Death of a Showman

by Mariah Fredericks

  Floyd Lombardo was escorted from the building.

  5

  Nedda Fiske put on a brave face—and kept it on for all of two days. By day three, she was anxious, forgetting lines, lacking in sparkle. Floyd had not returned to their apartment and she didn’t know where he was. “He hasn’t been home in days,” she told anyone who would listen. “He’s never been gone this long.” As Mr. Harney observed, “Her life is a shambles with him. Her work a shambles without him.”

  By the end of the week, Nedda broke. She begged Warburton to allow Floyd back to the theater. She knew, absolutely knew, that if he felt certain of his welcome, he would return to her. He would behave, she promised. She would make him behave. Only he must be allowed back. He had to come back. She needed him back.

  Warburton refused.

  Nedda Fiske retaliated. She was late, moped through her numbers; at times, she failed to show up for rehearsals at all. As Mr. Arden observed, it didn’t make much difference, her performance was so lackluster. Everywhere, there was conspiracy. Behind closed doors, the Ardens plotted. Leo and Warburton argued. Violet and Louise tried to cajole Miss Fiske into better humor. Mrs. St. John designed. Mr. Harney drank. And I took Peanut for his walks and tried to decide if I wanted Leo’s show to fail or not.

  With opening night less than a month away, the emotional collapse of one of its stars was cause for concern. To raise morale, Mr. Warburton decided to take everyone out to Rector’s, the lobster palace where “Broadway and Fifth Avenue met.” Its creator, Charles Rector, had spent a quarter of a million dollars on the culinary fun house. Mirrored walls multiplied the images of its celebrated customers a hundredfold. Built at the end of the gay ’90s, this “court of triviality” was a haven for the brash, gaudy new wealth: the financiers, gamblers, cattle barons, and performers of every kind. Chorus girls who had nabbed the richest stage-door Johnnies insisted on Rector’s. Its most famous customer was Diamond Jim Brady, who was said to consume three dozen oysters, a dozen hard-shell crabs, six lobsters, and an entire dessert tray at a sitting—all washed down with orange juice. The restaurant’s colors were money: gold and dark green. The 175 tables were covered in Irish linen, the silverware emblazoned with the Rector griffin. The saucier had been stolen from Delmonico’s, and the chef kept a note from Queen Victoria, praising his terrapin à la Maryland, in his hat. The food was as gaudy as its clientele: African peaches, Lynnhaven oysters, mousselines, nectarines, duck, and of course lobster. Four private dining rooms enabled enough bad behavior to keep tongues wagging and the restaurant’s name on everyone’s lips. A fourteen-story hotel built on top of the dining concern had increased its reputation as a bawdy house. New investors had added a dance floor, which some thought tacky. But it was still beloved. The excitement began as you entered as Rector’s boasted the city’s very first revolving doors. Guests liked to spin until they were dizzy, making a game of who could stay in the longest before being flung into the bright warmth of the interior or the darkness outside.

  Always after rehearsals, I had rushed from the theater to the Tylers’ waiting car, anxious to get Louise home. So I hadn’t really taken in Times Square at nighttime. Over the past few years, electric signs had begun to appear, selling everything from cereal to shoes to chewing gum. Leaving the Sidney, I entered a wonderland where the night sky was ablaze with tens of thousands of light bulbs, each blinking in sequence to create the illusion of movement. Mundane life at street level faded as I stared, gape-mouthed, at an electric bucking bronco and an incandescent kitten twenty feet high playing with a ball of yarn. A polo player swung his mallet, and a girl’s skirt was blown tantalizingly upward. As if inspired by the dramatics played out on stages far below them, these bright, glowing figures held the eye and mind captive. I spun idly as I walked, not wanting to miss a single blink of light and fantasy. Harriet Biederman, I could tell, was much amused.

