So Mario and I were both saved by the office entry bell when Mr. Crockett came back from lunch early. “It’s hot as hell out there,” he said, just in case we hadn’t noticed (or read the morning headlines). He hooked his light blue seersucker jacket on one branch of the coat tree and perched his Panama on another. “Bring me some coffee, Paige,” he grunted, pushing his wide body down the narrow center aisle of the workroom, thereby forcing Mario, who had been standing in the middle of the aisle, to hustle back to his desk. (Lenny and I shared a secret smile over that one.)
After taking Mr. Crockett his coffee (and ignoring Mario’s lewd winks and gestures along the way), I went back to my desk and began studying the invoices for real, putting them in chronological order, tallying the amounts, checking them against my pre-publication records, entering them in the ledger. This tedious job, plus a complete retyping of one of Mike’s more heavily corrected stories, kept me busy for the rest of the afternoon. Pomeroy came back about three, but he merely sat down in his cushy swivel chair, turned his face toward the wall, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and fell into an alcoholic snooze. (His morning martini fast had obviously been reversed.)
At the stroke of five, I walked into Mr. Crockett’s office and closed the door behind me. “Mr. Pomeroy has given me a very important story assignment,” I told him, “which is going to require a lot of after-hours legwork. May I have your permission to leave early tonight? I have to meet an informant all the way across town at six.”
(Okay, so I lied about the time. But just by thirty measely minutes! And a harried, hungry, hard-working girl like myself is entitled to a measely thirty-minute dinner break, wouldn’t you say?)
Mr. Crockett barely looked up from his copy of the
Saturday Evening Post. “Okay,” he said, switching his soggy cigar stub from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Go on. Scoot.”
Chapter 26
I LEARNED FROM THE PHONE BOOK that the Actors Studio was located at 432 West 44th Street, between Ninth and Tenth, so I took the 42nd Street shuttle to Times Square. Then I pushed my way through the dizzying rush-hour crowd to the nearest exit. (I don’t have to tell you how hot it was, because you know that already, right? I mean, descriptive detail is good up to a point, after which it can turn rancid. Especially in the heat.)
I had a hot dog with mustard and relish at Nedick’s, and a frosty tall one at a nearby A &W Root Beer stand. And then-despite the amused gawks my gaudy multicolored outfit kept attracting-I proudly proceeded to 44th Street, turned left, and began the two-and-a-half-block trek westward. I was walking on air. I was working on an important story assignment! So what if I looked like a parrot? A legitimate professional journalist on assignment could wear anything she darn well pleased.
The theater district was crowded as always. A lot of excited people were standing under the maroon awning and green neon sign of Sardi’s restaurant, trying to peer through the windows. I figured some famous Broadway star had just swept inside for a pre-show snack or highball. Passing by the Majestic Theatre, where
Fanny was playing, and the St. James, where The Pajama Game was in its second year, I had to push my way through long, disorderly lines of last-minute ticket buyers. After I crossed over Eighth Avenue, though, and headed for Ninth, the street became a whole lot quieter.
And creepier…
All of a sudden I was walking on eggs instead of air.
What if somebody’s following me? I whimpered to myself. What if Aunt Doobie’s on my trail, carrying another hunk of concrete under his well-muscled arm? What if Blackie’s crouching like a panther in the shadows, waiting to jump out and claw me to pieces? Maybe Baldy’s pulling up behind me in his limousine right now, scheming to snatch me off the street and whisk me down to the docks for a final (i.e., fatal) beating.
Okay, okay! So my fantasies were probably working overtime. (At least I hoped they were!) It hadn’t gotten dark yet, and as many times as I whipped my head around, searching for suspicious characters, I didn’t spot a single one. I still felt very nervous, though, and I crossed Ninth Avenue with a sense of dread in my racing heart.
