Chris took a deep breath. “So, let’s take these lights to the club, then we’ll walk to my place. Are you ever going to answer my question?”
“What question?” Nancy Ann peered out the windows.
“About doing what you love.” Chris maintained his pleasant, easy tone.
“What about food? Do you need groceries?”
“Avoidance?” Chris let it drop. “Oh, my pantry is stocked or we can stop for something, have food delivered, or get Matilda to…”
They pulled up to the club and there were two fire trucks, one on the street and one in the alley. Matilda stood on the street, along with two others dressed in chef’s jackets. Their faces were smudged with soot.
“What on earth?” Chris was out of the cab before it had fully stopped. He left his cane behind. “Matilda, what the hell happened?”
“I don’t know. We had just finished loading a meat delivery into the big cooler downstairs. Came up and the kitchen was ablaze. We got it before the sprinklers came on, so that was good. And, Tilly pulled the fire alarm. The men were here in minutes. They’re checking the place out to see if it’s safe to go back inside.”
Chris wanted to hug Matilda, but didn’t know where to put his hands and arms to get them around the woman. “Were any of you hurt?”
“No, not really. I burned my hand a little.” She held up a hand bandaged as big as a baseball mitt. “I think the other girls are fine. Just shaken up.”
A tall, handsome man in his forties came up to them. “Miss, we’re sure everything is fine. The damage limited to the kitchen. Someone cut a gas line, but we think it ignited faster than they expected.”
“A gas line?” Chris asked. “What the hell is going on?”
“Who are you, sir?” asked the fireman.
“I’m Christopher Marlowe, the owner of Tamburlaine.” He spoke with defiance. He felt proud of that statement for the first time in ages. “So, you think someone started—”
“Someone did start this,” the fireman said. “No question there. I don’t think you’re dealing with an expert.”
“Well, there’s something to be said for that.” Chris thought of Folgate and resolved never to give in to his tactics.
The fireman asked Chris and Matilda questions. Small crowds gathered and dispersed. The police arrived. They spread yellow Caution tape. Asked questions. A report filed. The all clear determined, they removed the tape.
Once they were given permission to enter the club, Matilda and Nancy Ann both made calls. Within an hour there was a full crew cleaning not only the kitchen, but every square foot of the club. By the end of the evening, the smell of smoke was barely noticeable and the crew were all enjoying dinner and beers in the dining room.
Another close call, thought Chris as he sat in his office, alone, drinking bourbon. All this fire and destruction. Impossible not to think of Norton Folgate as the perpetrator of these threats and crimes, but, also difficult to think of him being so inept.
Chris filled his glass and said to the Streetwalkers: “Does Folgate believe that if Tamburlaine burned down I’d sell? Would I sell?” He drank off the bourbon. “I don’t know.” That response caused a sadness deep within. He’d kept Tamburlaine going for decades over a promise, but if it were physically gone, would there be any reason to rebuild. That wasn’t part of the pact. He looked deep into the Picasso. If the place was truly being attacked, actually under threat, the painting should be removed. Its loss would be devastating.
Twenty-eight
Chris, in his kitchen, alone, eating Chinese food, jumped when his bell rang. The monitor showed Nancy Ann smiling into the camera. He buzzed her in. He continued to watch the screen as she shoved the door closed with a bang and then kicked it. He turned on the patio twinkle lights and walked outside to meet her.
“Come toward the light,” he whispered.
Nancy Ann laughed nervously. “Hello?”
“Walk down the alley and you’ll be in the light.” Chris smiled. No one ever came to visit anymore, unless they were on health watch. It had been ages since he’d had company that didn’t involve a stray.
“Hello!” said Nancy Ann. Her eyes sparkled as she did a small twirl around the patio, now lit with colored twinkle lights. “What a great space.”
“Thank you. Sadly, it’s a bit too cold to sit outside. Come in.”
“No, I just wanted to bring this to you.” Nancy Ann held out Chris’ cane. With all that happened today, you must have forgotten it.”
