Fatal Gambit

by Ray Flynt

  Hayden Whitcomb: Man or woman 30s – 70s

  Scene 1

  SETTING:

  A summer’s day at a waterfront estate in The Hamptons. Action takes place in the great room, kitchen, and foyer of a contemporary home with mid-century modern furnishings. A hallway leads upstage toward bedrooms.

  AT RISE:

  Sound of a taxi arriving. Moments later PAWN, ROOK, BISHOP, and KNIGHT are gathering outside the front door. PAWN opens the door to reveal a sign: “Please Come In.” They enter cautiously, with all except BISHOP gawking as they move into the space. BISHOP walks to the opposite side of the stage staring out French doors toward the patio. PAWN opens the refrigerator and pulls out a bottled water, drawing ROOK’s glare.

  PAWN

  (to ROOK)

  What? I’m thirsty.

  (KNIGHT moves downstage right, staring toward Great Peconic Bay, captivated by something she sees.)

  KNIGHT

  Take a look at that.

  (HAYDEN WHITCOMB enters via the upstage hallway carrying four vellum envelopes addressed to each of the guests.)

  HAYDEN WHITCOMB

  Welcome! I’m Hayden Whitcomb, and I’m very happy you could make it for my little social experiment.

  (Passes out envelopes)

  Inside the envelope you’ll find the remuneration I promised and a few gentle rules. Please make yourselves at home.

  (WHITCOMB exits)

  Zane took his pen, scratched out a passage, and scribbled in the margin: Hayden Whitcomb enters wearing dark glasses and with a seeing-eye dog!

  Why did he ever think he could make a comeback? What possessed him to agree to stunt casting? Dammit, they still hadn’t changed the furniture.

  He felt hands on his shoulders and thumbs pressing into the taut muscles of his neck. Zane turned around. Aaron smiled and bent to kiss him on the forehead.

  After reveling in a few minutes of massage, Zane patted the next seat over, urging Aaron to join him.

  “You missed Hayden Whitfield’s performance,” Zane whispered. “Funny, I don’t remember writing a character with that name.”

  “I heard him backstage. Knew you wouldn’t be happy.”

  Zane frowned. “I haven’t a care in the world. My life’s on the line, that’s all.”

  Aaron grabbed his thigh. “It’ll be okay.”

  “Don’t get frisky…not yet. Where’d they find Mr. Can’t-act-his-way-out-of-a-paper-bag?”

  Aaron chuckled. The director turned and glared.

  Aaron cupped his hand near Zane’s ear. “He does the weather on the local Fox affiliate. We’ve seen a bump in sales because of him.”

  “What kind of audience do we have tonight?”

  “About two-thirds. Mostly freebies. I’ve offered a lot of tickets in exchange for radio promos.”

  Zane leaned forward, turning his attention to the stage. The actors were doing okay; tension built in a natural way.

  He smiled at the sassy way Knight delivered her put-down to Rook: “If you lived in my neighborhood, you wouldn’t be caught dead in that outfit.”

  Openings were tricky. As a former drama professor had explained in a sophomore directing class, audiences are Missourians—show me! The stage lights come up, and in the darkened theatre their eyes dart, taking it all in, pondering its meaning. The playwright only has a few minutes to introduce the cast and give the onlookers characters to cheer or jeer.

  Pawn played his part brilliantly; his cocky take-charge attitude either disarmed or offended. Like an opening gambit in chess, there’s a reason Pawn had the first line.

  Later in the scene, Bishop defends him for poking his nose into cupboards and drawers, saying, “Mr. Whitcomb told us to make ourselves at home.”

  Then Pawn leered at Rook. “I wonder if there’re condoms in the bathroom.”

  He could hardly wait to hear the audience’s reaction. The talentless Hayden Whitfield crept into his mind and Zane blurted, “Jesus.”

  Hector swiveled in his seat and shushed him.

  Zane aimed a middle finger in Hector’s direction. When Hector scowled, Zane beckoned him with the same finger.

  The onstage arguments about why their host had given them differing amounts of money led to the suggestion that they should study the “gentle rules” he’d left in their envelopes. A blackout signaled the end of the first scene.

