by Sam Shepard
CARTER: I told you. I’m an old friend of Vinnie’s.
CECILIA: Anybody could say that, just to get in the door. Have you been observing me or something? Stalking me?
CARTER: No, look—I’m perfectly legitimate. I have full identification and everything. References if you want. I’m licensed to race in six states.
CECILIA: How can you identify your friendship? How is that possible? Do you have pictures of it or something? The two of you holding hands? Displaying strings of trout?
CARTER: No, I don’t carry pictures with me—Look—call him up if you don’t believe me. Go ahead and call him. Better yet, we could both go over there and meet him face to face.
CECILIA: You’re not getting me in a car alone, buster, if that’s what you think. I’m young but I wasn’t born yesterday.
CARTER: Whoa! Hang on a second. Let’s just slow down here, all right? I have no intention of harming you or molesting you or anything else. Let’s be very clear about that.
CECILIA: I suppose you’re a detective too, huh? Is that it? Partners in crime?
CARTER: No! I am not a detective and neither is Vinnie! That’s what I’m trying to get at here. Vinnie is a very sick individual and he needs serious medical attention, in case you didn’t know it.
CECILIA: Sick?
CARTER: Well—
CECILIA: He’s not a rapist or anything?
CARTER: No. Nothing like that.
CECILIA: I didn’t think so. I can usually tell when someone’s potentially harmful. I’ve developed a keen sense of that over the years. I got a sense of you too. Right off the bat. Soon as I saw you through my little window. A man in trouble.
CARTER: I’m not in trouble. Vinnie’s in trouble.
CECILIA: Soon as I saw you step up on my porch and arch your neck back like you were trying to relieve yourself of serious pain.
CARTER: I came here to talk about my friend, Vinnie! That’s the only reason I came. I’m not here to be psychoanalyzed.
CECILIA: As though the pain in your neck was only a symptom of something much bigger. A much bigger pain.
CARTER: Look—I have a plane to catch. I’m only here for a very short time. I would like to keep the conversation on Vinnie, if you don’t mind. Do you think that’s possible?
CECILIA: I don’t see why not. More tea?
CARTER: No, thank you.
Pause.
CECILIA: Where are you flying off to?
CARTER: Kentucky.
CECILIA: Aah, my favorite state!
CARTER: Is that right.
CECILIA: “Home of the Derby”!
CARTER: Exactly.
CECILIA: The “Blue Grass State”.
CARTER: Yes.
CECILIA: “My Old Kentucky Home”!
CARTER: Look—Could we—
CECILIA: I used to dream about the Derby.
CARTER: Is that a fact.
CECILIA: One of the last bastions of true American aristocracy, don’t you think?
CARTER: Yeah, sure.
CECILIA: The closest thing we have to English royalty. Pomp and circumstance!
CARTER: I don’t know.
CECILIA: Have you ever been?
CARTER: Where?
CECILIA: To the Kentucky Derby?
CARTER: Many times.
CECILIA: No, really? And you say it so casually, as though you’ve almost become bored with it. I would die to go to the Derby!
CARTER: It’s part of my business.
CECILIA: What business?
CARTER: The horse business. Thoroughbreds.
CECILIA: You’re kidding! Vinnie was involved in that too, wasn’t he? A long time ago. Seems like he told me something about that. Of course it wasn’t on the same scale as the Derby.
CARTER: He may have been. I don’t know. Could we please—
CECILIA: You two must have a lot in common.
CARTER: We used to.
CECILIA: But now you’ve drifted. That’s too bad. It’s sad actually. It’s the one thing that breaks my heart.
CARTER: What’s that.
CECILIA: People drifting apart. It’s worse than death, I think. Worse than dying alone, like a dog. Don’t you think?
CARTER: I don’t know. I don’t know anything about that stuff. All I want to do is just try to explain something to you here and then I’ll be on my way. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.
CECILIA: I’m not a busy woman. I’ve got all the time in the world.
CARTER: Fine. That’s fine. I’d just like to—I’m not sure you realize exactly how much you mean to Vinnie.
CECILIA: No, I’m sure I don’t. We’ve only known each other a short while.
