Bullets for Macbeth

by Marvin Kaye

“It’s okay,” said Betterman, “me and Katz are just leaving. Can I drop you, Gene?”

  I said I thought I’d better stick around, but Hilary told me to go home. I started to protest, but she wasn’t in the mood to argue and I decided I’d better do what she wanted. First, though, I took her aside to ask if she would be all right.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said.

  “What time will you be back?”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “But you’ve got to get some rest!”

  She shook her head stubbornly. “I’m staying with Melanie. You go home, get some sleep, and take care of the office tomorrow morning. Call here about noon, in case we have to tell each other anything.”

  I wanted to say more, but she turned away and reentered Melanie’s room. Whelan followed her, and the doors closed.

  I stared after her until Betterman nudged me.

  7

  IT WAS CLOSE TO 4 A.M. when I got home. I went straight to bed and didn’t set the alarm, figuring the phone would eventually rouse me.

  I lay on my back for a quarter of an hour, tired as hell but unable to sleep. My mind raced back over the details of the day; slivers of recollection stabbed my mind: Godwin blowing Hilary a kiss that was actually a farewell; Hilary’s face when I returned from chasing the phantom murderer; Hilary cradling Melanie’s head while the physician administered tranquilizer.

  I sat up. There was something wrong in the apartment I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew something was keeping me from the rest my body craved.

  I listened, but heard nothing. The place was as still as a tomb. I was alone.

  And then the truth dawned on me. In the past, I’d never much minded being a loner, since solitude is inescapable, no matter how hard you try to raze the walls of the Self. But in the preceding year, I’d undergone a subtle change in my life-style, one which I hadn’t consciously realized before that moment. Most evenings when I turned out the light and went to bed, I knew Hilary was sleeping just across the hall, but now, for the first time, she was gone.

  I missed her.

  The knowledge disturbed me. I lay back down and thought about the volatile relationship between us. One day we might function like a well-matched team; the next morning, we could very well be close to physical violence. True, I’d learned to live with her withering sarcasm, and she in turn had made some effort to temper her caustic sallies, but I still remembered a time when she’d punched me in the jaw over something I said, and I’d retaliated by spanking her—which, in turn, got me a knee in the groin.

  It seemed absurd that I hadn’t either quit or been permanently fired. What the hell lay at the bottom of our stormy partnership, simultaneously drawing us together, driving us apart?

  Sleep came to me before the answer.

  The phone woke me at nine-thirty. It was a reporter asking for details of the night before. I begged off and put down the receiver. It immediately rang again. This time it was Betterman’s associate, asking me to drop by the station house later. I promised to do so in the afternoon, but avoided pinning myself down to a precise appointment. I didn’t want to make any commitments before consulting with Hilary.

  I opened the blinds and let the daylight in. It was a bright morning; the sun glinted off the unsullied whiteness of the snow and dazzled my eyes. I went out to get the mail and heard the phone shrill once more. Another reporter.

  It kept up all morning. I considered taking it off the hook, but decided to suffer it. Hilary might be trying to get through, and I didn’t want to miss the call, if she was. Only she wasn’t.

  As I puttered around the office, answering correspondence, figuring out monthly bills, I brooded on the murder of Mike Godwin. A couple of things came to mind which I’d been too agitated to think of the night before. I should have mentioned them to Betterman.

  Why had Godwin intended to fire Bill Evans, back before the kid broke his ankle? What was there between the two to prompt such an action? I’d seen Evans work, and he was a competent performer.

  Another thing about Evans: why had he missed a rehearsal without having the courtesy to explain his absence to the director? The answer might be trivial enough; on the other hand, maybe Evans had some secret which he was afraid Godwin might divulge. I was probably grasping at straws, but I resolved to talk to Evans, just to be sure.

  The key to the Center Cinema door was another matter to be checked out, though I was certain the policeman wouldn’t overlook it. Still, knowing the way Betterman’s mind works, and taking into account his basic laziness, it wasn’t impossible to imagine him letting certain questions slide until after he got his hands on Armand Mills.