  Located on Forty-Eighth Street, Rector’s was close to the Tenderloin. So close that the kind of men Jack London had dubbed the “Haut Beaux,” and others called tramps, wandered outside the restaurant. Most of the vagrants kept their distance, slumped against buildings, calling to passersby, hand outstretched. But as we approached the famous revolving door, a large man rambled into view. His gray hair was greasy and matted, his clothes filthy, and his mind unhinged by drink or madness or both. By chance or drunken design, he stumbled between us and the entrance. I instinctively drew close to Louise and Claude Arden moved to stand in front of Blanche as the man careened among us, an urban Lear hurling curses at the stars above and below. “Leeches,” was one of the less obscene insults. “Bloodsuckers” another. A cheaply carved wooden leg contributed to his lack of balance. He lurched, seemed about to take his leave, when all of a sudden, he turned and hurled himself at Mr. Warburton, resplendent in yellow spats and top hat, screaming “You! Look at you…”

  Choking, he threw the bottle to the pavement, where it shattered, eliciting a scream from Violet. That galvanized our party into action and we surged toward the doors. As we gave our coats, Louise gave me a dollar and begged me to give it to the tramp. Back through the revolving doors I went, but the poor man was long gone.

  We were seated in the pink-and-gold Ballroom de Luxe, where people danced beneath colored lights. As we came in, the band struck up “Lady Lion Tamer,” to acknowledge Leo’s arrival. Given the size of our party, two round tables were set close together; Leo was at one end, Mr. Warburton on the other. I took some interest in where everyone sat; which side would they choose? The Ardens sat close to Mr. Warburton, as did Harriet Biederman. Louise and I sat on Leo’s side, along with Nedda Fiske, who had come under protest. Mrs. St. John sat firmly in the middle, as did Mr. Harney, who carried Peanut under his coat. She ordered an Alexander. Mr. Harney said he’d just have the gin, hold the cream and chocolate. Also a water bowl for Peanut. Violet spotted friends and went off to say hello.

  Leo insisted Louise take the seat directly next to him. Louise pulled me down beside her. Nedda Fiske took the chair on the other side of Leo. When she returned to the table, Violet found the seats near her husband occupied and only the seat opposite me left to her. If Leo noticed the hurt look she gave him, he showed no sign of it, being far too busy regaling Louise with the mishaps involving a baby elephant whose stage fright took a messy turn on Warburton’s last show. Sitting, Violet grabbed ahold of the waiter and ordered a bottle of champagne, one glass.

  Our arrival caused quite a stir, with fans and well-wishers approaching the Ardens, Miss Fiske, and Leo, who was looking handsome and vital in white tie. He was, I noticed with irritation, also wearing yellow spats, perhaps as a peace offering to his producer. I looked to Mrs. St. John to lead the conversation, but she was intent on persuading Harriet on the necessity of something called lamé and the idiocy of Mr. Warburton in refusing to cover the expense. Nedda was the target of gentle interrogation by Leo, who was aided by Louise. This left me and Violet as companions. The friendliness of the other day was gone. Mrs. Hirschfeld only had eyes for Leo’s intent conversation with Nedda Fiske—and when it arrived, the champagne. Violet drank one glass speedily, then a second. I saw Mrs. St. John was free of her exchange with Harriet and hoped she might say something to the neglected chorus girl. Instead, she turned to Mr. Harney and asked if he preferred to work with Jack Russells or beagles. The snub was not subtle and Violet started on her third glass.

  Claude Arden, I’m sorry to say, was pressing Mr. Warburton on the matter of “Why Not Me?” saying, “It should be my song, you know it should.” Blanche Arden was gazing down at our end of the table. She let a single finger drift down the length of her throat, her lips parted, eyes all languor and invitation. Never insensitive to such overtures, Leo glanced up and I thought I saw a brief frown of warning.

  Just then, a violently beautiful young man approached Louise. His skin was olive, his hair dark. His mouth was curiously small, almost feminine. But the eyes, under a high, romantic forehead, were magnetic. He was, he claimed
, desolate to interrupt. Also, to presume. But he had to ask: would the lady do him the great honor of dancing with him? He unfurled his arm in an elegant, well-practiced gesture. From his accent, he was Italian and not long in this country.

  I could see from Leo’s expression that he knew the young man was a taxi dancer who had deduced that Louise was a woman of wealth. I also saw from her expression that Louise was completely unaware of this fact. I told the young man in Italian that the signorina was a signora and that her husband was large and ill-tempered.

  He sighed. “The greatest jewels are always belonging to another man.”

