The Last Curtain Call

by Juliet Blackwell

  Alyx bowed and left the stage, and three young women came on and began a coordinated pole dance while singing “Let Me Entertain You” more or less on key as they shimmied and pranced and did acrobatics on the poles. The audience hooted and cheered. The performers, the staff, and the audience all seemed to be having a raucous good time.

  “I can take you to see him now,” said Ringo in that very loud stage whisper. “The only flying ointment is that you’ll miss this act, which is really good.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’d like to catch Alyx, if I can.”

  “Follow me.”

  Ringo led the way through the packed seating area, through a curtain at one side of the stage. I followed, Luz trailing behind, and Landon and Victor on her heels.

  “So,” I said as we hustled past piles of props and the performers milling about backstage, waiting for their turn in the spotlight. The walls were decorated with framed photographs of Mae West, Isadora Duncan, Josephine Baker, Martha Graham, Gypsy Rose Lee, Bettie Page, and a number of other dancers I didn’t know.

  As always these days, my eyes went to Isadora Duncan.

  “So, Ringo, you produce the show?” I asked.

  He let out a laugh. “Producer, prop manager, barback and bottle washer, ticket taker, busboy—I do whatever needs to be done. But, yeah, I help Alyx produce his show.”

  “He’s really good,” I said.

  “Isn’t he, though? Burlesque is one of those things, in my view, where you either got it or you don’t. And he’s got it.”

  We found Alyx sitting in front of a large makeup mirror ringed by warmly lit lightbulbs. It made me think of the dusty old backstage changing rooms at the Crockett, and what Annette and I—or at least I—had witnessed there.

  “Hi, Alyx!” I said. “Remember me?”

  Alyx started to stand, as though to flee, then spotted Landon, Victor, and Luz and settled back onto the stool.

  “Um. Hi,” he said, a wary look in his eyes.

  “You’re a hard man to pin down,” I said.

  “I told you, cops and I do not get along.”

  “You’re not in trouble,” I began, then realized that maybe he was. He was a squatter, after all, so at the very least he was guilty of trespassing. How did I know he wasn’t the killer?

  As I gazed at Alyx now, though, with his tousled locks and heavy makeup, he didn’t seem like a murderer but like any starlet of old trying to make good. I just didn’t get a homicidal vibe from him. Also, would he even have had time to kill Isadora, set her up on the Mighty Wurlitzer, then race up several flights of stairs to join me and Thibodeaux in the balcony?

  “I mean,” I amended my statement, “assuming you didn’t hurt anyone.”

  He gave a wry chuckle and turned back to the mirror, using a broad-headed brush to put a thick layer of powder over an already thick layer of makeup. I had to admit, he looked good. Really good. I could have taken a few makeup lessons from this young man.

  “I think if you knew me a little better,” said Alyx, “you wouldn’t even consider such a thing for a second.”

  “I liked your show,” I said. “I’ve never seen a burlesque dancer in real life.”

  “Me neither,” said Luz. “It’s really fun. You’re gorgeous, by the way.”

  “Thank you, doll,” said Alyx. “You know the difference between a burlesque dancer and a stripper?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “The stripper makes money.”

  I smiled. “So you don’t make money here?”

  Alyx glanced at Ringo, who shrugged and said, “Hey, I’m doing my best. No need to make a molehill out of it.”

  “We’re working on it, I guess,” said Alyx. “The thing is, burlesque has historical roots in satire. It’s just plain fun. I like the adrenaline rush of dancing before a crowd, the energy in teasingly taking off my clothes. Burlesque isn’t mainly about showing one’s body, but an onstage performance piece. Plus, in burlesque you get to wear all this.”

  His arm made a wide arc toward the rack of outfits, all of which featured feathers, crystals, glitter, and spangles. I made a note to tell my friend Stephen, the frustrated dress designer, about this place. His designs would be appreciated here.