Halfway down the block I reached it-the small, low, red-brick building that housed the Actors Studio. It looked like an old church or theater or some kind of meeting hall. A flight of about ten stone steps led up to the wide, white double-door entrance, but the entire face of the property, including the entryway and the tiny, heavily shrubbed front yard, was closed off by a wrought iron fence. The gate was securely locked.
How’s anybody supposed to get in? I wondered, standing anxiously by the iron barricade, looking up and down the nearly deserted street for Binky (or, rather, any young man I thought might be Binky). I couldn’t go inside without him. Where was he? He was coming, wasn’t he? What if he didn’t show up? I looked at my watch. It was 6:32. He was late! (Okay, so he wasn’t really that late. But when you’re convinced you’re being stalked by a homicidal maniac, two minutes can seem like two months.)
There was a loud creaking noise behind me. I jerked around to see who was there or what was happening, but detected no movement at all. Then, from out of nowhere, a male voice called out, “Hey, Phoebe? Over here!”
Straining my eyes toward the source of the voice, I finally saw him. Well, his head, anyway. It was a fairly large head with lots of curly light brown hair, and it was sticking out from a street-level door on the far side of the building.
“Binky?” I called back. “Is that you?”
“Yeah.” He stepped all the way through the creaky door and walked across a small cement courtyard to the edge of the fence. “Come down here,” he said, gesturing for me to come closer. “This is the best way in.”
Baring my teeth in a huge Bucky Beaver smile, I walked down to where Binky was standing. “Hi!” I said, extending my hand over the fence for a shake. “It’s nice to meet you, finally. I really appreciate what you’re doing for me.” He was a tall, lean, good-looking guy. Not heart-stoppingly gorgeous, like Gray, but quite attractive in a tense, Van Heflin kind of way.
There was another gate at this end of the fence and Binky opened it for me. “So you really
are an actress,” he said, smirking, eyeing my colorful clothes. “I had my doubts before, but now I see from your way-out wardrobe you’re just like all the other actresses I know. You want to be the center of attention.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” I said, just to keep him guessing. (Sometimes, when you’re trying to solve a mystery, it helps to be mysterious yourself.) I stepped through the gate and walked into the courtyard. “For instance,” I added, blatantly scrutinizing the way
he was dressed, “one glance at your tightly buttoned collar and long-sleeved shirt tells me you’re either priggish or feeling chilly. But neither of those hasty conclusions can be true, now, can they? A bartender at the Latin Quarter couldn’t possibly be a prig, and nobody could be feeling chilly in this unbearable heat.”
He gave me a chilly smile. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss my clothes, my job, or the weather. And the auditions will be starting soon. Let’s go inside.” He led the way to the side door and opened it wide.
“Thanks, Binky,” I said, as he ushered me into the building.
“Don’t call me that!” he snapped. “Especially when we get upstairs.” He followed me into the dim hallway, then paused at the bottom of the steps. “Just call me Barnabas, please,” he said, re-collecting himself. “The Studio bigwigs know me by my real name-Barnabas Kapinsky-and I want to keep it that way. Binky’s too rinky-dink. It’s fit for a performing poodle, not a serious actor.”
It was time for
me to do some serious acting. “You’re so right, Barnabas,” I simmered, doing my best Susan Hayward (she really knows how to emote). “An important director like Elia Kazan would surely laugh at a name like Binky. And isn’t that who you’re auditioning for this evening? Elia Kazan?”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes darting from my face,
to the floor, to the well-lit landing at the top of the stairs. “Mr. Kazan’s one of the founders of the Actors Studio, and whenever he needs a new face for one of his movies or plays, he looks here first. If he likes my work tonight, my career will be made in the shade.”
“Gosh!” I cried, flapping my lashes like a starstruck fool (I felt my role called for a little more pep and hooey). “Aren’t you nervous? How can you be so cool? I would be having a heart attack!”
“Yeah, I’m nervous,” he said. “But I’ve been practicing my audition scene for so long, I know it like the back of my hand. I’m going to be a smash tonight. I can feel it.”
“I’m so excited!” I fluttered. “Thanks for letting me come!”