CARTER: He told me—now this could just be another one of his bizarre delusions—but he told me that you had become a little bit miffed at him over some incident or other. That you had filed certain charges against him. Criminal charges.
CECILIA: Charged him? You mean gone to the police?
CARTER: That’s right. That’s what he claims. He says he was arrested.
CECILIA: Now why would I do something like that? We were having an affair, for Christ’s sake.
CARTER: You were?
CECILIA: Yes. We were. We are as far as I’m concerned. Unless he’s changed his mind. Is that what this is all about? He couldn’t bring himself to face me directly so he sent you with the bad news? His old “buddy”?
CARTER: What bad news? No, look—
CECILIA (standing suddenly): If it’s over, it’s over! He doesn’t have to send a middleman. Tell him that for me!
CARTER: It’s not over! He wants to see you. He’s desperate about it in fact. He called me all the way out here.
CECILIA: Yeah, he’s so desperate he’s got to send somebody else to take his place!
CARTER: I’m not—He was under the impression that you were pissed off at him!
CECILIA: I am pissed off at him!
CARTER: Not now! Then!
CECILIA: When?
CARTER: At the time you made the charges against him!
CECILIA: I never made any crumby charges!! I might have called the police but I—
Pause.
CARTER: Oh. Then—
CECILIA: Why don’t you just get the hell on outa here, mister, and tell your old pal to take a hike for me. Go on! Get outa here!
CARTER (standing awkwardly): Now wait a second—Just wait a second. This whole thing has gotten outa hand. I’m very, very sorry if I gave you the wrong idea here. Vinnie’s crazy about you. He really is. I’ve never seen him act this way before. He talks about you like you were sent from heaven or something.
CECILIA: Heaven?
CARTER: Yeah. He said you answered this little prayer of his.
CECILIA: What prayer? Get outa here. This is too weird.
CARTER: All he wants is to see you and talk to you. That’s all he wants. He misses you terribly.
CECILIA: Then why doesn’t he come over here himself? Why does he send you?
CARTER: He didn’t “send” me. I volunteered.
CECILIA: There’s something very fishy about this.
CARTER: I guess he thought you weren’t going to be very receptive to him. I mean, assuming he was telling the truth.
CECILIA: About what?
CARTER: ABOUT BEING ARRESTED!
Pause.
CECILIA: Don’t raise your voice in my home, mister.
CARTER: I’m sorry. It’s just—that I’m worried about him.
CECILIA: You’re worried?
CARTER: I am. I’ve seen this pattern of his before.
CECILIA: What pattern?
CARTER: This—despair he gets into. This—anguish.
CECILIA: Anguish and despair.
CARTER: It’s no joke. He’s liable to do something very serious to himself.
CECILIA: Oh. I see.
CARTER: If you could just come with me over there and have a talk with him—
CECILIA: I’m not getting
into your car, pal. So just give it up.
CARTER: No, I didn’t mean that! You can go there any way you want. Walk, drive, take the bus! It makes no difference to me how you get there! I just think that it would do him a world of good if he could see you and—talk things out.
Pause.
CECILIA: He told you that I had him arrested? For what?
CARTER: Trespassing. Invasion of Privacy and uh—Harassment.
CECILIA: That’s amazing.
CARTER: He could have been making it all up. It’s possible.
CECILIA: I really liked him, you know. Right from the get-go. He seemed like such a sweet man, underneath. Innocent. A man like that has no business being in such a seedy occupation as that. It’s bound to pull him down sooner or later.
CARTER: What occupation?
CECILIA: A private investigator. It just doesn’t suit him at all.
CARTER: No, see, that’s exactly what I’m trying—
CECILIA: He has all kinds of potential, but you can’t continue to rub up against that kind of low-rent world he lives in without feeling the effects.
CARTER: He is not a private investigator! He’s not a detective or anything like that! That’s what I’ve been trying to get through to you, here!
CECILIA: He showed me his badge and his gun. He took me on surveillance with him. He even showed me pictures from a case he’d worked on.
Pause.
CARTER: What case?