  “Also, since I’m not binary, people watching me dance don’t know at first if I’m a man or a woman. Screws with their heads, but in a good way.”

  “Alyx, do you know what Isadora wanted to talk to Skeet about?” I asked. “Had she discovered something valuable in the theater?”

  “Valuable enough to kill over?” Alyx shook his head, and tears came to his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot. Isadora was like our housemother, you know? And she had a strict rule against stripping the theater of valuable things. It might seem hard to believe, but we all really love that place, want the best for it. We just want to live there, soak up the vibes.”

  “I was there last night,” I said. “It looked like you had moved out.”

  “Not officially, but with the police poking around, and then you said you were starting construction . . .” He shrugged. “I’m hoping for a reprieve, like maybe the construction will stop again like it did before. In the meantime, I’m on a friend’s couch.”

  Alyx was so talented—in costuming, singing and dancing, and industrial design. Surely he could find decent employment somewhere. Maybe if he had a steady place to live . . . I thought of my big new house (Demetrius Manse?). Should I . . . ?

  Luz caught my eye and shook her head. “No,” she mouthed.

  “You worked at Eamon Castle, right?” I asked Alyx. “I was there today. It’s quite something.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Alyx said, his face lighting up. “Did you see the cisterns? I set up a piping system there. It was sick. I did the same thing at the Crockett. That’s how we had some toilets we could use. It’s probably not potable, but it’s good for washing and the toilets.”

  “Very clever. But, hey, I hope I didn’t say anything out of turn, but I might have mentioned to Alan Peterson that you were living at the Crockett Theatre.”

  Alyx grimaced.

  “Has he . . . threatened you?” I asked.

  “Oh no, nothing like that. I just had a thing going there for a while, with him and his wife and . . . I can see I’ve now horrified you all. Bad choice on my part, I know. It’s really not worth going into, but suffice it to say, I didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

  I was going to let that one go.

  “I noticed a lot of the plumbing fixtures had been taken out at the Crockett,” I said. “Did you guys do that?”

  “No way. Isadora would never have allowed that. You know Coco the Crockett Crackpot?”

  “Um . . . I know Coco Stapleton, yes.”

  “She was obsessed with those fixtures. Not sure why. Freaked out when she saw they were gone.”

  “You don’t think Coco could have had anything to do with Isadora’s death, do you?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine how; Coco wouldn’t have been able to overwhelm Isadora through sheer brute strength, though I supposed she could have hired someone to do her bidding. Mitch had mentioned Coco had tried to hire him once, though he didn’t say for what.

  “I’m not saying anything like that. It’s just that she’s pretty wealthy, one of those ‘actors’ who always had family money. So she doesn’t really get the struggle the rest of us face. And she felt really proprietary about the Crockett; I always got the feeling she would have bought it for her own private fun house, if she had the chance.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Suppose there’s still time for fireworks?” Landon asked as we exited the burlesque theater.

  “The fireworks started at nine thirty, at the foot of the Municipal Pier and off barges north of Pier 39 at Fisherman’s Wharf,” Luz rattled off, apparently having memorized the
schedule. She glanced at her watch. “It’s not even ten.”

  “Well, then, let’s go check it out,” Victor said.

  Pier 7 was jammed, and it was, in fact, pretty foggy but the kaleidoscopic grandeur of the lower fireworks was on full display, and the tallest ones did, indeed, light up the clouds in reds, greens, blues, and oranges.

  Music was piped in, and then a man’s deep, resonant voice came over the loudspeakers, reading the Declaration of Independence.

  “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

  I always got a little choked up at that part. We were all created equal, and yet . . . I thought of how some people—many of my clients, for example—had more than enough, while others, like Alyx and Tierney, had no real home at all.

  On the other hand, many of my wealthiest clients seemed to be miserable, whereas someone like Skeet, who had to work past retirement age, had a family he loved and a good attitude in general.

  Had Isadora been killed over money? Was it that easy?

