by Ray Flynt
FATAL
GAMBIT
A Brad Frame Mystery
Ray Flynt
Copyright © 2018 Ray Flynt
All rights reserved.
Cover photo: Michal Chmurski/Shutterstock.com
DEDICATION
My Theatre Friends
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author acknowledges fellow writers for their valuable edits, critiques, and suggestions: David Bishop, Judi Ciance, James Newman, Mark Pryor, David Ryan, and William Speir.
I am grateful to Charles Corritore, Sue Dirham, Russ Heitman, Tom Kelly, Marjie Styer Klein, Robert Martin, David Matthews, and Dr. Raymond Wallace for offering to read and comment on the manuscript. My thanks to Nancy Heitman for her line editing talents.
I’m also appreciative for the advice of theatre professionals, as well as the many people who have shaped my own theatrical experience.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Any errors or omissions are solely the responsibility of the author.
FATAL GAMBIT
A Brad Frame Mystery
“Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.”
William Shakespeare
Taming of the Shrew
Act V, Scene 1
1
Three weeks before Opening Night
Zane Scott Tilghman brooded in the last row of the orchestra at Stage 42. He preferred to sit apart from the hubbub in row F, where Hector, the director, and the design team piloted the first tech rehearsal. After three weeks in a cramped Hell’s Kitchen studio, making do with temporary furniture, the cast had finally landed on the set designed to look like a spacious contemporary Hampton’s retreat.
Too spacious.
All the intimacy had been lost. Live theatre was like walking a tightrope—one false move and the show could come crashing down.
Why had he let Ralph talk him into trying a comeback? A dozen years ago he’d been the toast of Broadway. Dubbed best new playwright by The New Yorker. Winner of the Drama Desk. His Tony-nominated play took a back seat to a Pulitzer Prize-winning script from Ireland that only lasted six weeks past award season. Wired had run for two years. A rare crowd-pleaser, which also drew critical acclaim, putting it in a league with Proof, Deathtrap, and Equus.
Wasn’t it a writer who enshrined, “You can’t go home again” into our cultural lexicon? Zane knew the feeling. After scaling this creative mountain, the critics’ long knives would try to knock him from the precipice.
Problems with a light cue prompted Hector to declare a fifteen-minute break. He glanced back at Zane, as if to gauge a reaction, then sidled out into the aisle.
Zane slumped in his seat mashing his hand over his face.
Hector strolled up the stairs toward the back of the house. “Whaddya think?”
“Merde,” Zane mumbled.
Hector’s bug-eyes widened further against his tan skin, nary a strand of his salt and pepper pompadour out of place.
Zane swiped his hand toward the stage. “Whatever glimmer of excitement we had at last Friday’s rehearsal is missing.”
“Relax. It’s the first tech. You can’t expect magic when we’re stopping and starting.”
The playwright shook his head in exasperation. “The furniture’s too big. We’ve lost all the intimacy.”
Hector gazed at the set. “I thought the script said modern furnishings.”
“I specified mid-century modern.” Zane pointed toward the stage. “Technically, that sofa qualifies, but it’s just too damned big. Take the last scene—in rehearsal, with the two of them sitting on a wooden bench you could feel the sparks between them. Now they’re seven-feet apart—sunk into the cushions.”
Hector pivoted. “I’ll ask Cassie.”
Zane held up his hand. “Not now. Speak to her after. Maybe a pair of Barcelona chairs—inches apart. I’m picturing an Eames chair and ottoman in that empty corner up right. Throw in a Marcel Brewer for contrast.” In stentorian tones, he added, “A chair, a chair, my kingdom for a chair.”
A few of the actors milling about the stage glanced in their direction. Hector sighed.
“You were supposed to laugh.”
The director massaged his forehead.
“What’s wrong?”
Hector repeated his sigh. “Ralph told me money is tight.”
When is it ever not tight? Twelve years earlier it had cost two million to bring his show to Broadway. They hadn’t topped $400,000 yet for this Off-Broadway production. “I’ll talk with Ralph. You saw the poster out front, didn’t you?”
Hector nodded.
“Ralph put my name at the top: Zane Scott Tilghman’s Gambit. You know what it signifies when they put a star’s name above the title?”
A smile creased Hector’s lips.
“It means I’m gonna get the fuckin’ furniture I want. Get back to work. We’ll compare notes later.”
The director returned to row F, signaled the stage manager to call places, and rehearsal resumed.
Did Tennessee Williams have days like this?
Zane stood and walked into the lounge area at the rear of the auditorium. The show’s poster, back-dropped with a photo of a chess board, loomed in front of him. Below the title, Directed by Hector Morales. Then the actors’ names, including a talented newcomer from the Yale drama school destined to set Broadway on fire. But they weren’t the dream cast he’d imagined while writing the play—actors like Celia Keenan-Bolger, Nikki M. James, and Alan Cummings. Was this the price he had to pay for his dark years? The best he could hope for was enough Off-Broadway success for critics and audiences to clamber for a transfer to a larger Broadway house. He’d heard a rumor the Broadhurst would soon be empty.