  The more I thought about Mills, the more skeptical I became that he’d shot Godwin. It was vastly out of character. Why would a fading performer ruin a chance to revitalize his career by being seen in a plum part like Macbeth? But, on the other hand, why had he made such a hasty departure? Maybe I’d better talk to Evans about Mills, too, I thought. The two of them might well have some mutual secrets.

  Instead of phoning Hilary at the hospital, I decided to go over there at noon. As I walked along the dingy green corridors of Bellevue, it seemed as if I’d never left.

  I waited a good five minutes for the elevator to reach the main floor. When it did, Harry stepped out, looking lousy. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a mess, and his clothing rumpled.

  “You must’ve been up all night,” I observed.

  He covered a yawn. “I was. Hilary talked my ear off.”

  “What about?”

  “The murder. Thinking out loud.” He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs away. “I’ve got to get a shower and change. Grilis called a company meeting this afternoon.”

  “Where at? The Forum?”

  “Uh-huh. Guess it’s going to be the kiss-off.”

  “Think he’s going to close the show?”

  “What else can he do?” Harry asked, making a parting gesture. “I’ve got to get going, see you later.”

  Nodding, I stepped into the car and rode up to the fifth floor. There was no central nurse’s station between the elevator and Melanie’s room, so I made my way to it unchallenged. I carefully opened the door so as not to disturb the patient, in case she was asleep.

  Both of them were resting, Melanie in bed, Hilary on an uncomfortable chair. Her head lolled over the back at an awkward angle, and I was afraid she’d wake up with a stiff neck. I found an extra pillow in the closet and propped it beneath her as best I could, then tried to ease off her shoes. As I knelt down to do so, her fingers lightly caressed my cheek. I looked up. Opening her eyes, Hilary immediately jerked back her hand.

  “Why aren’t you in the office?” she demanded.

  “It’s past noon. I thought I’d better see how you were feeling.”

  “I’m all right,” she said dully. “Don’t be concerned on my account.”

  I got to my feet. “Hilary, if you’re still ticked off at me, I apologize without reservation.”

  “For what?”

  “For anything I did, or anything you thought I said.”

  She nodded, but wouldn’t look at me. I knew she was under a considerable emotional strain, and it was made worse by keeping it inside. I tried to turn her face toward me, but she pulled away and motioned for me to get out of the room.

  “What are you afraid of?” I asked, not budging. “That I’ll find out you’re human? You can’t bottle up your feelings forever, Hilary. For God’s sake, let them out!”

  And at last, mercifully, she did.

  I didn’t push the moment. She was at a rare disadvantage, for once not being in control of the situation. I waited for her to master her emotions. It didn’t take long.

  “Come on,” she said huskily, “let’s go to the lounge. I feel like talking.”

  We sat in the same places where we’d been nine hours earlier. Hilary sighed.

  “You look worn out,” I observed. “How long do you think you can st
ay healthy sleeping in chairs?”

  “I know.” She nodded. “I’m arranging to take Melanie to her apartment today. I’ll stay with her.”

  “But when are you coming back to the office?”

  She shrugged. “Not until I think she’s out of danger.”

  Several patients were watching a television at the other end of the lounge. Hilary winced at the sudden blare of an announcer’s voice on a commercial.

  “Come on,” I suggested, “let’s go downstairs to the coffee shop. My treat.”

  She managed a wan smile, and I helped her get up. As I did, without thinking, my lips brushed her forehead. She stared at me in surprise, and I immediately stammered an apology.

  “Hush,” she softly admonished, “are you afraid I’ll find out you’re human?” Then she smiled mischievously. “You know, I’ve never seen you blush before!”

  I walked on ahead. She didn’t say anything further, but as we rode down in the elevator, I could see, from the corner of my eye, a slight uptilt at the corner of her mouth.

  The coffee shop was crowded with luncheon trade. We waited a few minutes for a booth, then sat down across from one another. All Hilary could manage was juice, coffee, and a doughnut. I was hungry enough to polish off a steak, but in deference to her stomach, I ordered lightly, too.

