A Murder of Crows

by David Rotenberg

  “So what are you going to direct?”

  Decker had two one-act plays that interested him. The first by a wild Irishman who’d lived for a bit in Newfoundland named Ken Campbell. The second, only really good for pros, was a miracle of a Pinter satire called Love and Pain and the Dwarf in the Garden written by a guy who had been at the Yale School of Drama with Decker but seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth. A shame. The man was a real talent.

  Eddie held out a thin volume and flipped it to him. “Why not direct this?”

  It was his copy of Love and Pain and the Dwarf in the Garden.

  Decker stared at Eddie. “How did—”

  “You’re not all that mysterious, Decker. I caught you reading it last week, then I found it in the bathroom—potty reading, is it?” Before Decker could respond he asked, “You’ve done it before?”

  “Yeah, as a student at Yale.”

  “And you kept the script.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t throw out scripts you’ve directed.”

  Decker wondered why these were statements, not questions, but answered, “No. Never. Why?”

  “Nothing. Look, I’ve made a few notes in the margins.”

  Decker took a peek at Eddie’s first note. You have to make this truthful—not necessarily real, truthful. And it has to be art—Art with a capital A. Go to YouTube and search Paul Simon–Toronto-Duncan-Rayna to see what I mean. Decker agreed with the first part of the note. He knew the difference between the two. As to the reference to a YouTube video, he suspected it was just another example of Crazy Eddie being Crazy Eddie.

  Eddie turned to go to his bedroom, and as he made his awkward hopping exit he said, “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

  “Are you going back to the Junction?”

  “Not just now.”

  “Later?”

  “Eventually we all go back to the Junction—and you know it. Get some sleep—your flight leaves early tomorrow.”

  Decker stared at his friend’s retreating figure and wondered what Eddie meant by “eventually we all go back to the Junction.” Then he wondered what a group of Eddies would be called. Maybe an eddy of Eddies—more likely a chaos of Eddies or perhaps a friendship of Eddies. Decker didn’t know.

  Eddie came back in from the bedroom. “And then there’s this.” He tossed a brand new BlackBerry-like phone to Decker.

  “What’s this, some new gadget?”

  “Actually it’s old, Decker, but new to the likes of you.”

  Taking the thing, Decker asked, “Can you get HBO on this?”

  “Very funny. Tap the screen and take a look.”

  Decker tapped the screen and blanched. “Fuck, that’s our living room.”

  “Yeah, and that ain’t you and me in our living room.”

  Decker swore. “Mr. T and Ted Knight.”

  “Big black man, prissy white-haired guy—good call. They work for that NSA chick you told me about?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And they were the ones watching our house?”

  “That’d be my guess.” Decker hesitated then asked, “Do you have a feed in my room?”

  Eddie took the phone and tapped the side twice and said, “You never told me she was cute—in an Americanisher schweinhundisch sorta way.”

  “What?” Decker said, grabbing the phone.

  Decker watched as, on the small screen, NSA Special Agent Yslan Hicks opened the drawers of his dresser—then pulled out the latest version of his book on acting.

  10

  A BOOK OF ACTING—T EQUALS 1 MONTH PLUS

  THIS IS AN ADVANCED READERS COPY—NOT FOR SALE OR DISTRIBUTION

  ALL INQUIRIES SHOULD BE DIRECTED TO THE PUBLISHER

  On Professional Acting

  A Guide Book for Professional Actors to Their Art Form

  by

  Decker Roberts

  (c) Decker Roberts, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011

  1. A Word of Introduction to This Book

  I began teaching professional actors between directing jobs in regional theatre when I was trying to stop smoking—hence no more work in bars. I taught in my Manhattan apartment three nights a week—my wife was very patient. In my second year of teaching I was contacted by a young man from Yonkers. He asked if I would set up a class for him and some of his friends.

  That first night four of them showed up—three men and a woman, a dark-eyed girl who clearly was not one of the group. One of their sisters perhaps—I’m afraid I never found out.

  That initial class we talked a little about the art of acting. How emotion without form was self-indulgence but form without emotional content was recitation, not acting. We did a bit of improvisation and I showed them something new I’d worked out—how actors need to think backward. A person says X so they must be thinking Y and they think Y because of Z that happened to them in the past. Find the Z (what happened to them) and that will give you Y (their thinking), which tells you how the character says X (the line).

  Because the girl decided that she wanted to “just watch,” I suggested the three young men prepare something from David Mamet’s American Buffalo for the following week.

  We parted and I watched them from my brownstone window as they walked toward the Lexington Avenue subway, the girl on the other side of the street from the boys.

  The following week my Yonkers actors announced that they were ready to show me American Buffalo. I said sure, assuming that they had put a few pages of the play on its feet. They started into the play—from the top. They did the whole play, cover to cover, without a break, although they did manage to break the mirror over the mantelpiece, a lamp, and a windowpane. When they were finished my eyes were drawn to the silent girl in the corner who had “just watched.” I trembled when I saw the anger on her face and agreed with Hamlet when he said, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  “So what do you think, Coach?” one of the boys asked.

