Fatal Gambit

by Ray Flynt

  Conversation shifted to Kinky Boots, and Beth regaled Sharon and Oliver with their enjoyment at the Hirschfeld Theatre. Brad smiled and nodded in agreement, but his mind focused on his upcoming call to Ralph Lundgren. He had a lot riding on the success of Gambit. He hadn’t bet more than he was prepared to lose, but then most gamblers don’t expect to lose. His role as an Off-Broadway investor carried more risk than any other asset in his portfolio. Brad knew Ralph’s sales pitch. He wondered what message would be delivered this time. Would Gambit survive until opening, or die along with a cast member?

  The lounge continued its slow rotation—nearly two-thirds of a revolution since they’d arrived. When they stood to leave, Sharon stared out the window grinning. “My high school did the musical Annie. Miss Hannigan tells the orphans they have to scrub the floor until it ‘shines like the top of the Chrysler Building.’ ” She pointed toward the art deco crown of one of the city’s most recognizable landmarks, bathed in bright light. “Now I know what she meant.”

  Back in their suite overlooking Times Square, Brad took Beth in his arms and pulled her close. “Thanks for putting up with me.”

  “You’re not so bad. It’s just that during the times when we can be together, I want all of you.”

  Brad squeezed her a little tighter. They stood next to the window, forty floors below cabs traversed 7th Avenue and 45th Street, and hundreds of people still ambled along Broadway after midnight.

  The city that never sleeps.

  He kissed her neck.

  Their lips met. Her fingers played over his love handles, while he found the zipper pull on the back of her dress.

  She drew her head back, eyes glistening. “I thought you had to make a phone call.”

  “Not yet. I’ve got more important things on my mind.”

  She reached for his hand and pulled him toward the bedroom.

  Clothes came off quickly and they tumbled onto the bed like impatient teenagers. Entwined in each other’s arms, they dissolved into ecstasy.

  The last thing Brad remembered was their professing love to each other.

  His own snore woke him.

  For a few seconds he forgot where he was, until he heard Beth’s rhythmic breathing. His memory returned. He slipped out of bed, pulled on his boxer shorts, and padded into the suite’s living room to call Ralph Lundgren.

  Brad looked at the time on his phone: 1:14 a.m.

  He said to call, no matter how late.

  He found the Chicago number in his contacts and connected.

  “Hello, Mr. Frame.” The voice sounded chipper. “I just got off the phone with Ali Tannenbaum, another one of our producers.”

  “Sorry for the late call, but at least you’re an hour earlier.”

  “No. I’ve been in New York for a few days. Staying at the Westin on 8th Avenue.”

  His perkiness is even more remarkable.

  “My associate attended the show tonight, so I know a little about the death at Gambit.”

  “Tragic. Tragic.” Ralph drew out the words. “We had to cancel tomorrow’s performances. At this point, we’re not sure about the opening—whether it will happen on Monday.”

  “I understand. Appreciate you letting me know.”

  “Actually, I want to speak with you in your professional capacity. We’d like you to investigate.”

  Curiosity would have led him to learning more, but Ralph’s offer to formally participate took him by surprise.

  “I thought the police are already investigating.”

  “They were. They’ve taped off the scene and plan to return tomorrow, which is why we’ve cancelled the Sunday performances.”

  “Were you at the theatre?”

  “No. Hector called me. We’ve spoken several times. I wanted to walk over, but he told me I wouldn’t be welcome.”

  Brad knew he wouldn’t be either.

  “The NYPD isn’t exactly a rookie outfit,” Brad explained. “They’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “I know. I know. I was raised in the South and was taught to respect the police. A few of our Yankee investors aren’t as…uh, trusting. I’d like to meet you at the theatre tomorrow for a look ’round.”

  “My fiancé and I are seeing Hamilton tomorrow afternoon. I hear it’s pretty good.”