  “Well?” I asked, once she’d downed her juice. “You want to talk about this mess?”

  She nodded. “I want to catch the bastard. But Betterman’s got the manpower, so there isn’t much we can do sifting the evidence. There are too many people to question. Besides, I have to stay with Melanie.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Yes. You can go to that company meeting this afternoon, it’s at two in the Forum, Harry said. See if you pick up any information.”

  “We should be there, anyway,” I remarked.

  “Uh-huh, though from now on, we have to work with Grilis. I’m prompted to pull the hell out of—” She stopped in mid-sentence, a look of amazement on her face.

  “What is it?”

  “For the love of God,” she swore, “what’s the matter with me? I should’ve thought of it last night!”

  “Thought of what?”

  “The promptbook! It’s got all Michael’s blocking and the stage business. It’s his entire plan for directing Macbeth!”

  “Naturally!” I said, also disgusted. “We both should’ve thought of it. Want me to get it?”

  “If you can.”

  I tried to recall when I’d last seen it. Dana had been holding it the night before. Had she taken it with her when she walked out with Grilis? Or left it on the chair where she’d been sitting?

  “I know how Michael organized his directing scripts,” Hilary informed me. “That promptbook might give me the key.”

  “To the murderer’s identity?”

  “To the Third Murderer. Let’s hope it’s the same person.”

  After a second lunch to fill in the spaces the first one hadn’t dented, I walked over to Felt Forum. A steady rain was changing the snow into dingy slush, but I couldn’t get a cab so I navigated the torrents as best as I was able. Fortunately I’d donned raincoat and overshoes but hadn’t taken an umbrella because of a superstition I have that it never rains when I tote the damned thing. As usual, the weather proved my point.

  I slogged into the main lobby, and stopped at the manager’s office to ask about the key to the backstage entrance into the Center Cinema. It was missing; someone had borrowed it without asking the day before.

  It was shortly after two when I entered the auditorium. Grilis was standing on the lip of the thrust platform talking to the assembled crew. Dana Wynn was next to him—the prompt script under her arm.

  I sat down a few rows behind the actors, so as not to disrupt things. Grilis saw me, stopped for a second as if to say something to me, then thought better of it, and continued with his talk.

  “We’re going to do our best to open in about a week: I’ll give you the exact date tomorrow for sure,” he told the group. “We’re drafting the delay notice tonight for this week’s issues of the metropolitan papers.” He gestured with a jerk of his thumb to his associate. “Dana here will take over as director, but there will be no major changes in blocking or interpretation. She’ll also fill in for Melanie Godwin, so I’ll expect Miss Lowe, Miss Younger, and Mrs. Macneice to help Dana through her scenes. As for Banquo—you all know Leon Santos. He’s a fast study, but give him your support, too, he’ll need it.”

  There was a surprised murmur and heads turned to see if Santos was in the auditorium, but he wasn’t. He was the kid who’d sustained a severed tendon in the swordplay at an early rehearsal. It looked as if Grilis was buying his way out of a lawsuit by awarding Santos a part. I wondered if he was any good as an actor or if Grilis even cared.

  Stockton had his hand raised. “Hate to bring this up,” the thin, sandy-haired actor said in a loud, clear voice, “but who’s going to play the Third Murderer now?”

  Grilis turned to Dana and gave her a quizzical look. She picked some hypothetical lint from her woolen skirt and replied without looking at Stockton.

  “Oh, I think we’ll adopt the traditional method of having Macbeth play the part,” she said.

  Stockton asked what they were going to do if Mills didn’t show up.

  “I’ve already called Stratford,” Dana Wynn said, “and one of their company is up on Macbeth. If I have to, I’ll job him down.”

  “That is ridiculous!” Caren Wykoffe-Davis proclaimed. The stately dame rose from her seat, head erect, shoulders back, in her best queenly posture. “You cannot play this show with an unknown in the lead! I won’t hear of it! Think of the box office!”