“No problem. I work best in front of a big audience-the bigger the better. And the head honchos like to have extra spectators on audition nights so they can get their reaction to the performances. Come on,” he said, turning and leading the way up the stairs. “Everybody’s here already. You better get yourself a seat.”
BEYOND THE UPSTAIRS ENTRANCE HALL, with its many framed photos of Studio luminaries and workshops-in-progress, was a small theater. The six-or-so rows of wooden seats were arranged in elevated tiers, in a wide semicircle around the stage, which was really no stage at all, just the bare wood boards of the floor. Other than the small table and chair set smack in the center of the floor (or stage, or whatever), there was no scenery. An odd clutter of ladders, brooms, stools, folding chairs, and other pieces of battered equipment served as the only backdrop.
“I’ve got to go in the back and get ready,” Binky told me. “You can sit wherever you like, except for those two empty seats in the front, and the two empty seats in the middle of the fourth row. All the others are up for grabs, and you better grab one before they’re gone.”
He was right. Most of the chairs were already taken, by a chatty, eclectic assortment of men and women, in many different age brackets, in many various styles of dress, primarily business and casual, but also kooky and bohemian. (I seemed to fit in all four categories at once.) I spotted an empty seat in the middle of the next-to-the-last row and quickly worked my way up the tiers, and past a long line of knobby knees, to claim it.
The second I sat down, I started studying the people in the audience, paying special attention to those who were 1) around Gray’s age, and 2) dressed like acting students-i.e., blue jeans, T-shirts, and loafers for the guys; tight skirts, blouses, and ballet flats for the gals. I hoped to zero in on a couple of Gray’s closest peers and try to talk to them when the auditions were over. Spying a handsome young man with a dirty blond ducktail in the second row, and wondering if his name was Randy, I craned my neck forward for a better look.
Lord have mercy! I screeched to myself (in the same tone both my Georgia-born grandmother and Willy Sinclair would use). It’s James Dean! I’m sitting five seats and three rows away from James Dean! If Abby ever finds out about this, she’ll kill me!
To say that I was shocked would be like saying Salvadore Dali was a little bit strange. If I had thought for even a second that Abby’s fave new screen boy would be here, you can bet your sweet tushy I’d have brought her with me! Abby would have had the famous film idol wrapped around her little finger by now, and if it turned out James Dean had been a friend of Gray Gordon’s… who knows what stories (or clues) he might have revealed to us (I mean, her).
But as shocked as I was by the sight of James Dean, that was nothing compared to the stroke I suffered when another well-known (to me) man suddenly pushed his way into the audience and sat down in one of the two reserved seats right in front of me. When I caught my first glimpse of him, I almost passed out. My temperature shot through the roof, my heart went into convulsions, and I broke out in such a serious sweat my bangs went from damp to dripping.
It was Baldy!
My first frantic impulse was to slip down to the floor and crawl under my seat. But slipping and crawling were out of the question. There wasn’t enough room. And all the closely packed chairs on either side of me were full, making a fast, inconspicuous exit from the row impossible. I was stuck. All I could do was sit there like a stump, holding my breath and hiding my face with my hand, praying to every deity I ever heard of that Baldy wouldn’t turn around and see me.
For the time being, my prayers were answered. Baldy leaned his large torso forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and-without a single backward glance-aimed his eyes at the stage. And he continued to sit that way, leaning and staring forward in a seeming trance, until another man entered the crowded fourth row, squeezed his way through the gauntlet of knees, feet, and legs, and sat down next to him.
There was nothing shocking about this well-known man’s arrival. He was the director Elia Kazan, and everybody in the audience, including myself, had been expecting him to appear. I
was surprised, however, by the audience’s cheerful and friendly reaction to his unannounced entrance. Everybody was looking at him and smiling. James Dean stood up and saluted. Many people were waving and applauding, and those sitting close enough stretched out their arms to shake his hand. The well-dressed man to my left leaned over and gave him a sporting slap on the back.
