Two things stopped the conversation. First, I handed Shelly the check Einstein had given me, complete with my endorsement, and told him to go cash it at the hotel desk since he was registered and I wasn’t. He went, vowing to return to the subject of vibration alignment, which I liked even less than rainbow teeth. Second, Carmichael spotted me and approached on little flat feet.
“We had an agreement, me friend,” he said with a big fake smile.
“Your Irish accent is back,” I noted.
“People might be listening to us,” he said, smile frozen, looking around at the people who passed us and paid no attention.
“Carmichael, you issued an order. I am not registered in the hotel. I’m here to meet a friend who’s here for a dental convention. We’re going to have dinner, take in a show.”
“A friend?” Carmichael asked. “And where might this friend be at the moment?”
At that moment Shelly returned, examined Carmichael through his thick lenses, and handed me a hundred dollars in fives and tens.
“Dr. Minck, this is Mr. Carmichael,” I said.
Neither man put out a hand.
“You’re really a doctor?” Carmichael asked.
“Are you really from Ireland?” I asked.
“I’ll not be grinning from ear to ear in a second if you keep up this banter,” whispered Carmichael. Then to Shelly, “Your friend here says you’re here for a convention. You mind telling me a bit about the convention?”
“Mind?” I said. “It’s what keeps him alive.”
Shelly launched into the alignment vibrator, the chocolate teeth, and a few other crackpot gimmicks he had been saving for dinner. It took about three minutes for Carmichael to declare defeat and make an excuse to flee.
“Very interesting, Doc,” he said, “but I’ve got me rounds to make. I’d appreciate it if you kept your friend as far from me hotel as you can. Have a good visit to our fair city.” And Carmichael beat a retreat as Shelly, mouth open, told me that the man was “rude.”
“I wasn’t finished telling him about the multi-extractor,” Shelly said. “Why did he ask if he wasn’t interested? And how could anyone help but be interested once they heard about these things? I tell you, Toby, we are on the edge of an oral revolution.”
“Let’s try not to fall in,” I said and hustled him out into the street.
The night was clear and a little cool. No sign of rain. We walked and Shelly talked. The only thing worthwhile he told me was that there had been an announcement at his meeting that the government was changing its mind about requiring people to turn in used toothpaste tubes before they could get new full ones. They were, however, considering putting a two-cent deposit on the tubes.
“I’m glad to hear that, Shell. Now you don’t have to stock up on black-market toothpaste for Mildred.”
“No,” he beamed. “I’ve already bought some special New York presents for Mildred. She’ll love ’em. I got here a set of those new plastic ice cubes trays. A buck ninety-five each.”
“Sounds like the perfect gift,” I said, stopping to look in the window of a tie store. Shelly came to my side and looked at the red piece of cloth in the window.
“What’re you looking at?” he said. “That tie?”
“No,” I said calmly. “I’m looking at the reflection in the window of the guy who’s been following us since we left the hotel.”
Shelly started to turn his head, as I knew he would, but I was ready for him. I reached out, found his neck with my fingers, and directed his gaze into the window.
“There, next to the tie, to the left,” I said.
The follower wore a hat that covered his eyes and a coat much too heavy for the weather.
“Toby, I just want dinner and a show,” Shelly said as I steered him into a nearby store. “No more guns, no more shooting, no more crazy people.”
Leone’s Costume Rentals was a long, lean, unimpressive store from the outside. Just a door, a small window, and chipped gold lettering on the window. We were the only customers, at least the only ones I could see. The shop stretched back into darkness. I looked out the window for the guy in the coat and hat but didn’t spot him.
“What’re we doing here?” Shelly asked. “I thought we were getting something to eat and going to a show.”
“How’d you like to meet Albert Einstein?” I asked. “How’d you like to see him give a concert?”
“Concert? He does science stuff,” said Shelly, shaking his head and curling his lower lip up as he bent to examine the assortment of fake mustaches in a glass case in front of him.
“He plays a violin, too,” I said. “You want to meet him or not?”