  Hector stood at his seat. “House lights up, please. I said we’d plow through without stopping, but I’m declaring a short break.”

  Hector charged up the aisle in Zane’s direction.

  Turning to Aaron, Zane said, “You should go. I’ll handle this.”

  Aaron shook his head. “I’m staying.”

  Zane knew why. Aaron thought him impulsive and didn’t want him pissing off the director. Aaron’s hand on his arm provided little comfort to the damage he saw the TV weatherman doing to his show.

  Hector hovered next to Zane. “I won’t have you disrupting my rehearsal. If you can’t shut up, watch from the light booth. Or go home.”

  Zane breathed deep. “I apologize. But you have got to do something about Hayden’s character.”

  “This is why we have rehearsal,” Hector began. “He might be a little wooden—”

  “Wooden? Pinocchio was less wooden.” He felt Aaron pinching a love handle, but shrugged him off and stood nose to nose with the director. “Can’t we get an actor who’s at least seen Hamlet? One who earned acclaim on Broadway in the ‘80s or ‘90s, now itching for a cameo role?”

  Hector shook his head. “You agreed to the creative casting. We’ve only got a little over two weeks.”

  Zane’s stomach tightened. “I’m still the playwright.” He pointed to the lobby. “My goddamn name is above the title, and I didn’t fight my way back from Vicodin and coke to have my play ruined.”

  Aaron tugged at his sweater. Zane realized his voice had grown louder.

  “So help me God, I’m gonna change the script.” He gritted his teeth. “I’ll write Hayden out of the play. The actors will arrive to find four envelopes and a tape recorder. Pawn can push play, and we’ll find a voice with the resonance of James Earl Jones to do justice to those four lines. It’s my play, and I’ll do the fuck what I want with it.”

  Zane swept past Hector and out into the aisle. “If you want me, I’ll be in the light booth.”

  “Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal — you sockdologizing old man-trap.”

  Tom Taylor

  Our American Cousin

  1858

  4

  Two weeks before Opening Night

  Cold wind howled through the nighttime canyon of 42nd Street as Zane exited the Port Authority subway stop. They were predicting a nor’easter for Wednesday. He had his own weatherman to worry about.

  Zane held his hand against his upper lip so the moustache Aaron pasted on wouldn’t blow away. The spirit gum burned against his freshly shaved face and the pungent odor tickled his nose.

  Aaron said it made him look like John Wilkes Booth.

  Thanks a lot!

  Zane had skipped the first three previews—protesting Hector’s pigheadedness. Instead, he relied on reports from Aaron, dispensed over pillow talk. Probably a sugar-coated version. When he’d gotten grumpy asking for more details, Aaron would run his fingers through Zane’s chest hair and turn the conversation into a sweaty sex scene. He was a sweet boy with boundless energy. Truth be told, Zane missed Ken.

  Unfortunately, he also visited online theatre message boards. Catty remarks—especially about the fucktard weatherman—had done nothing to brighten his mood.

  He’d persuaded Ralph Lundgren to fly to New York for a Tuesday afternoon get-together on his casting ultimatum.

  Shortly before 7:30 p.m. Zane approached the ticket window asking if there were seats. He knew there would be, but was pleasantly surprised when the seller showed him the chart of those available. They’d be almost
three-quarters full. Monday night was dark for most Broadway theatres, sending more tourists and theatre enthusiasts to sample Off-Broadway offerings.

  He paid cash for two tickets on the far right of row N. Hector would watch from row K on the opposite side—Zane doubted he’d be recognized.

  The extra ticket gave him a buffer. He planned to take notes and didn’t want to disturb those next to him.

  He rode the escalator to the second-floor lounge where an usher scanned his ticket. He stood listening to the hum of the crowd and taking in the set. Pre-show lighting emphasized sunrise outside the patio windows. Even in dim light, he saw the new furniture and what looked like extra plants along the front edge of the stage. Subtle sounds of water lapping against the shore and piercing caws of seagulls transported the audience to The Hamptons before the actors arrived.