Then Zane saw the line that galled him the most—Special Guest Appearance. He’d been talked into allowing stunt casting for the androgynous role of the estate owner who’d invited four supposed strangers to ninety minutes of intrigue following his/her opening gambit. Not likely Oprah or Bon Jovi would perform this role Off-Broadway.
He’d already considered naming his next play Compromises, making it autobiographical.
Zane pulled out his phone and called Ralph Lundgren whose Southern charm masked a cut-throat business sense.
A bewildered “Hello” sounded in his ear.
“Come on Ralph, it’s almost noon in Chicago. Time to wake up.”
“Zane?” He croaked. “I had a rough night, sorry.”
“Sounds kinky.”
Ralph coughed. “I wish.”
“I didn’t call to discuss your crazed sex life. Just say yes, and you can go back to bed.”
Ralph paused then drawled. “Uh, what am I agreein’ to?”
“We need another twenty…make that twenty-five thousand for the play.”
“Jesus,” Ralph muttered. “What are you trying to do to me?”
“Make you a millionaire. The investors on my last play were—three times over.” Zane didn’t believe a word of it. Sell the sizzle, not the steak. Isn’t that what Aaron, the publicist, had been whispering in his ear for the last few weeks.
“I’ve already pulled in a few too many favors.”
“Just conjure up your patented Mississippi magic, and bust a few balls.”
Ralph laughed. “Look, Zane, the old hands are nervous. They didn’t like that quasi-hit job disguised as a profile of you in People last month.”
Zane wondered how long it would take for that article to bite him in the ass. After all, wasn’t that why Ralph hired Aaron Siegel?
“You still there?”
; Zane made him wait longer. “There was nothing in that piece you didn’t know when you first asked—no, begged—me to write this play.”
“I know, I know. Just relaying the anxiety.”
“Well, keep the fuckin’ anxiety to yourself so I can maintain a clear head.”
“I’ll try putting the touch on the new guy.”
Zane mimicked Yoda. “Do or do not, there is no try.”
“I’ll make a few calls.”
“Whatever you have to do. The show needs new furniture.”
Zane figured they were done and started to end the call.
“How’s Ken?”
Zane heaved a sigh. “Ken was so last year.” Ralph wouldn’t get the inside joke. Zane’s three-year relationship with Ken Phillips ended on New Year’s Eve. The one and only time Ralph met Ken was two years earlier when he’d come to New York promising to produce a new play by Zane.
“Sorry to hear. You seeing anyone new?”
Does sleeping butt cheek to butt cheek for the last three weeks count? “Yeah.”
It would take more than the affections of his new boyfriend to get him through this experience.
2
Brad Frame stretched on tiptoe from the ladder’s third step preparing to hang another memento above the credenza in his office. After he secured the nail, Sharon Porter, his associate, handed him the framed thank-you note from a fraud victim for whom they’d recovered 80 percent of her life savings.
The desk phone rang.
Sharon stood back, inspecting Brad’s work.
The phone jingled a second time.
Brad stared at her. “Would you mind getting that? I’m up in the air—so to speak.”
“Lemme give it another ring or two. I don’t want clients to think we’re not busy.”
Brad rolled his eyes.
Sharon answered, “Frame Detective Agency,” and tilted her head side to side as she listened. “May I tell him who’s calling?”
She covered the receiver. “It’s a Ralph Lundgren.”
“Put it on speaker.”
Sharon complied.
Still perched on the ladder, Brad called out, “Hi Ralph. What’s happening?”
“Gambit’s coming together.” His drawl oozed through the speaker. “Previews begin this weekend. I’m calling to ask if you’d consider investing another thirty thousand.”
Sharon pointed at the door and mouthed whether he wanted her to leave. Brad shook his head.
“Can you be more specific? The last time we spoke, you had enough funding from backers.”
“Well…we’re into production week and Zane, the playwright, requested a few changes on the set. I could call the others, but this’ll make you the largest investor. Bigger the risk, bigger the reward.”
So glib—a line he’s used before.
Brad shrugged. “Sure. Should I wire you the funds?”
“Heavens, no! I might be tempted to visit Hawaii.” Ralph laughed. “I’ll have Jenny contact you with instructions.”
“Great.”
“I’m counting on seeing you at the opening.” Ralph sounded enthusiastic. “Zane Scott Tilghman’s triumphal comeback to the New York stage.”
“We’ll be there. My fiancé is even more excited.”
At Brad’s signal, Sharon disconnected the call and gawked at him. “You know Zane Scott Tilghman?”
“No.” He pointed at the freshly hung 5 by 7 frame. “Does this look straight?”
Sharon gave him a thumbs-up. Brad stepped down to the floor and folded the ladder shut, propping it next to the door.
She scurried to the coffee table in the office’s seating area and rummaged through a pile of magazines. “Here it is.” Sharon held one aloft.
“What?”
She flapped the magazine in the air. “You should read this. People did a profile on that guy.”