“Sure,” Shelly said, touching his upper lip where a mustache that would make him look like a cartoon walrus could go. “If it doesn’t get me killed.”
“Then we need tuxedos. The concert’s tomorrow. Einstein’s paying.”
Shelly shrugged and reached over the counter to find some way of getting at the mustaches.
“You want to get your wrist wrung?” came a voice from the darkness at the rear of the store.
Shelly’s hand shot back as we watched a woman step out into the shade. The only light inside the shop came from the single murky window and a pair of low-watt bulbs high above us. From twenty feet away the woman looked like Barbara Stanwyck. Up close, her grey-black hair and sagging dress suggested Florence Bates.
“Nice costumes,” Shelly said, nervous about being caught with his hand almost in the mustache jar.
“Which one?” she asked.
“Which one? The one you’re …” he began.
“We need tuxedos,” I cut in. “One for him, one for me. Both by tomorrow morning. Can you do it?”
The woman brushed back her mop of hair, which flopped forward again, and looked out the window for some source of energy to sustain her against the out-of-town likes of someone like me. “Barrymore once gave me three hours to find an alligator suit,” she said, turning back to me.
“John or Lionel?” I asked.
“Ethel,” the woman said. “Two hours to come up with six cyclops masks for Belasco. And Helen Hayes one time had less than twenty minutes to replace a Civil War nurse’s uniform that had been stolen. I satisfied Barrymore, Belasco, and Hayes. I can certainly come up with two tuxes in twenty-four hours, even if one is odd size.”
The “odd size” comment was for Shelly. He adjusted his glasses and said nothing.
“It won’t be cheap,” she said, trying again to keep her hair from blinding her. “Twenty bucks for the two of you. All of it in advance.”
I took out my wallet, handed her two tens, and waited while she scrawled a receipt.
“You want to get our measurements?” I asked, pocketing the receipt.
She laughed and shook her head at my foolishness. “You know how long I’ve been doing this kind of work?” she asked. “Do you know who my first customer was?”
“King Arthur,” Shelly mumbled under his breath.
“William Gillette,” she said triumphantly. “I suggested his Sherlock Holmes costume. You,” she went on pointing at me. “Neck fifteen-half, jacket forty, waist thirty-six, inseam thirty-two. Sleeves thirty-six.”
“Right.”
“And you,” she said, turning her finger to Shelly, “neck sixteen-half, jacket forty-six, waist forty-four, inseam twenty-nine, sleeves thirty-two.”
Shelly started to applaud grimly. The woman folded her arms in triumph across her chest.
“Perfect, Mrs. Leone,” I said. “And you can just deliver them to room twelve-thirty-four at the Taft Hotel.”
“I’m not Mrs. Leone,” she said, backing into the darkness with a sly smile. “My name is … of no consequence.” And then she was gone.
“I suppose we should applaud,” Shelly proposed.
“The performance was fine,” I said. “Let’s hope she can deliver the tuxedos on time.”
Back outside we found ourselves on Forty-fourth Street n
ear Times Square. We strolled toward a restaurant sign and went into Streifer’s Restaurant, where we were shown to a table not far from the door. I sat facing the street and Shelly, seeing the menu, temporarily lost interest in the guy with the hat.
“It was just your imagination,” he said after ordering the seven-course Jewish dinner for seventy-five cents.
“You’re right,” I said, seeing the figure stop outside the window and look toward us. I couldn’t make out a face but there was something familiar about the guy.
We ate and Shelly talked. The guy with the hat disappeared but I didn’t think he was far away. I think I had a chopped liver sandwich with a slice of raw onion. I know Shelly ate anything that dared come within five feet of our table.
“Great pickles,” he said.
“Great pickles,” I agreed, and paid the bill.
I didn’t see our tail on the subway platform and I didn’t see him get on the subway car with us. He had either given up or was better than he had seemed. Shelly tried to talk, but I pointed to my ears and shouted that the train was too noisy. He crossed his arms and sulked for the seven or eight stops before we got off.
