having been arrested a couple of times, I know the rest, but I can’t think of any way to communicate through expression or gesture that Chad has the right to an
attorney.

  Flop sweat dews Willow’s forehead. She glances down the street to see if help is on the way, but traffic is backed up because we’re blocking a lane. She turns to Chad again. “Did I mention you have the right to remain silent?”

  Chad narrows his eyes. “Where did you say you’re from?”

  “The FBI,” she says, squaring her shoulders. A single tan droplet hangs from her eyebrow.

  Chad looks over her shoulder at the armed actors.

  “What department?” he says.

  Willow’s impassive face betrays nothing, but I can almost hear the gears cranking in her brain, and I pray that living with Natie has taught her something about securities fraud.

  “The SEC.”

  Phew.

  Chad slowly rests one of his upraised hands on the roof of the limo. “And what’s that stand for?”

  He knows.

  He knows. He knows. He knows. Every nerve in my body vibrates, a thousand tiny tap dancers climbing the stairs of my spinal cord.

  Willow swallows.

  “The Saudi Electric Company.”

  In a flash I feel Chad’s hand on my neck, hurtling me toward the limo.

  “Get in!” he shouts.

  “No,” Willow cries, grabbing my arm. Our two gunmen come rushing forward while Chad and Willow pull on me like a wishbone. With his free hand Chad tries to reach down my pants, but my jeans are too tight. Even as I struggle to preserve the only evidence that will keep me out of jail, I resolve to start dieting. I feel Chad’s hard hand pressing against the soft of my belly, the tips of his fingers gripping the edge of the recorder, inching it toward my waistband, closer and closer until…

  Sirens.

  I look up and see the flashing red lights of two approaching squad cars. They pull up cockeyed, blocking traffic. A pair of uniformed officers jumps out of each and duck behind their open doors, guns drawn. “Put down the weapons,” one of them shouts.

  The two members of the Coup d’État Group throw down their guns, throw up their hands, and try not to throw up their lunch.

  “Everybody down on the ground,” the cop shouts.

  All five of us fall to our knees as the passenger door of the first squad car opens, unleashing the most powerful weapon of all.

  “There,” Lizzie screams, pointing an accusatory finger at Chad. “There’s the man who touched me!”

  Judging from the unsavory characters already gathered in the booking area, I’m sure the offices of the Seventeenth Precinct are accustomed to disorderly outbursts. But I’m not sure they’ve ever experienced the sheer volume of a roomful of hollering theater people, many of whom have voice and speech training from the finest drama school in the country.

  “I don’t have to tell you anything, you fascist.”

  “Sniderman. As in Shel Sniderman, the TV producer.”

  “I understand it’s legal procedure, but I have five hundred guests waiting at the Waldorf.”

  “It’s a name, not an adjective. Capital H.”

  “It’s all frightfully complicated. You see, back in September there was this bar mitzvah….”

  “Grab. The-owski is silent.”

  “That’s right. The former crown prince of Iran. Now may I call my lawyer?”

  Across the room I see Natie enter dressed as Dustin the hopper car, accompanied by the fed who chased me on foot. He’s followed by Kelly, pale as linen next to an officer in blue. A rumpled man with a face like tapioca pudding steps forward. He looks like an ulcer in a suit.

  “Okay, everybody quiet down, quiet down,” he says. “I’m Detective Joe Polsky of the New York City Police Department, and this here”—he indicates the federal agent with the hair cut above his ears—“is Mead Hunter of the Securities and Exchange Commission. And you people win the prize for the strangest case of the year.”

  Some of the members of Almost Bruce applaud.

  “Shaddap,” Detective Polsky snaps. “We’re gonna figure out what the hell’s going on, and we’re gonna do it in an orderly fashion.” He looks at Willow. “Since you were our arresting officer, why don’t you start?”

  “Well, I was sitting in the lobby,” Willow says. “Actually, I was kind of pacing because I was worried about Nathan—that’s him over there dressed as a dump truck—he’s just too gentle a soul to keep in custody, and it made me realize that I had feelings for him.”

  “You do?” Natie says.

  “Yes,” Willow replies. “Even though you’re gay.”

  “I keep telling you, I’m not gay.”

  “Then how’d you get the ushering job?”

  “Can we get on with this?” Detective Polsky says.

  “Of course,” Willow says. “So then it was like, wham, sell the kittens, see who’s on the phone.”

  “Sell the kittens?” the detective says.

  “Yeah. It’s an expression.”

  Detective Polsky frowns. “No, it’s not.”

  “Really? I thought…Well, anyway, I start thinking to myself that if Nathan wasn’t there because the feds thought he was Edward, then there was no reason for the feds to come back to get Edward because he was already with them. Except he wasn’t; he was upstairs, taping Chad.”