He took the cane. “Thanks. That’s incredibly kind of you. Please, come in? It’s very cold here.” He shuddered involuntarily.
“Of course.” She stepped inside and turned. “Oh, I’m interrupting your dinner. I should go.”
“Oh, nonsense. It’s just take-out Chinese. There’s General Tso’s chicken, beef and broccoli, sesame noodles, fried rice. Plenty of food. I insist you join me?”.”
“No, I won’t eat your dinner.”
Chris thought he heard her stomach grumble. “Nonsense. There’s plenty of food. Sit.” She did as told and he got out a plate and cutlery. “Beer?” He held up the bottle.
“Tsingtao? Really? I would love some. I did a tour of the Far East, years and years ago. We drank a lot of this in Singapore one night. These big bottles. A concrete table in a Satay Club. A very humid summer night. So many bottles the perspiration from them ran like a river off our table.”
While she told the story, he poured her a glass of beer and added more to his own. She ignored the fork and spoon and picked up the chopsticks instead. She pulled them out of their wrapper, separated them, rubbed the ends together to remove any splinters, and dug into the noodles. Chris relished her energy and style. And, for a few moments, they sat and ate together.
“Oh, sorry. I guess I should use a plate, too.” Nancy blushed crimson.
“No, it’s fine by me. One less dish to wash.” He continued to eat and drink and watch the beautiful woman. There was something about her cheekbones that seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “So is everything okay at Tamburlaine?”
“Everything there is fine. I just felt like our time together today wasn’t finished. I was worried about you, Chris. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Oh, I’m fine. I just keep hobbling through. It was nice spending time with you today, too. I like that I’ve made your life a little easier.”
“How’s that?” She stopped eating, chopstick’s poised, noodles dripping into the carton.
“By leaving my credit card at the light store.”
“Of course, yes. Thank you for that. I did want to talk to you about upgrading the system. The lights and the sound are a bit, well, old.”
“Oh, is that what you—”
“No, that wasn’t why I came. I’ve spoken to Jericho about the systems. He said once we were making a little money, he…you…that the investment would make more sense.” She shoved noodles in her mouth.
“He’s very practical. You should write up an estimate and a plan. That way we can put it in the budget.”
Chris wished he’d ordered the dumplings, even though there was plenty of food still on the table. He enjoyed the chicken, pushing red peppers off to the side, waiting for Nancy Ann to broach whatever subject she was here to discuss.
“Chris, I was hoping we could continue our talk about art. You were going to show me something earlier today and I didn’t want you to think that I wasn’t interested.”
“Oh, you’re very kind to remember. It has been a long day.”
Nancy Ann dropped her chopsticks on the table. “Stuffed.”
“Good. I like when young people are full.” He began cleaning up the cartons and debris. Nancy Ann helped by quickly washing the dishes and silverware and placing them in the drying rack. Chris filled both their glasses with more beer. “Well, I would be happ
y to show you what I had in mind if you’ll answer the unanswered question.” He examined the girl’s eyes.
“What question?”
“You’ve been running scared from telling me what you would love to be doing. It’s clearly not being a stage manager, even though you like that job and it’s been good to you.” Chris sipped his beer; foam tickled his nose.
“Oh, Chris, I never talk about this anymore. I avoid it, actually. There isn’t room for what ifs. I’m a very good stage manager. I meet interesting people. I make good money doing it. And, I like it. Some would say that’s a lot.”
“I would agree with them. That is a lot. But, what is it you would love to be doing?”
She stalled, avoiding eye contact. Chris reached over and with a single finger, raised her head until they were eye-to-eye. Nancy Ann’s were wet and red with tears.
“Oh, my dear, it was not my intention to upset you.” It felt awkward to be standing in the middle of the clean kitchen. “Come with me.” He led her to the living room and they sat down. He opened a stone box on the coffee table and produced a joint. “Shall we?”