  Violet laughed into her champagne glass. Louise, mistaking the young man’s sorrow as genuine, said, “Oh, but perhaps you’d like to dance with Jane…”

  I was so shocked that while my mouth said no, my voice lagged behind. This gave Leo enough time to say, “Absolutely!” and deposit money into the man’s pocket.

  The arm unfurled in my direction. I was aware of Louise’s desire to distract me from heartache. Also Leo’s enjoyment of a joke at my expense. But above all, I felt my own disinterest in spending another second next to the sullen Miss Tempest—Mrs. Hirschfeld, rather—and her champagne burps. I rose and took the young man’s hand.

  Casting his eye on Warburton’s table, he wondered if “the divine Mr. and Mrs. Arden” would consent to share the dance floor. Then he pulled me into a desultory fox-trot.

  I was not in the mood for desultory. Humiliation and sitting too long had given me a ferocious determination to show off—which I did in a flurry of steps, rolling my shoulders and tossing my head rather provocatively. The young man grudgingly admitted that I was not terrible and asked if I knew the tango. Gaze averted from Leo, I said that I did.

  “Good,” he said. “You help me make show to Warburton.”

  “You’re an actor,” I said as he yanked me to him.

  “Yes. I am Rodolfo.”

  “I am Jane.”

  As we danced, he pointed out the many famous people in the crowd. There was Mr. Cohan, there Billie Burke. None of the Barrymores were in tonight, but John Drew had sat at that table just the other evening. That man had made a fortune in Colorado—no one quite knew how. That woman was on her fourth husband and none of the previous three were still among the living. There was an assemblyman who lived for his two poodles, a Russian addicted to morphine, and a baseball player who had almost certainly been paid to drop a fly ball in the last series. Two tables over, the man who had paid him, Owney Davis.

  I turned to get a look at the gangster, but Rodolfo pulled me sharply back into the dance. As he did, there was an outburst of clapping: the Ardens had decided to put on a show after all. Some couples returned to their tables, but others raced onto the dance floor, eager to share it with the celebrated pair. Rodolfo maneuvered me closer, hoping to attract the Ardens’ attention. But they were inclined toward each other in ecstatic embrace. Her lips to her husband’s ear, Blanche hissed, “You can’t possibly be upset. It’s for the good of the family business…”

  As we swung back toward the tables, I saw that the Ardens’ departure meant a change in the seating. Louise was safely chatting with Mrs. St. John; Mr. Harney was fast asleep. Peanut was making the rounds and being fed enough steak and lobster to collapse Diamond Jim. Nedda was nowhere to be seen. This had freed Leo to take Claude Arden’s vacant seat next to Mr. Warburton. Violet had moved with him, bringing her friend, the champagne bottle. Someone else was missing, but before I could think who, Rodolfo swung me in the other direction.

  When we turned back a few moments later, I saw that the conversation between Leo and Warburton had once again turned combative. Warburton’s jaw was thrust out, his arms were crossed, his head down; his entire aspect was that of a man resisting under siege. Leo sat forward, his finger striking the table again and again, his other hand spread and balanced on fingertips. He had his point and he was making it. But Warburton wasn’t buying.

  “Why don’t we dance closer to Warburton’s table?” I suggested.

  “If you look ecstatic,” Rodolfo whispered in my ear. “I give you a dollar.”

  Unfortunately, by the time we tangoed our way through the crush, Warburton was focused on a lovely brunette who was professing breathy admiration for everything he had done since the dawn of time. He was so moved, he had taken her hand. Cards and compliments were exchanged. Knowing he could not compete for the producer’s attentions, Rodolfo started maneuvering us toward the Ardens.

  We were at the far end of the dance floor when I heard a thud, shocked cries, and the clatter of silverware. Looking back, I saw Leo was on his feet, his chair turned over. I glanced at the Ardens, but they kept their eyes averted from the fracas—ostentatiously, I thought. Leo flung his napkin at Warburton. Then followed it with a glass, a tumbler that could have done real harm if Leo’s pitching arm had been equal to his piano playing. It flew past Warburton’s head to crash against the wall. Warburton seemed strangely exhilarated by the outburst, gazing at Leo as if the moment he’d been waiting for had finally come to pass.

  Leo stormed out of the dining room. Startled out of her alcohol-laced nonchalance, Violet twisted uncertainly in her seat. Then leaping up, she followed her husband.