  The steep incline gave everyone an unobstructed view. Zane walked down the stairway and sat in his seat just as the lights dimmed. A recorded message reminded patrons to turn off their phones. “This evening’s performance includes a special guest appearance by Buddy Neil of WNYW.”

  Lights up. The show was underway. Pawn’s first line scored two laughs. Damn, that kid is good.

  He braced himself, waiting to see whether Hayden Whitcomb would arrive on time and use the correct name. The weatherman’s entrance drew applause, and the lines flowed. Zane breathed a sigh after his departure—leaving the remaining work to the professionals.

  Zane tuned into the audience as much as the actors. Were they paying attention? Did heads nod or gasps ensue following certain lines? Scene two’s opening dragged. He would look at the script and try to fix it. Scene three brought the desired payoff. The audience hadn’t seen it coming. But then the wrap-up seemed overly long—might have to snip a few well-intentioned words.

  Zane pulled out his phone to note the running time when Pawn uttered the last line. Ninety minutes. They’d trimmed three minutes since the final dress. Blackout.

  Stage lights up and the cast took their bows. The applause seemed genuine, if not thunderous. As the auditorium lights came back on, the woman two seats over pointed at his notebook. “Are you a critic?”

  “No.” He smiled back at her. “Taking notes for a graduate course.”

  “I thought it was really good,” she gushed.

  Zane bobbed his head.

  She added, “I wish Mr. Neil had a bigger part.”

  The weatherman. Oy!

  5

  The following morning

  A phone rang in Brad’s dream. He tried to raise his hand to answer but couldn’t. Gradually, it dawned on him that his arm was tangled in his own covers and the ringing phone came from the nightstand next to his bed.

  He hoisted himself on his left elbow and unwound the blanket seizing his right arm. Red numbers on the alarm glowed 5:23 a.m. Brad sat on the edge of his bed. Only a handful of people knew the landline number, along with every telemarketer in North America. His smartphone would have alerted him to the caller’s identity, but this was old school.

  Brad lifted the receiver. “Hello.”

  He heard sniffles and repeated his greeting.

  “Bradford, is that you?”

  Aunt Harriet. She’s the only one who refers to me as Bradford.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I shouldn’t have called so early. It’s just…I didn’t know where to turn. It’s so awful.”

  “Aunt Harriet, what happened?”

  She sobbed. “Lilly died.”

  I thought her cat was named Lucy. “I’m sorry to hear that. If you call the vet’s, I’m sure they can help.”

  The sobbing stopped. “Lilly wasn’t a veteran. Her late husband might have been now that you mention it.”

  Brad rubbed his eyes. “It’s early and I just got up. Who died?”

  “My neighbor. Lilly Tilghman. I told you about her grandson’s play.”

  Does she suspect foul play?

  “When did she die?”

  “Last night. I mean early this morning. Oh, dear.” Sobbing resumed in earnest.

  He tried a different tack. “What have you heard?”

  “Lilly wore one of those Life Alerts. According to my neighbor, Clyde, she activated the alarm. When she didn’t answer her phone, they dispatched an ambulance. They found her unconscious. Tried to resuscitate but couldn’t.” Harriet blurted between sobs. “Not sure I can handle this.”

  “Hold on.”

  Brad reached for his smartphone to check the schedule. He could do the afternoon conference call on the road. “I’m going to head your way, Aunt Harriet. I’ll see you later this morning.”

  “Oh, thank you.”

  If he hurried, he could catch the 7 a.m. Acela to Penn Station in midtown Manhattan. Brad called the cab company before jumping into the shower.

  Twenty minutes later he locked the front door behind him and tightened his wool scarf about his neck. Flurries wafted in the air.

  Sharon exited the apartment above the garage at the west end of his Bryn Mawr estate. She wore a knit cap and down parka.

  He was surprised to see her. “What’s going on?”

  “I was about to ask you. I saw your lights on and wondered what was happening.”

  “My Aunt Harriet’s neighbor died, the playwright’s grandmother. Harriet sounds discombobulated. I’m going to New York for her peace of mind.”

  A yellow cab rolled across the cobblestones in front of the estate.

  “I’m going with you.” Sharon jumped in the back seat of the cab opposite him.