  Willow-to-English Translation: Since the feds thought they had Edward Zanni in custody, there was no need to keep their appointment at the Waldorf=Astoria.

  “And,” she continued, “that gave me, like, y’know, brrr. So I went upstairs to warn Edward but he’d just left, so we all came downstairs again and there he was getting into a limo, and I figured, ‘That can’t be good,’ and I was like, ‘Follow that limo,’ which sounded dumb but it worked, didn’t it?”

  The detective studies her face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He turns to me. “Who are you?”

  “Edward Zanni.”

  The intake sergeant hands the detective a sheet of paper. “He’s got a record.”

  “Lemme see,” Detective Polsky says. “Theft of a…what’s this say?”

  “A Buddha, sir,” the officer says. “Actually, a lot of them were involved in that. But the charges were dropped. More recently there was an arrest for disorderly conduct outside the Delacorte Theater in Central Park.”

  “A flagrant violation of our First Amendment rights,” shouts Marcus.

  “These kids are all crooks,” Chad says.

  “And who are you?” asks Detective Polsky.

  “Chad Severson of Sharp, Thornton, and Wiley, and I’m not saying anything without my lawyer.”

  “Good,” the detective says. “That’ll save time.” He turns to me. “So where’s this tape?”

  “Down my pants, sir.”

  “I see. Would you mind producing it?”

  I reach into my jeans and pull out the tape recorder.

  “He’s a thief,” Chad cries. “And a liar. And an—”

  “I thought you weren’t talking without your lawyer,” Detective Polsky says.

  “I’m not.”

  “Then shut up and listen.” He points to me. “You with the sweaty shirt. Go ahead, turn it on.”

  I press play:

  I’VE GOT TO BE WHERE MY SPIRIT CAN RUN FREE GOT TO FIND MY C—

  “Guess I need to rewind,” I say, which I do, making me sound like the mayor of Munchkin City. The plink-plink of piano disappears and a few Munchkin voices can be heard. I stop the tape and hit play.

  There’s Chad’s voice.

  “Information is the oxygen of our modern age,” he says. “Do you know who said that, Your Majesty? Ronald fuh…uh, Reagan. So I don’t care what the law says; when I found out that Hibbert and Howard was being acquired, I had to trade on that information.”

  I click off the tape.

  Chad wipes the sweat off his face. “I can explain.”

  Detective Polsky nods to a uniformed officer. “I think you’d better.”

  The officer is just reaching for Chad when, from behind the crowd, a voice cries, “OUTTA MY WAY, YOU VERMIN! WHERE
IS SHE? WHERE’S MY BABY?”

  “MOMMY!” Lizzie shouts, breaking away from a weary social worker.

  “Lizzie, what happened to you?” Judith says, checking her daughter for bruises.

  Lizzie points to Chad. “He touched me!”

  My last view of Chad is of his improbably handsome face being pummeled by a beaded clutch bag.

  Thirty-eight

  I pace around the Lincoln Center fountain as if it were a clock, the Met at twelve, Alice Tully Hall at three, the State Theater at nine. Beyond the plaza stands Juilliard at two, Fordham at ten, and, just past six, Little Liberty, the replica of the Statue of Liberty that rises improbably above the rooftops, which is appropriate because I’m tired, poor, and yearning to breathe free.

  It’s been a long month.

  I fingered Chad, who fingered Rich Whiteman, who, in turn, went on The 700 Club to say he was a victim of a militant homosexual conspiracy. (“Oh, goody,” Hung said. “I’ll get started on the uniform.”) The New York Times revealed that Chad was actually a community college dropout from Scranton, Pennsylvania, while the New York Post called me “the Juilliard Jackal.” As a result, Sandra has started getting requests for me at parties again, which I gladly accept, particularly since she fired Dagmar for hitting on too many customers. She even apologized for calling me a con man in the paper and gave me a raise.

  But the sweetest victory of all was one little line in the Wall Street Journal:

  Edward Zanni, a Juilliard drama student on a leave of absence, provided a great service to the business community when he used his acting skills to expose a nest of vipers.

  My father read that.

  I look at the Mickey Mouse watch I bought myself at FAO Schwarz—2:53 Edward Standard Time—which means it’s 2:53. Enough already with trying to fool myself. It never worked, anyway. I make a silent prayer to Saint Jude, take one last gulp of spring air, and shamble around the corner with the slow, heavy tread of an astronaut landing on the moon.

  As I pass through the glass doors leading into the finest drama school in the country, I watch a passel of enthusiastic students laughing, talking, talking, laughing. I feel older and tougher by comparison. Surely none of them has a probation officer.