  “Eh, everybody’s a critic.” Ralph laughed. “The timing shouldn’t be a problem. Besides, the police may not have cleared the theatre before then. Stop over after your show. Text me, and I’ll let you into the lobby. If we have to close this show before it even opens, God forbid, your independent assessment will ease a few minds.”

  Brad heard “okay” pass his lips.

  19

  Day before Opening Night

  A beam of sunlight hit Brad’s face, rousing him from his slumber. Making love, and then drifting off with the sparkling lights of Broadway outside their window, had felt magical. He never shut the blackout curtains, which allowed for the rude awakening at 7:20.

  Brad got up and closed them.

  Better late than never.

  Beth slept soundly. Brad tried, but couldn’t. The call with Ralph Lundgren nagged at him. In retrospect, he should have equivocated on whether he would investigate. They planned to meet Sharon and Oliver for brunch, but, not wanting to wait, he dressed and ventured out in search of coffee.

  A copy of The New York Times Sunday edition lay outside the door to his suite. He took the paper with him to Starbucks on the ground level and perused it for any news of the murder at Gambit. There was a brief mention of police investigating a death at Stage 42.

  Before returning to his room, Brad stopped by the hotel’s gift shop and bought copies of the New York Post and New York Daily News.

  The Post version mirrored the mention in the Times, but the Daily News devoted a story to the death of the Gambit actor.

  Witness to a Murder

  by Joel Harris, Drama Critic

  I went to work last evening, as is often the case on a Saturday, herded into a theatre with hundreds of patrons eager to experience a new play.

  Others may express their view of a show with a simple smile or a shrug. I, on the other hand, get paid to critique plays and their performers. Judging the pretend world is easy compared with making sense of the real-life murder at Stage 42 last night, where Zane Scott Tilghman’s new play, Gambit, is in previews.

  My review will await the show’s official opening [February 12th]. For those wishing to avoid spoilers, skip the next paragraph.

  At its denouement, mayhem ensued when one character stabbed another with a syringe. If the intention was to kill, the means were thwarted. Saving that life, along with a reveal of the storytelling’s goal—led to a celebratory toast.

  However, the toast took a tragic turn. Lauren Parshall, portraying the role of Knight, spasmed and cried out after drinking a glass of champagne. She collapsed. Her face exposing a grotesque expression. From my sixth-row vantage point, she appeared lifeless. Another actor dropped to his knees, said she wasn’t breathing, and asked for a doctor. Two patrons rushed onto the stage, but it was unclear what level of medical training they may have had. Paramedics arrived. The police later confirmed Ms. Parshall was pronounced dead on arrival at New York-Presbyterian Hospital.

  Parshall, 42, was a veteran of six Broadway and Off-Broadway shows, including the role of Lulu in the 2001 revival of Harold Pinter’s The Birthday Party, and will certainly be remembered with esteem for her short-lived portrayal in Gambit.

  I’ve never watched a person die before, and after last night’s jolt to my psyche, I’ll gladly take future drama of the imagined variety.

  The few details in the critic’s story confirmed what Sharon told him. He’d wait for confirmation from the medical examiner, but the circumstances suggested poisoning.

  Brad turned his attention to the Playbill Sharon had given him. He studied the cast list and supporting personnel. If he pursued an investigation, knowing the players would be important. Bios were included for the c
ast and principal production staff. Initially surprised to find one for Ralph Lundgren, he realized it made sense to include it.

  He read the deceased actor’s bio.

  Lauren Parshall received her MFA in Acting from Temple University. She’s worked regionally at the Philadelphia Theatre Company and Applewood Playhouse. She moved to NYC in 1997 and debuted Off-Broadway in How I Learned to Drive, earning an Obie nomination for her role of Lulu in The Birthday Party. She appeared on Broadway in Absurd Person Singular, The Invention of Love, and Arcadia. Lauren thanks Mom for all her encouragement and David for his love.

  Brad noted the Philadelphia connection, wondering if her family still lived there. The bio contained no mention of her age, which the critic must have gotten from the police.

