Memory (Hard Case Crime)

by Donald E. Westlake

  No wonder the counterman had stared at him. He remembered now that the other actors had gone off to the right; there must be a lunch counter nearby in that direction, where the actors from that studio always took their lunches, and where the sight of a face covered by makeup wouldn’t be uncommon. But no one came here from the studio; in here he was only some kind of insane freak.

  He couldn’t eat any more. He dragged a dollar bill from his wallet and dropped it on the counter and hurried back out to the sunlight. He practically ran now, wanting desperately to be back in the studio. He averted his face whenever he passed another pedestrian.

  Back in the studio, there was still activity, but only the stagehands were still there. No actors were present, and none of the people in white shirts. He looked up at the control booth, and it was empty, too. He walked back over to the folding chairs and sat down to wait.

  After a while, people began to come back into the studio, and the noise built up again, and the tension, and the scurrying. The four other actors came in, strolling across the floor in a casual manner, talking together and smoking cigarettes. They sat down near him, and continued to talk. The middle-aged man Cole had seen up in the dressing room nodded at him in a friendly way, but made no effort to include him in the conversation.

  The afternoon dragged on just as the morning had, and finally at three-thirty the woman in the tweed suit came over, bustling, nervous, tense, and said, “All right, we’re ready for your scene now.”

  Cole and the others followed her across the room, through and between the various sets. It was like going through a maze, with the black pipes across the ceiling far above, and the feeling of great immensity in the room because in among the sets it was impossible to see the far walls any more.

  They stopped at a courtroom set. It was just the front end of a courtroom, and looked thin and fragile. There was a judge’s bench on a paint-stained platform, and a wooden railing, and two long tables backed by wooden armchairs, and just the first two spectator pews behind that. Other people were already there, actors and others. An actor dressed up like a judge was up in his place, and other actors were sitting at the two long tables. Herbie Lang was standing to one side, arms folded across his chest, a strained smile on his face. The gaunt man was walking back and forth, studying the set and actors in a fatalistic way. There were two men with clipboards, just standing around. And there was a stocky gray-haired man with a harried expression on his face, who turned out to be the director.

  It was the director who positioned them, taking each actor in turn by both elbows and backing up, as though actors were things that had to be dragged into place. When he came to Cole, he maneuvered him over to one of the long tables and sat him in the chair on the end, next to a tall distinguished-looking actor whose face Cole found vaguely familiar.

  Once everyone was in place, the director came around to each one, telling him what he was to do in this scene. One of the young men with clipboards followed him this time, and the director occasionally consulted with him briefly. When they got to Cole, the director said, “You’re who? Condemned Man? Is that right?”

  Cole nodded. “Yes. Condemned Man.”

  “Very good. Your cue is—” He consulted with the young man carrying the clipboard. “Your cue is, ‘Hanged by the neck till you’re dead.’ No, that isn’t right!” He consulted again, and said, “That’s what I thought. That’s your speech cue. First things first. Your first cue is, ‘The prisoner will rise.’ Then you stand up and face the judge. He pronounces sentence, blah blah blah, and then your cue is, ‘Hanged by the neck till you’re dead.’ Shouldn’t that be, ‘Hanged by the neck until dead’? Somebody? Somebody?” He was looking around frantically, and three or four people hurried over. They talked together, checking with the clipboard, and finally straightened it out. The director said, “Yes, that’s right. That’s what I thought. ‘Hanged by the neck until dead.’ You got that?” He turned and shouted the last to the actor who was playing the judge.

  The actor nodded and repeated the line back to him.

  The director said, “Good. If you’re going to do this right, let’s do it right. Now. You, Condemned Man. You’re already standing. The line is, ‘Hanged by the neck until dead.’ Then you, and you—” pointing to the two men in police uniforms “—you take his arms, like so. Got that?” He demonstrated, grabbing Cole’s arm. “You start to exit that way. You go over there, that way.” He started off in the direction indicated, and stopped a few paces away. “And when you get here, you, Condemned Man, you twist out of their grasp and you make a lunge toward the judge’s bench, like so—” He demonstrated, leaping forward. “And you shout out your line. Shout it out, now, really shout it out, don’t worry about volume, that’s the sound man’s job. You got that? You know your line?”

  “I haven’t got it yet,” said Cole.

  “What? Why not? Herbie?”

  “Right here, comrade commissar,” cried Lang. He hurried over and said, “I’ll give it to him right now, right this minute. Paul? It’s, ‘I don’t want to die!’ Simple, comrade?”

  “I don’t want to die.”

  “Right!” Lang beamed, and hurried back to the sidelines.

  “He should have had his line,” said the director. He studied Cole mistrustfully. “You’ve got it now?”

  “I don’t want to die.”

  “All right. And shout it out, really shout it out. Then you two, you grab him again, and you hustle him on out. Check?”

  Cole nodded, and the two actors playing policemen nodded. The director nodded back at them, and went to talk to the people sitting in the two spectator pens, who would make believe they were the audience at the trial.