Nancy Ann nodded and together the two shared it, enjoying the smoke’s effects almost from the first puff. While she hit the joint again, Chris turned on music. Rusty Warren sang “Does He Love Me?”
“Who’s this?” Nancy Ann asked as she exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “God, this is really good pot.”
“It’s Rusty Warren. One of the greatest comediennes of all time. She won entertainer of the year several times in Las Vegas in the ’70s.”
“Another great performer I’ve never heard of.” Nancy Ann passed the joint to Chris.
“Well, we can’t be expected to know everyone. Personally, I don’t think I know a single popular singer of today. Well, there’s that gaga girl. When I was a girl, we were gaga over boys.”
“Stop.” Nancy Ann laughed at the joke.
“And, there’s that bouncy girl. I think I’ve heard the company talk about her.”
“Beyoncé,” Nancy Ann corrected through laughter.
“Well, in my youth, we were listening to Sinatra and Sammy, the Rat Pack. Brenda Lee and Ethel Merman.” Chris leaned back, enjoying the wave of ease the drug brought over him.
“Did you know her?”
“Who?” Chris turned his head. “Ethel Merman?”
His guest had laid her head against the back of the couch, too. “Merman” Nancy Ann burst into a rendition of “There’s No Business Like Show Business” in a gruff, mimic of Ethel Merman.
Chris laughed. “Not bad. No. I met her a few times, but we queens, well, we were seriously underground in those days. All the queers were. Sure, there was Stonewall in the ’60s, those drag queens fighting back against the police raids; a whole weekend of a neighborhood fighting the police right in the middle of Greenwich Village. They get credit for the modern gay rights movement, but there were fags all over the country pushing back in their own way: San Francisco, New Orleans, LA, Chicago. Even with the flower power and all that, we kept ourselves fairly well hidden on a general basis. I never did meet Rusty Warren, either. I saw her shows many times here in New York, in Boston, even in Las Vegas. But, some of her jokes were anti-hippie, anti-counter culture, anti-gay. Of course, that was her audience, straight, working-class, broads and their husbands. Listen to me ramble.”
“It’s all fascinating.”
“Well, that must mean you’re stoned. Me caterwauling about the past is not fascinating. Come with me.” Chris stood up and offered Nancy Ann a hand.
“Where are you taking me, kind sir?” She giggled.
“I have something to show you.” He led her toward the stairs. “Wait.” Chris stopped at the first step. “You never answered my question before. What is it you’d love to do?”
She only hesitated a moment. “Paint. I’ve always wanted to study painting. I’ve always wanted to travel Italy and visit Paris. I want to see the work of the great masters. I’ve always wanted to learn from extraordinary, talented people. But, it hasn’t worked out. I’ve painted some. I set up a studio for myself. Bought canvas, paints. I watched videos on YouTube. I just don’t seem to have the talent. And, so, I visit the Met and MoMa. I look at the works of others and wish and dream.” Nancy Ann stopped speaking; tears dripped down her cheeks.
Chris stepped toward her and handed the girl a hanky from his pocket. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
“Thank you,” she said, eyes cast down to the floor, her face red.
“I’m sorry. I just kept getting the feeling that you had something else to do with your life. I feel like there’s a step or two you’ve gone off your path. Or something like that.”
“So, what do you want to show me?” Nancy Ann sounded a little angry.
“Well, here goes. It’s been a long time since I’ve invited anyone up here, but I feel like you’re someone who will appreciate it.” Chris led the way up the wooden stairs. They were well-polished and creaked under their steps. All along the wall, like a gallery, were paintings. Monet. Renoir. Picasso. Brueghel. Pollack. Rothko. Warhol. Degas. On and on the list went. Master after master. Periods merged and divided. As they walked the gallery, Chris flipped light switches. Each work had its own spotlights. The colors brilliantly illuminated. The brush strokes visible.
“Are these all…” Nancy Ann moved from painting to painting.
“Yes. Friends left them to me. I’ve added some, too.”
“Chris, you’ve got millions, maybe hundreds of millions of dollars in art here.”