  As the song came to an end, a round of applause went up for the Ardens. I smiled a thank-you at Rodolfo and was about to head back to the table when a drunken young man in evening dress whirled me into the next song. He was laughing his head off and I suspected he had asked me on a dare. I waited until he shouted something to another man, then blocked his foot with mine, causing him to trip and sprawl. Calling “I’m so sorry!” I hurried back to the table. But I stopped short as I saw Roland Harney staggering toward the swinging doors, a hand to his mouth. I switched direction, asking, “May I help you, Mr. Harney?” He waved me off.

  Warburton’s seat was now also empty. The Ardens were gone, Leo and Violet had disappeared, as had Nedda Fiske. And someone else, but as I looked at the deserted tables, I couldn’t think who. I was about to ask what on earth the two men had fought about when Mrs. St. John beckoned me back over. Gesturing to the dance floor, she drawled, “Well, what was that like?”

  “He’s an actor,” I said. “Or wants to be. Mrs. Tyler, I wonder if we shouldn’t be going.”

  “Certainly pretty enough,” said Blanche Arden as she rejoined us. “Where’s the life of the party?”

  She nodded to Nedda’s empty chair. Louise said defensively, “She went to telephone home to see if Mr. Lombardo has returned.”

  “Mrs. Tyler, I really do think—”

  A champagne cork—in the miasma of merriment, that was my first thought. Loud, explosive … no, far louder than a cork. Like the assaultive, nerve-jangling pop of firecrackers, supposedly so festive, but really quite unnerving because they sounded like gunshots. It put me in mind of the hell of those long shooting parties in Europe, the relentless crack of weaponry, the odd jolliness of the return, the carcasses piled high on the wagon.

  “What was that?” said Louise.

  We opened our mouths to supply reassurance. Car backfiring, slammed door. The band started playing again—yes, there had been a pause. But now, all was well. I felt my shoulders relax. Louise smiled and shook her head: so silly. Blanche asked Mrs. St. John if she’d been able to persuade Harriet about the lamé. Harriet, I realized, that’s who was missing.

  “Did Miss Biederman leave?” I asked.

  “She did,” said Louise. “She mentioned her fiancé. She seemed upset.”

  “He came by the theater once, such a brute.” Blanche shuddered. “We’d gone late, and he was furious. I told her, ‘Better to be screamed at by Sidney in English than that man in German.’”

  I was about to express concern when I heard shouts coming from the end of the room, saw people hurrying at new speeds. A drunken bellow, “Shot! He’s been shot…!” A strange ripple of laughter, it had to be a joke. Then the rumble of the truth rolling from waiter to waiter, overheard a
t tables, circling, leaping from group to group.

  Louise touched the arm of a woman at the next table. “What are they saying?”

  “They’re saying someone’s been shot.”

  Mrs. St. John made a noise of aristocratic disdain. “I’m sure it’s just…”

  But then Violet Tempest burst through the doors shrieking, “He’s dead! Oh my God, he’s dead!” And everyone began screaming.

  6

  Sidney Warburton had met his end on the toilet—that was the first ugly fact of the matter. Except for his killer, he had been alone at the time of the shooting. Amid the raucous frivolity of the diners and the clatter of the kitchen, the shot had not been immediately understood. It was minutes later when the next gentleman stepped into the lounge that the body was discovered. It was not hard to think that had this been a Sidney Warburton production, his death would have been staged in a more dignified way. Leo identified the body. Then asked if the producer’s pants might be pulled up and the chain pulled down.

  Those of us in Sidney Warburton’s party had been gathered up and detained in one of the private dining rooms. We sat around a large, bare table. Someone brought us water. We were not told how long we might be there or what we were waiting for.

  “Was it suicide?” asked a tearful Violet Hirschfeld.

  “He was shot in the chest, ninny,” said Blanche Arden.

  “A person could shoot himself in the chest,” argued Violet. “That’s where the heart is.”

  A weary wave from Blanche indicated she would forgo the obvious joke about producers and lack of hearts. Leo gently informed his wife that the head was the traditional target.

  “It’s where the brains are,” said Blanche. “Although there are exceptions.” I marveled that she would expend the energy to be quite so spiteful to Violet. A leading lady’s contempt for a chorus girl or something more personal?