CECILIA: Some case involving a racing official or something. He said it was years ago.
CARTER: He talked to you about that?
CECILIA: He talks to me about everything.
CARTER: What’d he tell you?
CECILIA: I can’t remember all the details of it. But he wasn’t lying.
CARTER: He lies about everything! It’s all part of this illness of his. This sickness! He’s a professional liar.
CECILIA: Well, the pictures didn’t lie. I can tell you that much.
CARTER: What pictures?
CECILIA: He showed me a couple of pictures of this guy that were presented as evidence against him.
CARTER: What were the pictures of?
CECILIA: What difference does it make to you?
CARTER: I am trying to figure out what’s going on in his head. That’s all.
CECILIA: They were very, very filthy pictures. That’s about all I can say. I’ve never seen anything like it, in fact. And, believe me, I’ve been around the block. I may not look it but I have.
CARTER: Was there a woman involved?
CECILIA: A woman?
CARTER: In the pictures!
CECILIA: What’s your interest in this, anyway?
CARTER: Let me see them.
CECILIA: What?
CARTER: THE PICTURES! THE PHOTOGRAPHS! Do you still have them?
Pause.
CECILIA: You’re a very strange man, mister. You don’t come into somebody’s home, a total stranger, and start raising your voice and making demands. Where were you brought up?
CARTER: I’m sorry.
CECILIA: I don’t care who you are but you don’t start acting like a cop in my own house. Unless you are a cop?
CARTER: I’m not a cop. I’m not a detective. I’m just worried about my friend, that’s all. This business with the pictures is quite a surprise. I mean if he’s actually gone so far as to set somebody up—or put someone’s personal integrity in jeopardy then—well, he’s in trouble. Big trouble. I don’t know if I can bail him out of this kind of a mess.
CECILIA: Someone’s personal integrity?
CARTER: Yes, that’s right.
CECILIA: He told me this case happened years ago.
CARTER: It doesn’t matter!
CECILIA: He said everything about the case had probably been long forgotten.
CARTER: Something like that is never forgotten! Never. Believe me. It could loom its ugly head at any given moment and destroy an innocent man’s life.
CECILIA: Well he couldn’t have been all that innocent. This commissioner guy. Some of those postures I’ve never seen in the animal kingdom.
CARTER: Let me see them.
CECILIA: I didn’t save them or anything. I’m not a pervert.
CARTER: What’d you do with them?
CECILIA: I don’t have a clue. I might have given them back to Vinnie.
CARTER: He said you had them! Did you destroy them?
CECILIA: No.
CARTER: Did you let them out of the house?
Pause.
CECILIA: Oh. So he already told you about it then?
CARTER: What?
CECILIA: The pictures. You already know.
CARTER: He mentioned something—
CECILIA: So why are you acting so surprised?
CARTER: Look, I can’t stress how important it is to locate these photographs. Vinnie could go to jail for a very long time.
CECILIA: Vinnie could?
CARTER: Yes. He could. He certainly could. I mean—I’m just trying to keep him out of trouble. That’s all I’ve been doing for the last fifteen years.
Pause. CARTER moves to window and stares out as CECILIA watches him.
CARTER: There’s a lot of other things I’d rather have been doing. Believe me. I’m a busy man but—I figured I owed it to Vinnie. He just never seemed to get the same breaks, you know. So—Anyhow, I thought I’d just make a quick trip out here and get him fixed up. You know—whatever he needed—and then get right back home. It’s always been like that in the past. I’ve always taken care of him. And I don’t mind. I mean—I figured I kinda owed it to him, you know. It’s my responsibility. I can’t just—get rid of him. (Pause, checks his watch.) Shit, I’ve already missed my flight I think. (Turns to CECILIA.) Look, would you just consider meeting me over there at his place—in an hour or so. Please, just consider it. We could get all this straightened out. It would do him a world of good. We could all get back to normal.
Pause. She stares at him.
CECILIA: More tea?
She pours as lights dim into cross-fade.