  Cole went over it and over it, wanting to be sure he had it exactly right. Stand up, start to be led off, turn back and jump at the judge’s bench, shout out, “I don’t want to die!”, be grabbed again, and be hustled off. It was just a short bit, and it was completely laid out for him; not like that nonsense at Robin Kirk’s. He knew in advance everything he was supposed to do, and that made all the difference in the world. Of course he could do this, why not? Confidence began to grow in him, dispelling the depression he’d been feeling most of the day.

  “People! People!”

  The director was in the middle of the set, clapping his hands and calling to attract their attention. He said, “Everyone set now? You new people, court officers, Condemned Man, spectators, you know your jobs? Questions? Problems? Nothing? All right, then, good, then we’ll have our run-through. This is dry, this is just the runthrough. Arnold? Arnold?” He was looking far away, and shouting. “Are these damn mikes hooked up or aren’t they? Arnold!”

  A man wearing a headset like those worn by switchboard operators came over, trailing cables. “He can hear you, Bruce,” he said.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? Arnold, are you set?”

  “He’s set, Bruce.”

  “All right, then. Remember, people, this is dry. Charlotte, begin any time, dear.”

  The scene started. Cole tried at first to pay attention to the things that were being said, so he would know what the play was about, or at least what this scene was about, but his main attention was riveted on the details of his own part. His confidence was still a frail thing, and he didn’t want any possibility at all that he would make a mistake.

  A television camera began to roll toward him from the left, the three lenses pointing directly at him. He looked at it, watching it come toward him, wondering if this meant his line was coming up soon.

  “Hold it! Hold it, people!” It was the director, running into the set. He stood there and looked off at the distance again, shouting, “What’s the matter, Arnold?”

  The man with the headset came on, and pointed at Cole without looking at him. “He’s looking at the camera,” he said. “The camera’s on him, and he’s looking at it.”

  “What? For the love of God!” The director came hurrying over, looking frantic. “Listen,” he shou
ted at Cole. “Listen, you, this is a dry run but that doesn’t mean you look at the camera! You’re supposed to be acting! The judge is about to pronounce sentence on you, man, goddamn it, look at him!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Cole. Under the makeup, he felt himself blushing. He should have known better than to look at the camera, memory or no memory; he just hadn’t been thinking, that was all.

  “Start reacting to the dialogue,” the director told him. “Don’t sit there like a bump on a log. Am I right?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “All right, then. George, take it from where you were.”

  The director and the man with the headset both backed off the set, in opposite directions, and the scene went on again. Cole now watched the judge, staring at him intently. He tried again to listen to the dialogue, so he could react to it, but out of the corner of his eye he was aware of the television camera staring at him, and it took all his concentration to keep from turning his head and looking at it.

  “The prisoner will rise.”

  He was just a second late, and then the echo of the line came back to him and he remembered that that was his cue. He stood up hastily, feeling awkward, the chair scraping loudly on the floor. He suddenly felt very nervous, very exposed. Not only the television camera was looking at him now. All around him people were sitting down, but he was standing up, looming up above them like a stick, and they were all looking at him. All around the perimeter of the set, people were standing and looking at him. He was embarrassed, terrified; sweat broke out on his forehead.

  The judge had stopped speaking, the two actors in police uniform had grabbed his arms and were starting to push him to walk, but he hadn’t heard the line. He hadn’t heard anything. He let them push him, and his mouth was dry, his mind a complete blank. They moved across the floor, and from behind him someone shouted, “What are you waiting for? Cut, cut, hold it, you’ve gone too far! Condemned Man, you’re out of the picture, for the love of God. Come back here.”

  Cole and the other two actors went back. Cole was facing them now, the ranks of people watching him. The director came dashing out, showing him again where he was supposed to turn, how he was supposed to leap, what he was supposed to shout. “You got it now?”

  Cole cleared his throat, licked his dry lips. “Yes,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry, I guess I forgot.”

  “Take it from the line again, take it from the line again. Look at the time, it’s ten minutes to four! Let’s get this show on the road!”

  He was standing alone again, by the table, facing the actor who was playing the judge. More than ever he felt embarrassed and exposed, more than ever he felt their eyes on him, because now he had made two mistakes. His mouth trembled, and he repeated over and over in his head, “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.”

  The two actors took his arms again, led him out across the floor, where everyone could see him. But this time he had to do it, he had to. He twisted away from them, despairing, turning back to leap toward the judge’s bench, but he was clumsy with fright and embarrassment; his feet tangled up and he sprawled on the floor, skinning the heels of his hands. “Oh, my God,” he muttered, “oh, my God.” He scrambled to his feet, shaking so badly he could barely stand, and made a tottering step toward the bench. “I don’t want to—” he wasn’t shouting “—I don’t want to die!”

  Hands grabbed at him, trying to pull him away, and he fought loose, shouting, “Oh, let me alone! Let me alone, let me alone!”

  “Now what?” The director was there again, face red with rage. “What is the matter with you? Who hired this man, who hired him? Herbie? Is this one of your little jokes?”

  Cole could hear them through a great roaring in his ears, see them through a rose red hue. He was trembling, shaken; he wasn’t sure he could go on standing.