  The connecting door to the suite’s bedroom opened, and Beth stood silhouetted in her silk negligee. “There you are,” she cooed. “We don’t meet the others until eleven, so there’s time for fun.”

  He couldn’t resist her invitation.

  They bid farewell to Sharon and Oliver after seeing the outstanding production of Hamilton at the Richard Rodgers Theatre that Sunday afternoon. Brad invited Beth to join him for the meeting with Ralph at Stage 42, but she wanted to shop at a Fifth Avenue boutique before its six-p.m. closing. She promised to meet him back at the hotel, so they could figure out dinner plans.

  Brad texted Ralph, who replied that he was at the theatre and looked forward to seeing him shortly.

  He viewed Ralph and another man through the glass entry to the lobby, grateful when the doors opened so he could escape the cold.

  “Brad, this is Hector Morales, our director.”

  Hector appeared to be close to Brad’s age, with dark features, but the drooping lids and bloodshot eyes told a tale of sleep deprivation.

  “The police finished their work,” Hector said, “so we can take you backstage.”

  Ralph pointed at the escalator. “The auditorium entrance is on the second floor, but we can access the stage from the ground level. This way.”

  They followed Hector, passing through an unmarked door. Brad recognized the back of scenery before Hector turned the corner and led them onto a dimly lit stage.

  “We only have the work lights,” Hector pointed.

  Brad’s eyes adjusted. He looked up and saw fluorescent tubes high above, while in the middle of the stage stood a bare LED bulb mounted on a pole.

  Ralph responded to his curious expression. “That’s the ghost light. Mainly there for safety, to be able to see when all the other lights have been turned off. Over the years, superstitions about appeasing the theatre ghosts conjured up the name.”

  They neared the center of the stage.

  “Be careful. The police retrieved a lot of Lauren’s broken champagne glass as evidence, but there are still quite a few shards.”

  He took in the very realistic set, appreciating how meticulously Sharon had described it. He imagined it looked even more impressive under stage lighting conditions.

  Brad pointed. “That’s where she fell?”

  Their heads bobbed.

  “Where were the others, and where did they leave their champagne flutes?”

  Hector glanced around. “Huh.” He looked puzzled. “The police must have taken the other glasses for evidence. I remember one was left on the kitchen island and one on the coffee table in the living room.” He pointed. “As far as the actors, Lauren stood directly in front of the island, where you see the broken glass. Ed remained near the bookshelf. Cicely stood to Lauren’s right. After Doug finished distributing the champagne glasses, he placed the tray on the counter and stood to Lauren’s left for the toast.”

  Brad thought about Oliver’s observation that it was the third glass filled by Pawn that sounded different during the pour.

  “Were the actors directed to take the same glass each time?”

  Hector shook his head. “Not by me. I think it was random, but you might ask Doug about it since he passed out the glasses.”

  “Doug? The character of Pawn?”

  Hector nodded.

  Ralph drawled, “Once you see the show, Brad, you’ll have a better idea of how everything fits together. We’re going ahead with the opening. I alerted our publicist to get the word out. Hector’s scheduled a rehearsal tomorrow afternoon to fit Melinda Harrison—she’s the standby—into Lauren’s part.”

  “She knows the role,” Hector explained, “but with it being the opening, I wanted to give the cast a chance to work with her…increase their comfort level.”

  Ralph gestured toward Hector. “By the way, Aaron Siegel’s going to contact critics to give them a chance to come back and see Melinda in the part.”

  Brad glimpsed a frown on Hector’s face. These guys were deep into show business, while Brad could only think crime scene. “Who was responsible for preparing the champagne flutes prior to the show?”

  Hector said, “Todd Hurley, our assistant stage manager. He handles the setup for all the props.”

  Brad rubbed his chin. “Who’s the NYPD detective in charge of the investigation?”

  Ralph deferred to Hector. “Victoria Russo. Goes by Vic. Tough old broad.” Hector laughed.