  6

  The taxi pulled in front of Aunt Harriet’s Gramercy Park co-op at exactly 9:30 a.m. The nine-story brownstone and brick structure dated from the late-1800s and exemplified the style for which the neighborhood had become famous.

  Brad paid the cabbie, then caught up with Sharon, who stood on the sidewalk soaking in the charm. Sunshine warmed temperatures into the mid-thirties.

  She gazed at the adjacent park. “I bet it’s beautiful in the summertime.”

  “Spring, too, when the flowers first bloom. I haven’t been here since last April.”

  The doorman greeted him. “Good morning, Mr. Frame. Ms. Beecham is expecting you.” He smiled. “She’s called three times in the last half hour to find out if I’d laid eyes on you.”

  Brad nodded. “She’s stressed over Mrs. Tilghman’s death.”

  The doorman’s expression turned grim. “Very sad. She was one of our longtime residents.”

  Brad and Sharon boarded the elevator for the seventh floor.

  “How long has your aunt lived here?”

  Brad shook his head. “Twenty-five or thirty years. She and Uncle Oscar moved here in the eighties.” Harriet was his father’s only living relative, and had always been a favorite of his since his childhood—in spite of her eccentricities.

  They exited the elevator. Aunt Harriet stood, framed in the doorway of her unit, wearing a housedress and fuzzy slippers. “Oh, Bradford, thank you for coming. I’ve just put on water for tea.”

  Brad imagined she’d turned the kettle on and off several times.

  Sharon gave Harriet a hug. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You too, my dear.” Harriet clasped both of Sharon’s hands.

  They passed by a guest room where Brad had stayed a few times in his college years. Lucy, Harriet’s grey Persian cat, led the procession.

  They hung their winter coats in a closet. Brad forgot how warm Harriet’s steam-heated apartment could be, and he draped his sports jacket over a kitchen chair.

  The tea kettle whistled.

  Sharon shooed them into the living room. “You two talk, I’ll fix tea.”

  Ornate white moldings softened the royal blue walls of the living room, where Brad and his aunt sat on Hepplewhite chairs near a window overlooking the park. Lucy gave Brad a dubious look before jumping onto Harriet’s lap.

  “I’m sorry about Lilly. Is there any news since we spoke earlier?”


  Harriet shook her head. “We’re all in shock. Clyde told me Lilly’s heart stopped—her name’s Lillian, but everyone called her Lilly. The ambulance crew used those electric paddles, like you see on TV.”

  “Was Clyde there?”

  “His apartment is across the hall from hers. Clyde watched through the open door.”

  “There’s a fourth apartment on this floor. What about them?”

  Harriet reached for a Kleenex. “She winters in Naples, Florida.”

  “How old was Lillian?”

  “She celebrated her eighty-ninth birthday in October.”

  Sharon arrived with the tea, placing a tray between the two of them before sitting on a nearby sofa.

  “When did you last speak with her?”

  Harriet sighed. “Yesterday afternoon. We sat right here having tea and talking.”

  The way Harriet avoided his gaze, prompted him to ask, “Was something troubling her?”

  Harriet sniffled. “Her grandson.”

  Brad and Sharon exchanged glances.

  “Since you’re responsible for me investing so heavily in her grandson’s play, the least you can do is tell me what was bothering her.”

  “Zane, her grandson…is…” Harriet glanced toward Sharon. “He’s gay,” she whispered, the way people once uttered “cancer.”

  Sharon rolled her eyes.

  Harriet stroked Lucy’s fur. “Lillian found out he broke up with his boyfriend, which made her heartbroken.”

  “Found out? Zane hadn’t told her?”

  “No.” A cat’s meow punctuated her response. “Yesterday, Ken—Zane’s former boyfriend—invited her to lunch at Ezekiel’s Café. Ken told her the breakup happened New Year’s Eve. She thought of Ken as a second grandson, and felt he’d been a good influence on Zane. Lilly was upset that her grandson hadn’t mentioned it.”

  Sharon piped up. “Sounds like Zane already knew what his grandmother’s reaction would be.”

  Harriet nodded.