SCENE TWO
Night. Place-name card above stage-left set reads—“MIDWAY. KY. ‘RED EYE’ ”. Cross-fade. Lights up on SIMMS’ bloodstock office in Kentucky. SIMMS is bent over his desk, absorbed in paperwork, surrounded by reference books, stacks of magazines, etc. A small window directly behind him, looking out into blackness. A leather armchair in faded green across from SIMMS’ desk. Racing pictures and genealogy charts on walls. SIMMS, in his mid-sixties, wears a grey vest over a white shirt with sleeves rolled up. Dark slacks. Everything rumpled and worn. A green visorcap to shade his eyes from the overhead lamp. VINNIE enters out of darkness left with a “Redwing” shoebox tucked under his arm. SIMMS continues his paperwork, oblivious. Pause.
VINNIE: Uh—Mr Ames? Ryan Ames?
SIMMS: What’d they do, leave the hallway unlocked? Man could be murdered this time a’ night.
VINNIE: I’m sorry. The door was open. I’m Vincent Webb. Vincent T. Webb. From California.
VINNIE crosses to desk. SIMMS remains seated. They shake hands across desk.
SIMMS: Vincent T. Webb.
VINNIE: Sorry to interrupt—
SIMMS: Nothin’ to it. Just the usual obsessive perusal of charts: Sire lists; auction reports. Can’t study enough on the Blood Horse these days.
VINNIE: No, I suppose not.
SIMMS: Most boys have all this modern software nonsense—computer read-outs and what-have-you. Fax machines. Electronic mail. Me, I still prefer to stumble around with the old-fashioned dirty paper. I like to fondle it. Gives me a feeble sense of something tangible in the midst of all the abstract frenzy.
VINNIE: Yeah. I know what you mean.
SIMMS: So, you’re a Western man, huh? Out in the Golden Land of high purses and racial conflict?
VINNIE: That’s right.
SIMMS: Still run live horse racing out there, do ya, or is it all on the TV monitor now like it is across the rest of wi
de America?
VINNIE: Oh no, they uh—still have live racing. They sure do. Santa Anita. Del Mar. You know—they’re institutions.
SIMMS: “Off-Track Betting”! Who invented that one?
VINNIE: I’m not sure.
SIMMS: Bandits! Bandits and cuff-snappers. You don’t belong to either of those two sub-species, do you?
VINNIE: No, sir. I’m—
SIMMS: Bushwhackers and Backstabbers. Snakes. Whole damn industry’s full a’ snakes now. Thoroughbred’s gonna be an obsolete animal before you know it. They’ll find some way to turn the whole damn thing into a Pac-Man Game. You wait and see.
VINNIE: I suppose so.
SIMMS: No question about it. All the icons are dead and buried—“Sonny-Jim” Fitzsimmons, “Bull” Hancock, Mr Madden—This is the very last generation of honest-to-God true horsemen. Once they’re gone, the game’s up.
VINNIE: That’ll be a sad day in hell, won’t it.
SIMMS: You got that right. (Pause.) What line a’ work do you follow, Mr Webb?
VINNIE: Uh—well I—I dabble somewhat. I mean—
SIMMS: A dabbler! Good thing to be. Little a’ this, little a’ that. Not enough “dabblers” these days, I’d say. Too many experts.
VINNIE: Well—I don’t know.
SIMMS: In what area do you do the most “dabbling”, Mr Webb?
VINNIE: Well, I—fool around with pedigrees and—
SIMMS: A pedigree man! There ya go. My line exactly.
VINNIE: But only as a sideline.
SIMMS: Aha.
VINNIE: A hobby—kind of.
SIMMS: A hobby.
VINNIE: I used to be very involved—I mean I was in the horse business some time ago. I’ve kinda—lost touch.
SIMMS: Helps to keep abreast of things, that’s for sure. A stallion can move up and down the lists in a matter of days. Requires constant scrutiny. That is, if you want to stay in the game.
VINNIE: Yeah, I can see where it would.
SIMMS: Used to be no such a thing as a “bloodstock agent”. Now you’ve got owners dumber than dirt. Don’t know “Native Dancer” from “Nasrullah”. Couldn’t tell a sesamoid from a cannon-bone and couldn’t care less about it.