  Herbie Lang was standing there, smiling at him in brilliant hatred. “What’s the matter, comrade?” he was asking. “Off your feed?”

  “Is this an actor or a jackass?” demanded the director. “Will you tell me that, Herbie? Is this an actor or a jackass?”

  Cole said, “I’m going to faint.” But he had no strength, he could only whisper it, and no one heard him. The other two actors weren’t holding him anymore, and he felt himself swaying.

  The director’s face was inches from his, distorted with rage. “Now, listen, you!”

  Cole leaned backward, away from the face, and lost his balance, and crashed over backwards, the rose red roaring swooping down on him like a funnel and everything turned off.

  When he opened his eyes, he thought they’d been closed only a few seconds, but he wasn’t even on the set any more. He was lying on a cot somewhere; when he sat up he saw that he was in the back of the makeup room. The makeup man was packing his gear, paying no attention to Cole.

  The memory of what had just happened was strong in Cole’s mind, making him wince in embarrassment and shame. He’d done everything wrong, everything, and then to top it all he’d fainted.

  He had to go back. He didn’t want to go back, he didn’t want to go through all that again, but he had to. He had to prove to himself that he could do it, and he had to prove to them that he could do it.

  He felt weak, and shaky, as though all his nerves were untied and hanging loose, but he forced himself to sit up. As he was getting unsteadily to his feet, Herbie Lang came into the room. He smiled like knives. To the makeup man he said, “Out.”

  “I got things to—”

  “Out, comrade. Schnell.”

  The makeup man, grumbling, turned away and went out of the room.

  Lang came over, the smile still scarring his face. “Well, well, tovarisch,” he said. “That was quite a little scene.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened. It won’t happen again, I know it won’t.”

  “Oh, so do I, Nikolai, so do I. You don’t do that to Herbie Lang twice, believe you me you don’t.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “What you meant and what you didn’t mean, Nikolai, are matters of no interest to yours truly. I just want you to know that if there’s ever anything I can do to you, any little bamboo shoot I can stick under your fingernails, I’ll be more than happy to oblige. Pack up your apples, little man, your job is finished here.”

  “I can do it, something just—”

  “It’s done, Luchibka. Someone else leaped into the breach. So just toodle off. And do me a favor, will you? Hold your breath till the check comes. Will you do that for me, Nikolai?”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Of course you didn’t, tovarisch, I know that.” Lang’s smile stretched and stretched; his teeth were square and white. “And the next time we need a little match girl, you’ll be the first to know.” Lang bowed with heavy irony, and turned around and walked out.

  Cole sat down again on the cot. He felt bruised all over, and naked, and weak. The makeup man came in, grumbling, and went back to his work, not looking at Cole at all.

  Cole didn’t want to leave this room. He felt as though outside that door a semi-circle of people was waiting, a whole crowd of people just standing there, watching the door and waiting for him to come out; not to do anything to him or say anything to him, but just to stand there and look at him.

  The makeup man said, “You gotta get out of here, you. You can’t hang around here.”

  “All right.” Cole got heavily to his feet.

  “Come over here,” said the makeup man. “Take that shit off your face.”

  Cole went over and the makeup man gave him a box of Kleenex and a jar of cold cream. There was a mirror on the wall, and Cole watched himself in it as he smeared the cold cream on. His eyes seemed set deeper into his skull than usual; there was a look of dry horror around his face. When he wiped the cold cream and makeup off, his flesh seemed pale and pasty. He watched the movements of his hands, trying not to meet his own gaze in the mirror, and hurried to finish th
e job. Then he got his overcoat from the hook where he’d hung it this morning, when all the world had still seemed possible, and left the theater.

  He was a block away when he remembered the canvas bag and the other suit, still up in the dressing room. But he couldn’t go back there again, not for anything in this world. He trudged on to the subway.

  29

  When the phone rang in the middle of the afternoon, he was washing the living room windows.

  He almost didn’t answer it, knowing what it had to be. But it kept ringing and ringing, with shrill insistence, and finally he padded obediently to its call, and, as he’d known it would be, it was Helen Arndt.

  He hadn’t gone to her place last night, hadn’t even thought of it. After getting the verbal slicing from the smiling man—Herbie Something—he had gone straight home, to sulk and cower and try to build up his never-strong and now demolished confidence. In the evening he’d gone out and bought himself a fifth of store-brand whisky in a liquor store near Sheridan Square, had brought it home, and had drunk all but an ounce or two, neat, splashing it into a glass and then drinking it down, warm and undiluted.

  He had been trying to make himself drunk, and in that much of his desire he had succeeded. But he’d wanted to be drunk only so he wouldn’t feel so rotten about the day’s defeat, and in that desire he had been thwarted; he was a mournful drunk. He sat in the dark living room, with only a little spill of light from the bedroom to see by, and he dwelled in agony on the events of the afternoon. The phone rang once, but he made no move to answer it, and sometime after midnight he fell into an uneasy and fitful sleep, in which the dreams to which he’d almost become accustomed by now suddenly reached new heights of ferociousness and whirlpool terror.