  What I thought was that feelings of exclusion can be terribly destructive and that hunger was an essential part of being a professional actor. These three young aggressive men barged their way into the profession. The fourth—the girl—I never saw her after that second class, although years later I read about her rampage in the Times.

  That was one of the few times in my life that I taught beginners. I still don’t teach beginners, and this book is not intended for novice actors, although if you have enough hunger you’ll be able to find your own way of using the ideas and methods in these pages.

  Like most good ideas, the concepts in this book are easy to learn but may take a lifetime to master. Nothing of any value can be put on a three-by-five index card—except the thought that nothing of any value can be put on a three-by-five index card.

  The actor’s territory is the human heart. It is an uncharted land sometimes defended by terrifying dragons, but it also contains great glories, the very roots of music and profound human truths.

  To the hungry actor the heart is the only land worthy of investigation.

  This book, On Professional Acting, attempts to give the actor a compass and a few points of entry into that divine territory. It is a voyage that, for an artist, lasts a lifetime.

  NSA Special Agent Yslan Hicks reread the introductory chapter then quickly checked the newly added Hamlet citation. There it was: the central truth of her work with her “special synaesthetes,” the Gifted. Work that she was beginning to feel was leading her to truths never dreamt of in her or anyone else’s philosophy.

  She shot off a priority e-mail to the publisher reminding them of the agreement they’d signed with the NSA not to publish Decker Roberts’ book.

  Then she opened her now very large file on Decker Roberts and cross-referenced the changes he’d made in this edition with the hundreds and hundreds of speeches that they’d recorded from his teaching at his Toronto studio, Pro Actors Lab. Everything matched up with previous references
except the reference to outsiders.

  She accessed the NSA’s data banks through her BlackBerry and within twenty seconds had a name—and a hideous crime—committed by the girl who just wanted to watch.

  11

  A SEARCHING OF DECKER—T EQUALS 1 MONTH PLUS

  “WHAT’S THAT YOU’RE READING, BOSS?”

  It was Mr. T at the door of Decker’s bedroom.

  Yslan didn’t like that he’d crept up on her. She turned on him. “So how the hell did he get out of here without you seeing him—him and that Crazy Eddie?”

  “Through the tunnel.”

  “What tunnel?” Then she remembered the steam tunnels that ran beneath much of the Junction. It was how Decker had managed to get out of his other house seventeen months ago when it was torched.

  Mr. T was generating an explanation of why they lost Roberts, but she put up her hand, stopping him. “Get me addresses for his three contacts here. Get them for me now.”

  TRISH

  Trish Spence, the TV documentary producer whom Decker Roberts was working for, strode out of the CBC building on Front Street in downtown Toronto. Her six-foot two-inch frame allowed her to cover a lot of ground, and she was clearly angry, so she was walking even faster than usual.

  “Ms. Spence,” a voice with a southern accent commanded her to stop. She turned toward the source of the voice—a five-foot six-inch blonde with almost translucent blue eyes leaning against a lamp post, taking in the scene. “I’m sorry, Ms. Spence, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  A lie, Yslan thought as she crossed to the taller woman. “How’s At the Junction going?”

  “Are you a fan?”

  “Hey, I wouldn’t miss an episode.”

  “Great,” Trish said, then turned to go.

  Yslan reached out and touched Trish’s bare forearm. Trish’s entire body recoiled as she spun to look at Yslan. Of late she’d begun to hate being touched. It was a new thing—but she really hated to be touched.

  “So how’s your show going?” Yslan asked a second time.

  “They don’t like dead people.”

  “Excuse me. I thought TV folks loved dead people.”

  “Not CBC.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Look, my name’s Yslan Hicks, I’m a friend of Decker Roberts.”

  Trish took a closer look at the woman and said, “I doubt that.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t believe Decker Roberts has any real friends, that’s why. So who are you and what do you want?”

  “I just need to find Mr. Roberts.”

  “Why?”

  “Where is he, Ms. Spence?”

  “I don’t think we have anything to talk about, Ms. Hicks,” Trish said and turned to go. Over her shoulder she threw back, “If that’s even your real name.”

  THEO

  “You’ve been down that aisle three times already, lady, so I assume you’re not really here looking for a book. Besides, I can’t imagine early Chinese gay literature is really of much interest to you.”

  Yslan turned to face the small dusty man and said, “I’m sorry, Theo, I’m looking for Decker Roberts.”

  “And you didn’t know how to just come over to me and ask.”

  “Right.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I’m looking for Decker Roberts.”

  “Yeah. She told me.”

  “Trish Spence?”

  “Yeah, she called, warned me that you were an American spy or something.”

  “Can we leave it at ‘or something’?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Fine. Do you do the research with Decker Roberts for the CBC documentary At the Junction?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Right. Can I ask you about Decker Roberts?”

  “You can ask.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Ten, twelve days ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “It’s a bookstore—you may have noticed that.”

  “And you haven’t seen or heard from him since?”

  Theo shook his head no and pointed toward the door. “That’s the way out.”