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Your involvement will go a long way toward calming the investors,” Ralph sighed. “We’ll get past this. When Gower Champion died on the opening day of 42nd Street, David Merrick milked it for all it was worth. The musical became a huge hit.”

  Hector, looking sheepish, walked away.

  “Is that what you plan to do?” Brad asked. “Milk this tragedy?”

  Ralph held up his hands in surrender. “Poor choice of words. My fault. I’m as sorry about Lauren’s death as anyone. A lot of us have our savings riding on the success of this play. I have to protect that for everyone concerned.”

  “NYPD has a competent investigative division. They’ll figure out who did this, I’m sure.”

  Ralph lowered his voice to a whisper. “Peace of mind for the investors…that’s all I’m asking.”

  “After tomorrow, the cast doesn’t come back until Thursday, right?”

  “Stop backstage an hour before the show tomorrow night.”

  Hector, standing next to the faux fireplace, coughed and beckoned Ralph with his index finger. They engaged in whispered conversation, while Brad admired the artwork decorating the set.

  When they’d finished talking, Hector left the stage and Ralph returned to Brad. “Hector made a good point. The actors are emotional enough about what happened to Lauren. Police questioned them late into the night. Hector suggests you arrive here around 3:30 tomorrow as they wrap up their rehearsal. Hector will explain your presence…that you’re an investor and part of our theatre family. That way, you can speak with them, and the cast will still have time to mentally prepare for the opening.”

  Brad paused before speaking. “I’m not sure my involvement is necessary. I’ll come by tomorrow as you suggest, see the show tomorrow night, and reach out to Detective Russo on Tuesday. No promises beyond then.”

  Ralph nodded and patted him on the shoulder. “As we like to say, you’re a mensch.”

  “What you are afraid to do is a clear indication

  of the next thing you need to do.”

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  1803 - 1882

  20

  “Leave. Me. The. Fuck. Alone.” Zane pulled a blanket over his head to block out Aaron’s pleadings.

  “You’re acting adult,” Aaron mocked. “Maybe I should have included this image of you whining in the souvenir program.”

  If he ignored him, maybe Aaron would leave.

  “Honestly, you make it hard to love you sometimes.”

  Zane stuck his hand out from under the blanket and shot him the finger.

  “Keep that out there. Let me get my camera.”

  He heard footsteps and then a toilet flushing.

  He’s kidding about the camera.

  Aaron returne
d to the living room; Zane could hear him breathing. “Do you know how rare it is for a play to have a souvenir program? It’s only 16 pages, and mostly black and white photos. I want this show to transfer to Broadway as much as you do, so I asked Ralph if we could do a special program. He had a little extra money, after getting the new furniture for the set, and said okay.”

  Zane pulled the blanket off his head and stared at Aaron. “After what happened, we’ll be lucky if Gambit even opens. Transfer is out of the question.”

  Aaron folded his arms over his chest and gawked.

  “What?” Zane griped.

  “We’re opening tomorrow night. The police finished up their work this afternoon. I’ve been texting with Ralph.”

  That means Melinda’s going on.

  Zane knew she could handle the role, though she’d be hard pressed to match Lauren’s performance. His eyes teared up for the fortieth time.

  Aaron sat on the couch next to him and rubbed his back. It felt good, but it bothered him to have those pleasant feelings in the wake of the tragedy. “I can’t get that image out of my head of her tumbling onto the stage. You were lucky.”

  “I know.”

  He touched Aaron’s face. “Who texted you?”

  “The box office summoned, which put me in the lobby when all hell broke loose. Never so happy to miss anything in my life.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Amanda Lester from The Philadelphia Inquirer called about comps to see the Sunday matinee, and they asked if it would be okay, since Sunday wasn’t on the schedule for reviewers.”

  “She probably wanted to review Lauren, since she’s from Philly. Now she’ll waste a trip.”

  Aaron nodded. “The box office notified people about today’s cancellation. Oh, by the way, Joel Harris wrote a column about the show.”