Brad sat on his side of the partner’s desk, which his father had once used for the family business. “How about hitting the high points for me.”
Sharon brushed the auburn hair from her lean face, slipped into her chair on the opposite side of the partner’s desk, and leaned forward holding the magazine. “That’s him on the cover.”
Brad studied the photograph. “He looks about my age.”
“Nope.”
Sharon seemed primed for a game of twenty questions. Brad wasn’t playing.
“He’s ten years younger,” Sharon continued. “He’ll be forty in March. The salt and pepper at his temples may have fooled you.”
“I didn’t realize playwriting took such a toll.”
Sharon tapped the magazine with her finger. “This guy’s had a hard life. According to the article, two years after his hit Broadway show, Wired, Zane Scott Tilghman became an addict, beginning with painkillers and progressing to cocaine. He spent six years in a downward spiral, lost his condo, declared bankruptcy. Finally, after a year at a residential detox in upstate New York, he allegedly got his life back together.”
Allegedly? Where’s she going with this?
Brad consulted the scheduling app on his smartphone. “Good for him. I’ve heard bits and pieces of his story, just not the details.”
“Fortunately, he wasn’t destitute since he still earned royalties from the performances of Wired in college, regional, and community theatre.” She opened the magazine and read from a sidebar to the story. “Two years ago, he landed an adjunct faculty position in the performing arts program at Duchess Community College. They workshopped Gambit eighteen months ago.”
Brad nodded.
Sharon pointed at the phone. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Why are you investing in his play?”
“In two words, Aunt Harriet.”
Sharon cocked her head, interested in hearing more.
“Tilghman’s grandmother lives in the same co-op apartment building in New York City as Aunt Harriet. They’re opposite the elevator from each other. It was my aunt who urged me to become a producer for Mr. Tilghman’s play.”
“Yeah, I heard you’re in for thirty thousand.”
Brad grinned. “On top of the one-hundred thousand I’ve already put up.”
Sharon whistled.
“Harriet bugged me for a month. To shut her up, I finally said I’d consider it. Three hours later, Ralph Lundgren called me. I agreed to meet, and he came to Philadelphia.”
“He must’ve been pretty persuasive.”
“Not really. That would be Aunt Harriet. After being noncommittal with Ralph, she invited me for tea to meet the playwright’s grandmother. I figured my life would be easier if I just signed on to the project.”
Sharon bobbed her head. “Your aunt is hard to say no to.”
“Tell me about it.” Brad grinned. “I’m one of thirty investors—we’re called producers. You heard Ralph say I’m at the head of the money parade.”
“I hope everything works out. There’s a lot of unflattering comments about the playwright in the article—most of it sourced anonymously.”
Brad slipped on a pair of reading glasses to better see his schedule app. “That’s the culture in which we live. Dirt sells and social media promotes the negative.”
“You wanna hear any of it?”
He peered over the top of his glasses. “Do I have a choice?”
Sharon flipped a page of the magazine. “Let me share a couple of the juicy tidbits. A fellow writer said, ‘The craft and audience expectations have changed so much since his big hit. I hope Zane isn’t behind the curve.’ A colleague at the college didn’t think their workshop of Gambit merited a tryout in New York City.”
“Ouch!”
Sharon held up a finger. “It gets better. A so-called friend said, ‘Zane’s life is on a knife’s edge right now. It could go either way. For his sake, I hope he can avoid disaster.’ ”
Ralph’s words echoed in his mind—Bigger the risk, bigger the reward. Brad tried to stay positive. “No matter what happens, Beth is turning this into the social event of
the century. We’re going to New York the Saturday before. The official opening is on Monday, February 12th.”
Brad had an idea. “Are you still dating Oliver?”
She blushed. “Yeah.”
“You could go with us. We’re taking a limo. I’ll arrange for a hotel room for the two of you.”
Sharon beamed. “I’ll check with him. How much are the tickets?”
Brad shot her an are-you-kidding-me look. “Don’t worry about it. I know one of the producers.”
“Putting It Together”
Stephen Sondheim
A song title:
Sunday in the Park with George
1984
3
Last rehearsal before previews
Zane Scott Tilghman sat in his preferred seat in the last row. With the work table removed in front of row F, the director and design team scattered themselves throughout the theatre to watch the Saturday afternoon rehearsal. That evening they would face their first audience. He felt numb as he watched the action on the stage.
Hector asked that the cast plow through without stopping—something they hadn’t been able to do that week. Otherwise, Zane might have leaped to his feet yelling, “STOP!” Instead, he hoped Hector might notice him covering his face with his hands and visit to discover why.
This casting is a bad idea.
The performer—no one would mistake him as an actor—playing the estate owner had missed his entrance and screwed up two of his four lines.
Zane reached for his copy of the script and shined a penlight on it.
GAMBIT
A Contemporary Play
by
Zane Scott Tilghman
Cast of Characters
Pawn: A man 19 - 21
Rook: A woman late-20s
Bishop: A man late-40s/early-50s
Knight: A woman late-30s