  Yslan headed toward the exit then turned back. “What did he buy?”

  “Guess.”

  “A book.”

  “Good guess, lady.”

  “Which one?”

  Theo turned away.

  “Come on, Theo, what book did he buy?”

  Theo stopped, spat something of an unknown colour onto the old wood floor and said, “Hunter S. Thompson. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Now get your pretty little ass out of my dirty old bookshop.”

  LEENA

  “Something wrong with the pastrami sandwich?” Leena asked as she reached across the table and picked up an empty water glass.

  “No,” Yslan answered. “No, it’s good. A little dry maybe.”

  “You the one who asked for it extra lean, no?”

  “Yeah—cholesterol, you know.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Leena said. She picked up a used pickle dish from the table and was about to leave. “Want some butter for that?”

  “Is that allowed in this restaurant?”

  “Yeah, we don’t keep strict kosher, but I don’t think I’m going to get you any butter.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “You’re the one they warned me about.”

  “Who?”

  “Trish Spence warned me about your eyes. And Theo warned me about your ass. Being warned about pale blue eyes I get—about a tight small ass, I’ve got no clue.”

  “So you’ve been warned.”

  “I have.” Yslan watched confusion cross Leena’s face. She saw the remains of an injury she’d received in a car crash when she was Decker Roberts’ high school girlfriend some twenty-four years ago.

  “Is Decker in trouble?”

  “I don’t know, but if I can’t find him I can’t protect him.”

  “Protect him from what?”

  “Himself mostly.”

  Leena nodded as a deep sorrow washed across her features. “I tried to do that for a while.”

  “But he didn’t go along with it?”

  “No. Decker Roberts lives his life in tightly contained boxes. He’s not into sharing. He . . .” She couldn’t find the words so Yslan supplied them: “Doesn’t play well with others.”

  Leena’s look turned hard. “Yeah. That. You finished with that sandwich?”

  “Yes, thanks. Does he like Las Vegas?”

  Leena stared at Yslan. “He loathes it.”

  “And fears it?”

  “Sure—fears and loathes Las Vegas.”

  YSLAN

  It was already late afternoon when Yslan contacted the NSA office in Las Vegas. Shortly thereafter she learned that she couldn’t get a flight to Las Vegas until tomorrow morning.

  After swearing at the airline schedules she told Mr. T and Ted Knight she’d meet them at the airport at 5:30 the next morning and drove off. She didn’t want them with her when she drove her rental car past the hotel on Lakeshore that she and Decker had stayed in only fourteen months ago. She got out of the car in the parking lot and stared at the building. She couldn’t get over the idea that something had happened in there—something important.

  She saw the security guard at the hotel looking at her with that look security guards have right before they approach.

  She turned and got back in her car.

  By late twilight she found herself walking along Bloor Street West. It was more alive now than when she was last here. Maybe it was because it had been winter back then and it was spring now—but she doubted that was all there was to it.

  She walked north then west along Annette Street, passing by the many houses of worship. She stopped in front of one that had been converted into expensive condos. There was another church down the way that was undergoing the same fate
.

  Why does this bother me? she asked herself. A church is just a building. But she didn’t believe it. She used to believe that—but not since she’d met Decker Roberts.

  She turned onto the street where Decker Roberts used to live and passed by the remains of Roberts’ house, its blackened beams still in plain sight, mocking the very idea that a home was a sanctuary—let alone a man’s castle.

  An hour later she used her key picks to open the door of Roberts’ acting studio on Stafford Street around the corner from what looked to her like the world’s largest state fair—but they didn’t have states up here. Did they have state fairs? She didn’t know.

  She’d been in Roberts’ acting studio once before right after she’d forced him to acknowledge that his friend Crazy Eddie had betrayed him to a lawyer in New York City named Charendoff.

  At that time she’d perused the place, made sure that their hidden cameras and mics were still working properly, then commented on a review in the local paper for his television documentary At the Junction, saw his sixth-grade report card tacked to his office wall with the teacher’s comment Does not play well with others circled in red. Back then her two assistants, Mr. T and Ted Knight, kept on asking her what exactly she was looking for. She didn’t know then. She didn’t know now, but she sensed that she was closer to knowing—closer to knowing Mr. Decker Roberts who did not play well with others and both feared and loathed Las Vegas and, oh yes, was the only human being she knew who had the gift of knowing beyond knowing when someone was telling the truth.

  EMERSON REMI

  Emerson Remi saw the lights in the Pro Actors Lab studio blink on and was surprised. Wasn’t there a note on its website that Decker Roberts had to leave town on a family matter?

  Yes, there was.

  So who was in the acting studio at this hour of the night?

  He stepped further back into the shadows and waited. Since he’d first met Decker Roberts, he’d become good at waiting.

  And when Yslan Hicks, a former lover of his, stepped out the front door at 72 Stafford Street, Emerson Remi—Princeton graduate, grandson of an Irish witch—smiled. “So he’s given her the slip,” he whispered to the night air. “Good. Very good, Mr. Roberts. My brother in arms is on the loose—a wild thing—like myself.”