“Yes.” All the lights were lit. Chris sat in a leather, high-back chair. He watched as Nancy Ann moved from picture to picture. She reached up to touch an O’Keeffe, but pulled her hand back. “Go ahead,” Chris encouraged, but she didn’t reach up again.
“Why have you showed me these?” Nancy dropped down to her knees in the middle of the room.
“I wanted to share them with someone who would appreciate them. I’ve seen the way you admire the Picasso in the office every time you come in there. It seems like sometimes you come in with a made up excuse just to look at the picture.”
“Guilty. I do. It’s brilliant. All of this is brilliant. How does a normal person end up with all of these?”
Chris didn’t respond.
He wanted to joke about “normal,” but didn’t want to laugh at the moment.
Nancy Ann rubbed her eyes, as if this might be a dream, and then took in the room more fully, scooting across the floor like a small child. Rusty sang below them, “You’re Never too Old to be Young,” contributing to the surreal scene.
Chris broke the moment, pulled a joint from behind his ear, and lit it. He breathed deep the pungent, fragrant smoke. After a few moments, Nancy Ann took the reefer from his hand and hit it hard, holding the smoke for a long time.
“You’re welcome to visit them any time you want. You just can’t tell anyone they’re here. That’s all I ask.” Chris took the joint and drew several more short drags of smoke deep into his lungs. He’d been quite stoned the first time he’d seen this art collection, too. Stoned, and naked, and having his cock sucked.
Stoned was the best he could do for Nancy Ann. It was her turn to be silent.
Twenty-nine
From his chair in the back of the house, Chris watched the Little Shop of Horrors rehearsal, taking his own set of notes for later.
“Cut!” Jericho shouted. The house was so small, his voice traveled throughout the whole building. “Urchins, what the fuck is taking so long? You have forever for this costume change. On stage now!”
Two of the boys playing two of the urchins came on stage, neither fully dressed. The dresses were simply too small for their manly frames. The third urchin, a black dyke with a boy’s haircut, swam in her dress.
Jericho fell out laughing. It was, of course, obvious that the t
hree of them had ended up with each other’s dresses. “Take ten. Nancy Ann, get this fixed.” He heard the ripping of tape; those dresses were about to have names taped in them. He turned to leave and saw Chris sitting in his spot in the back row.
“I think it’s going well,” said Chris as Jericho walked up to him.
“I do, too. This might be the most difficult show we ever do here.”
“I do like the Plexiglas walls and flower shop counters. It certainly opens up the stage.”
“Saw something like that in a summer stock production years and years ago.” Jericho stepped over Chris and sat down next to him. “You’re happy?”
“How could I not be happy? Sold out, two shows a night. Full barroom. People drinking, tipping well. Full restaurant every night. Matilda said they’re up to a hundred fifty covers a night, plus the cast and crew. Amazing. It’s like we’ve turned back the clock.”
“Except the shows are good.” Jericho poked Chris in the side and laughed.
“Our shows had their own charm then.”
The trio—piano, bass, and drums—started playing “Somewhere That’s Green.”
“The band sounds good.” Chris was pleased to be giving musicians jobs.
“It’s pretty tight up there, but they’re managing. At least we have high ceilings.”
“Building that platform, perfect. Somewhere to put the band, and somewhere to hide the plant,” said Chris. “You’re very good at this.”
“Just now figuring that out.”
The two men were holding hands in a friendly way. “Are you hungry? We’re going to have to end this rehearsal soon. Ain’t starts in an hour.” Chris leaned in toward Jericho.
“Okay. Let’s get this one cue and we’ll end the evening.” Jericho stood up, climbed over Chris, and walked up to the front of the house.
“Let’s go. From where we stopped. “Ya Never Know.”
Together, Jericho, Nancy Ann, and Chris watched the four actors get through the song. It required more work, better choreography. But, they made it through. Obviously, they’d reached that point, the moment where a company goes into overload. Too many shows in their heads.
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