I didn’t have much trouble finding the little theater where I had met Robeson and where Albanese had been shot the night before. I wasn’t prepared for the small crowd of people in the upstairs lobby when we got there. We headed for the theater entrance and were stopped by two men who asked us for our letters.
“Letters?” asked Shelly. “I’m a dentist.”
“I’m sorry,” said one of the young men, “but this is an invitation-only dress rehearsal of Othello.”
“We’ll buy a ticket,” I said.
“No tickets. Only potential backers have been invited,” said the second young man.
“Tell Mr. Robeson that Toby Peters is here,” I said.
The young men looked at each other, at me, at Shelly. Then one of them repeated my name and disappeared. Shelly and I watched the crowd of rich people waiting, talking, drinking coffee. They didn’t look rich. The men wore sports jackets or suits. The women wore dresses with frilly shoulders. Most of the women had their hair up off their neck. There were some nice necks in the crowd and some that had been around. The young man who had left returned and motioned for us to follow him. Shelly and I entered the theater, which was set up for a performance. The stage was bare. Our guide led us past the stage, beyond a curtain, and into a dark, narrow corridor that smelled like Chinese food. He stopped in front of the door, knocked, and when Paul Robeson’s deep voice said, “Come in,” he opened it and stepped back.
We went in and the young man took off, closing the door behind him. The dressing room was small, more like a closet. Robeson was seated on a white painted metal chair facing us. He wore a silky shirt with white trim and a shiny coat with a row of big gold lion-head buttons running down each side. This time he looked older than he had the day before. I could see flecks of grey in his sideburns. He looked at me and at Shelly.
“This is Dr. Minck,” I said. “Shelly Minck. He’s a friend.”
“Pleased to meet you, Doctor,” Robeson said, but he had something more important on his mind than polite introductions. Robeson reached across his dressing table for a piece of paper and handed it to me. The writing was neat, in large inked letters, but it wasn’t in English. It made no sense to Shelly either.
“It’s German,” Robeson explained. “It says that I will be killed onstage tonight if I dare do a love scene with Uta.”
“It’s probably Povey and his people,” I said, handing the note back to Robeson, who seemed neither frightened nor angry. If I had to describe his mood, I’d call it “depressed,” but it wasn’t quite that either. “They’re trying to make it look as if you’re the primary target, trying to stir up publicity.”
“About what?” Shelly asked.
“Desdemona is white,” explained Robeson. “There are many people, not only Nazis, who don’t want this production to be mounted. If the backers believe that they are in danger or that a major racial controversy will arise, they will run for the exits with polite excuses.”
He looked up at me for a response and saw something he didn’t like. “‘Nay,’” he said deeply, “‘yet there’s more in this. I prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings, As thou dost ruminate; and give thy worst of thoughts the worst of words.’ Othello says that to Iago in Act Three. Simply put, it means what’s on your mind? Tell me the worst.”
“I think it’s more than just a scare,” I said. “I think they’re likely to really try to kill you.”
“Toby,” Shelly bleated, mouth open. “You told me we were just going to see a play, have dinner, see a play. Then spies are following and someone’s trying to kill people again. I don’t want any part of this.”
“Your friend is right,” said Robeson, standing and straightening his jacket, checking it in the mirror. “I’ll alert the crew, the ushers. This is a very small theater. Everyone here has an invitation. An intruder will be easy to identify.”
“Then what?” I said.
“Then the police grab him,” said Shelly. “It’s a good plan.”
“The police won’t come here. And if they do and something happens, it will be in all the papers tomorrow. That’ll probably kill any chances of raising money for the production,” I said to Shelly. Then to Robeson, “Am I right?”
He shrugged and said, “Probably. Who knows? A racial attack might bring out a new source of liberal money. Then I’d probably be accused of staging the attack.”
“You worry too much about the maybes,” Shelly said, anxious to get out of this.
“I have a law degree,” Robeson explained. “It taught me to think too much of too many options. Options can freeze a man into inactivity.”