  “It’s probably ridiculous to say, but I’m hungry,” announced Victor. “And cold.”

  “Ditto that,” said Landon.

  “The pasta didn’t hold you?” I asked, amused. I was still more than full.

  A look of panic entered Luz’s eyes. This was not on her agenda.

  “Remember to breathe, Luz,” I murmured. “Hey, you know what would be fun? A taquería. Or maybe a food truck—it’s Saturday, they serve late.”

  “Or El Farolito in the Mission,” Luz said. “That’s the best place to go when everything’s closed. They have great burritos and agua fresca.”

  “Are you a fan of burritos?” Victor asked Landon.

  “Sounds like just the thing,” said Landon. “I’ll call for a Lyft.”

  So we ended our night in the heart of the Mission neighborhood, mere blocks from the Crockett Theatre.

  As we passed it on our way to El Farolito, I leaned out the window: The theater loomed huge and dark against the bright night sky, the clouds still painted with fireworks like an echo of the lights that had illuminated the old marquee, once upon a time.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The next day, Luz, Stan, and I piled into the back of the wheelchair-friendly van, while Dad drove and Landon rode shotgun.

  We stopped at the Fruitvale BART station for a joyous reunion with Caleb, who had come in from the city. His olive skin was a shade darker from the time spent in the Nicaraguan sun, his dark hair was shaggy, and my once-smooth-cheeked stepson now sported a five o’clock shadow that threatened to form one of those scraggly goatees sported by a lot of the area’s baristas. Caleb looked hale and hearty and was such a sight for sore eyes that I had to fight back an embarrassing attack of “mom tears.”

  “I’m so happy you’re home,” I whispered as I embraced him.

  “Me, too, Mel,” he said, and hugged me hard.

  “So, what’s the deal?” Caleb asked after answering the questions we peppered him with about his trip to Nicaragua as we drove south on 80. “Am I being kidnapped? Where are we headed?”

  “We’re going to a museum in Fremont.”

  “A museum. In Fremont. Yaaay,” he said in a dying voice. Sarcasm was Caleb’s fallback position. I couldn’t imagine where he had picked that up. “Just what I wanted to do on my vacation.”

  “Watch the attitude, son,” Dad said, glancing at Caleb in the rearview mirror.

  “Yessir, Pops,” Caleb said with exaggerated meekness, and we all laughed.

  “Have you ever heard of Niles Canyon?” I asked. “Back in the day it was an important train stop and the home of some of the earliest films made in this country. Charlie Chaplin filmed there.”

  “Oh cool. All I know about Niles Canyon is there’s a ghost story about a lady in white on Niles Canyon Road,” said Caleb. “A friend of mine told me.”

  “Ugh, no more ghosts,” I said quickly.

  “Why are ghosts always dressed in white?” asked Luz at the same time.

  “Now, that’s an interesting question,” Stan said. “Mel? Any thoughts on that?”

  “Don’t look at me. Like I said, I’ve got plenty of spirits in my life at the moment; Fremont is on its own. I wonder if the city allocates any tax money for that.”

  Caleb looked at me. “Why do I get the feeling I’m missing something? What’s going on?”

  “Mel’s dealing with murder and mayhem,” said Dad over his shoulder. “As usual.”

  “Are you okay?” Caleb asked, dropping his sometimes smart-alecky teenage mask.

  “I’m okay. Of course I am,” I said, glaring at my dad.

  “Does this have to do with the Crockett Theatre you said you were going to work on?” Caleb asked. “I looked it up; it’s haunted by the ghost of an usher.”

  Among others, I thought to myself.

  “Yeah, maybe, maybe not,” I equivocated.

  “But there are squatters, for sure,” said Luz. “And a murderer.”

  “What happened?” Caleb asked.

  “A woman was killed there a few days ago,” I said. “It had absolutely nothing to do with me.”