Was I the only one in the room who felt uncomfortable being in Kazan’s presence? Was I the only one who remembered that just three short years ago, in 1952, Kazan had gone before Senator Joe McCarthy and the House Un-American Activities Committee, and identified eight of his old theater friends as former members of the Communist Party? So what if the man was a brilliant Broadway director? So what if his movies were huge Hollywood hits? Did that make it okay for him to be a snitch?
I was spinning these and many other questions around in my brain when a medium-tall middle-aged man wearing a suit and a tie and a pair of large horn-rimmed glasses stood up from one of the reserved seats in the center of the front row and turned to address the crowd.
“Good evening, ladies and gentleman,” he said. “My name is Lee Strasberg, and I welcome you to the Actors Studio. One of our founders, Mr. Elia Kazan, is with us tonight, and three of our most talented young actors will be auditioning for the lead understudy role in his current Broadway success,
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. And now it’s time to get started. We hope you will enjoy the auditions and continue your support of the Actors Studio.”
There was a brief round of applause, and Strasberg returned to his seat.
So that’s it, I said to myself. Kazan is looking for an actor to fill Gray’s shoes, and Binky is hoping his own feet will fit.
Now even more questions were spinning in my dizzy skull. How long, I wondered, had Binky been preparing for this Cinderella audition? Had he begun rehearsing after or before Gray was murdered? How much had he coveted Gray’s understudy role? Enough to kill for it?
And what about Baldy? I reminded myself, staring straight at the back of the man’s big hairless head. What did he have to do with the whole production?
Going crazy from the storm of questions and my inability to answer any of them, I was relieved when Binky suddenly emerged from behind the stage, then walked out into the middle of the floor and introduced himself.
“Good evening,” he said. “My name is Barnabas Kapinsky and I’ve been a member of the Actors Studio for four years. For my audition tonight I will be playing the role of Brick in a scene from
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. It’s the pivotal scene between Brick and Big Daddy, which comes at the end of Act Two. Mr. Strasberg will be reading the part of Big Daddy.”
Binky nodded to Strasberg and then to Kazan (or was it Baldy?). Then-raking his fingers through his curly beige hair and loosening the collar of his tightly buttoned shirt-he took a step toward the audience, cleared his throat, and began his well-practiced performance.
Chapter 27
BY THE TIME THE AUDITIONS ENDED I was practically jumping out of my skin. It isn’t easy to sit squished in a hard wooden seat for an hour and a half, watching the same long scene from the same pla
y three times in a row, and having a major panic attack every time the bald guy sitting in front of you turns his head. Binky’s performance was really good-so I didn’t mind sitting through that so much-but watching the tiresome auditions of the other two actors (and I use the term loosely) was like waiting for a bus that never comes.
So when the last guy finally finished his presentation, and Strasberg stood up and thanked everybody for coming, I started looking for a quick escape route. I didn’t want to talk to Gray’s peers anymore, not even James Dean. And I didn’t have the slightest desire to hook up with Binky again. All I wanted to do was get up and get out of there before Baldy saw me.
But being wedged in the very middle of the next-to-the-last row the way I was-well, I’m sure you get the picture. I couldn’t go my way until all the chatty, slow-moving people next to (i.e., ahead of) me had gone theirs. And the same was true for Baldy and Kazan. All three of us had to sit tight and wait for our rows to clear. Which, believe it or not, turned out to be a good thing (for me), because it allowed me to monitor (okay, eavesdrop on) the following script (I mean, dialogue):
KAZAN:
The Kapinsky kid was good, don’t you think? I remember him from the last understudy audition. He gave a decent performance then, too. He was my second choice. He wasn’t as polished as Gray Gordon-and not nearly as good looking, of course-but he had a lot of energy and drive.
BALDY:
Yeah, he’s okay, I guess. A hell of a lot better than those other two goons. Has he had any experience?
Murder on a Hot Tin Roof Page 20