“We’ll be in the audience, keeping an eye out for Povey or anyone else who might not belong,” I said.
Robeson, arms folded on his chest, shook his head no and then explained, “There’s a fire marshal out there. All seats are taken. The audience is at the maximum. You could stand in the lobby, but if something happened you’d probably be too late.”
“You wouldn’t think of putting this dress rehearsal off for a day or two, would you?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“Great idea,” said Shelly, rubbing his hands together. “Put it off and …”
But Robeson was shaking his head no again. This time the gesture was accompanied by a smile. “What we can do is get you on the stage,” he said. “From behind the door at the right, you could watch the audience and the rear entrance. However, no one but cast and minimal crew are allowed backstage.”
“Fire marshal,” I guessed.
“Fire marshal,” he acknowledged. “We could have paid him off, which is probably what he wanted, but I neither wanted to nor could I take a chance that a payoff could lead to a leak, which could lead to a scandal. This production is very important to me, Mr. Peters. Next week I will be forty-four years old. The opportunity for me to make aesthetic statements are limited.”
“So,” I said. “What’s your plan?”
His smile was broad and I wasn’t sure I liked it. I know Shelly, who was tugging at my arm, didn’t like it. Someone knocked on the door and said, “Five minutes, Mr. Robeson.”
“Gertrude,” Robeson called out, “come in, please.”
She was as thin as one of the tarnished instruments I had seen Shelly probe into the mouths of the unwary, somewhere in her thirties, washed-out red hair tied back in a ribbon. She wore a dull purple gown that dragged on the floor as she entered. Gertrude looked at Robeson and then at us.
“Gentlemen,” Robeson said, “you are about to make your theatrical debuts in a masterpiece by William Shakespeare.”
Gertrude looked at us in disbelief.
“There’s only five minutes, Mr. Robeson,” she began, “and …”
“Soldiers,” Robeson cut in. “They can be soldiers for this night and this night only. It’s important, Gertrude. Believe me
.”
It was evident from her face that Gertrude would believe whatever Paul Robeson said. She nodded at us to follow her.
“She’ll take care of you,” Robeson said, a hand on my shoulder to guide me out.
“Take care?” Shelly asked, hesitating.
“We’ll see you after the show,” I said, giving Shelly a shove.
“You will see me on stage,” said Robeson, arms folded across his chest, gold lions growling at us.
In the hall Gertrude waited for us to clear the door, then closed it. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve got about four minutes.”
We came on, following her down the short corridor. She pushed a door open and we stepped into a large room cluttered with props and costumes. An old man in a soldier costume and a helmet rummaged around in the props looking for something, a cigarette dangling wetly and incongruously from his lip.
“Jake,” Gertrude said, “two soldiers. Get them in uniform fast.”
“I can’t find the short sword,” Jake groaned. “Some asshole took the short sword.”
“Use a long one,” Gertrude said, unfazed. “It’s only a dress rehearsal.”
“Only a …” Jake began, looking at us. “She says it’s only.… What did you say?”
“I said Mr. Robeson wants these two soldiers ready for Act One in three minutes,” she said, opening the door.
“Can’t be done,” cried Jake.
Gertrude left. Jake looked at us, smoke almost closing his eyes. “Shit,” he said, turning and going quickly through uniforms on hangers on a wooden bar. He looked back at us, did some calculating in his head, and started throwing clothes at us.
“Show business is changing,” Jack sighed. “Amateurs in the theater. Even the movies are going mad. You know who they just signed to direct Deanna Durbin in Three Smart Girls Grow Up? Jean Renoir. Renoir? He should be doing Shakespeare. Molière, Ibsen.”
“What’s going on?” Shelly said, catching a cloak in the face.
“Get dressed,” I said. “We’ve only got two minutes.”
“The short sword,” Jake cackled. “Right here. If you two hadn’t come, I’d never have found it behind that rack.” He swung the sword a few times, spit on it three times for luck, and told us to hurry up.
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