  “It never does,” said Caleb. “Except that you’re always the one who finds them.”

  “What can I say?” I replied, trying to keep my tone light. “Everybody has to have a hobby.”

  Dad pulled off the freeway, and we drove through the city of Fremont, passing strip malls and housing developments. My phone kept ringing and beeping, annoying everyone, so I turned off the volume. I had received messages from two more of the artisans I had contacted but each claimed to be too busy to bid on the Crockett Theatre project.

  That seemed strange. Skilled craftspeople were in great demand and often needed long lead times, but the opportunity to work on a gem like a 1920s theater would normally bring them out of the woodwork. So to speak.

  The Crockett was scheduled to be released as a crime scene tomorrow. Part of me was itching to get back, to put together a real list and poke some holes in the walls. Another part of me wasn’t quite ready.

  “A lot of Afghani restaurants in Fremont,” I said to change the subject.

  “Largest concentration of Afghan Americans in the US,” said Stan.

  “Really?” I asked. “I had no idea.”

  “They settled here after the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan.”

  “The Soviets?” asked Caleb. “Wait. I thought we were the ones in Afghanistan.”

  “Different time periods,” I said. “Different invasion.”

  “History,” Caleb said with a shake of his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s wasted on the young,” Dad said.

  “Theirs is a tragic history,” said Stan. “But one result is that Fremont now has some very good Afghani restaurants and a diverse community.”

  At long last we arrived at a charming, five-block-long commercial district lined with historic brick buildings and old-timey wooden storefronts boasting antiques shops, restaurants. Several had clever names, such as the Devil’s Workshop and Mercantile, and Thyme for Tea. The Niles Canyon Railway station had a vintage steam train out front, and the town was bedecked in American flags and stars-and-stripes bunting. A city worker was sweeping up burned sparkler wires and spent fireworks.

  “This area was considered ‘America’s First Hollywood,’” said Stan, consulting his phone. “Charlie Chaplin was here in 1914 and shot a handful of films, including The Little Tramp. Says here they filmed part of that on a path you can still walk today, though now it’s paved.”

  “Looks to me like the kind of town where one might find an ice-cream parlor,” I said. “Who’s up for ice cream before we hit the museum?”
>
  Dad grumbled about our ruining our appetites for dinner, which was still hours away, but he was outvoted. We found frosty root beer floats at the Remember When Deli, where a pint-sized Charlie Chaplin doll sat behind the counter.

  Then we walked past antiques stores sporting old glass bottles of Coca-Cola and model trains from the 1950s, to arrive at the Niles Essanay Silent Film Museum and Edison Theater.

  “More Charlie Chaplin,” said Caleb as we passed another image of the actor’s iconic Little Tramp. “Why do I get the feeling I’ll be watching some old movies tonight?”

  “How’d you guess?” asked Dad. “Maybe Broncho Billy Anderson, too. Love me an old Western.”

  “Yay,” said Caleb. More sarcasm. “Why’d they set up shop way out here, though?”

  “Glad you asked, young man,” said the jolly man who took our tickets. He wore a name tag that said mr. raymond, had a walrus mustache and a large belly, and seemed thrilled to be part of the museum. I half expected him to have a gold watch on a chain in his pocket. “The transcontinental railroad snaked through the Niles Canyon and connected the San Francisco Bay Area to the rest of the nation. The critical railroad link between the gold mining town of Sacramento and San Francisco was completed right here in Niles in 1869.”

  “Oh. Thanks,” said Caleb. “Interesting.”

  Movie posters from decades past adorned the walls, and there were film equipment and wooden theater seats, costumes, and other movie-related paraphernalia.

  “Very sorry to tell you this, folks,” said Mr. Raymond, “But our projector’s on the fritz. Normally we’d be screening films shot here in Niles, many of which star leading A-listers who made brief pit stops in Northern California’s own version of Hollywood.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” I said. “I wonder if we could find some of them to stream at home?”