  “Surely,” said Dana, smiling, “your own name will be more than sufficient to guarantee our success. So long as the replacement is competent, we have nothing to worry about. Working with professionals like you, he would certainly turn in the finest of performances, don’t you think so?” She couldn’t have asked it more sweetly.

  Ms. Wykoffe-Davis, mollified by the flattery, admitted that Dana had thought out the matter remarkably well. Privately, however, I suspected that Grilis was quite prepared to sacrifice one large salary on the likely chance that people would flock to see a show that had already gained considerable notoriety in the press, no matter who was in it.

  Dana announced a rehearsal for the usual time that evening, but asked that the principals arrive half an hour early to walk the new Banquo through his blocking. I started down the aisle to her so she wouldn’t run off with the prompt script

  But as I hoisted myself onto the platform, Grilis barked, “Hey, Goodman, c’mere!”

  “That’s not my name,” I said, approaching.

  “Whatever. Look, from now on, you and your boss are no longer working for G&G. Send us a bill.”

  “Tell me that again?” I said, staring in disbelief.

  “You heard right. Harvey Wilkinson’s finishing the job. You can send him your files.” He turned on his heel and walked away, not waiting to hear the argument I wanted to give him. He was crazy, switching agencies a week before the opening, and I was damned if I was going to ship my releases to the competition.

  Under the circumstances, it didn’t look promising that I’d be able to borrow the promptbook from Dana. There was no reason for her to cooperate, especially since I knew she had no use for Hilary. Still, I was more determined than ever to get hold of the script.

  I hated to do it, but I could only see one course of action. The cast was dispersing and I spotted Harry. As he nodded in my direction, I beckoned him to come over.

  “What’s up?” he asked, running a comb through his hair as he came near.

  “Grilis canned Hilary and me.”

  “That son of a bitch!” He started to say some uncomplimentary things about the producer, but I told him to save them.

  “I have to ask you a favor, Harry.”

  “Name it.”

  “Is th
ere anything important you have to do this afternoon?”

  “I was going over to the hospital. ...”

  “That can wait. Hilary wants to take a look at Godwin’s promptbook.”

  “Damn!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers, “why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Never ask a question like that around Hilary,” I warned. “Now, look, I can’t hang around here and keep an eye on Dana, but you can. If she puts the script down even for ten seconds, grab it and stash it someplace.”

  “And then what?”

  “She said rehearsal call’s at seven-thirty. Meet me outside at the Eighth Avenue entrance by twenty after seven. If you can’t get your hands on the script—”

  “Don’t worry,” he interrupted cockily. “If Hilary wants it, I’ll get it.” He gave me a pat on the back, more condescending than friendly, and headed after Dana Wynn.

  On the way out, Stockton hailed me. He was standing with a group of actors that included Pat Lowe, Oakes, Blake Peters, and Bill Evans. I fell into step and asked him where they were all going.

  “Shakespeare’s,” he replied. “Want to share a cab?”

  I nodded. The group split into two. Pat was going to ride with us, but Stockton asked whether she minded going with the others since he and I had business to discuss ... which was news to me.

  Pat Lowe is a fragile thing with feelings that can easily be damaged in the most unwitting fashion. Already I saw the trace of a pout on her lips and knew she thought we didn’t want her around, so I took a moment to reassure her that the conversation really was confidential and that we’d be delighted to sit with her when we arrived. Smiling uncertainly, she climbed into the taxi which Evans and Peters had hailed.

  “Poor child,” Stockton commented, shoving his spectacles up onto his nose with his thumb. “She has a poignant quality that so few ingenues have, though they all pretend it’s there. Maybe it was there once, until the business ripped it out of them.”

  The rain had abated, and a frore wind whipped up the avenue, blowing the fringes of Stockton’s sandy hair in every direction. He plucked a strand from his eyes and righted his glasses again with the peculiar way he had of thrusting upward with the ball of his thumb. A Checker cab cruised by, and we hailed it.