Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival

by Gregory A Kompes

  Those who remained, the diehards, were fans. They applauded and catcall-whistled as Chris stood and politely curtsied. This, as always, brought more applause. He stepped behind the curtains and turned off the stage lights, leaving only the mirror ball spinning and sparkling over the ceiling and walls.

  Chris wandered among the tables, thanking the patrons with a touch of his hand or even a kiss on the cheek. When he had a clear shot at the bar, and the glass of bourbon waiting there for him, a man stepped in front of Chris and pressed his hand, said nice words, and didn’t let go.

  “I’m sorry, dear, I can’t really hear you.” Chris tried to tug his hand away, but the man kept hold. “Frank!” Chris called.

  The bartender was over the top of the bar, baseball bat in hand. Still, the man held Chris’ hand. Frank pulled him away and escorted him to the door. Chris went to his stool at the bar and a bartender, whose name he couldn’t remember, poured him a double bourbon.

  As the minutes ticked by and the latest drink went to work, Chris breathed a little easier. He slid off the stool and walked into the dining room. The soft light illuminated the tables stacked with chairs, ready for the morning cleaning crew. He went into the kitchen. Two women in dirty whites were wiping walls, metal shelves, and counters.

  “Is there something we can get for you, Mr. Marlowe? There are leftovers from dinner service in the cooler. Or, a sandwich perhaps?”

  He recognized the girl speaking, but like the bartender, he didn’t know her name. He remembered meeting her, but couldn’t recall her name. He walked out of the kitchen without responding, and entered the theater. A single ghost light blared on stage; the theater quiet and cool. He sat in his back-row seat. Something felt wrong. He’d lost his ability to speak. His ability to move left him. He felt himself slumping over in the chair, sliding down to the floor. He willed his hands, feet, legs, and voice to respond to his desire, but they didn’t. He was falling, with his eyes open, his mind working.

  “Chris!? Chris? Stay with me.” The bartender he didn’t know was next to him. The girl from the kitchen was over his shoulder. “Call nine-one-one!” the bartender shouted. The girl raced off. “Chris, can you speak?”

  Chris wanted to shake his head. He willed himself to say something, anything. He didn’t know the guy’s name.

  The bartender picked him up and moved him to the aisle. He straightened Chris’ blouse and trousers. He brushed hair from Chris’ forehead. “Why do all these things keep happening to you?”

  He wanted to say he didn’t know. It didn’t make sense to him. This was different than the last time he’d been drugged. And, clearly he’d been drugged again. His hand burned. Could it be from a handshake? The handshaker guy. He prayed the new security cameras they’d installed on the street had captured his picture. He wanted to look at his palm, see if it was reacting; tell someone to check it. But, he couldn’t move his limbs.

  Sirens could be heard. Paramedics entered the theater with a gurney.

  “Sir, what’s your name? What have you taken? Tell me what you’re feeling.”

  Chris kept his eyes open. He watched the men. He forced a blink. It happened. He tried again, and again. Linked three together. The action exhausted him.

  “Wait, he’s blinking. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.”

  Chris stopped. He willed his eyelids to move again. He blinked three slow times and then willed himself to flutter his eyelids three fast times before he finished.

  “Morse code. That’s S-O-S in Morse. Chris, just blink once if I’m right.”

  He blinked once more, holding his eyes closed for a moment longer.

  “Damn, I don’t remember much of that from my navy days.” The paramedic pulled out a walkie-talkie. “I need someone who knows Morse code. Tamburlaine headed to St. Vincent’s.”

  There was a crackling response.

  “You stay with me, sir. We’ve got you. Stay alert; a translator is on their way.”

  “His name is Chris. Chris Marlowe,” said the bartender.

  “Like the playwright? Mr. Marlowe, you stay with me. You keep blinking. Two blinks if you understand me.”

  Chris blinked two times in quick succession.

  “Excellent.” The paramedic began asking him yes and no questions. Two blinks for yes, one long blink for no. And, as they moved him to the gurney, they’d determined all his vital signs were good.

  Chris desperately wanted to tell them about the handshake; there was nothing he could do with this two blink, one blink routine unless they asked the correct question, which they hadn’t.

  When they arrived on the street, a cop pushed through the crowd. “You wanted someone with Morse code experience?” It was a woman, short with huge tits.

  “Here,” said the paramedic. He quickly explained the eye blinks.

  They jostled Chris into the ambulance and the cop got in with them. She focused on Chris’ eyes. “Talk to me, Baby,” said the woman cop.

  “Nice tits,” Chris blinked.

  “Thank you, doll. And, they’re all mine. The real deal.”

  “What did he say?” asked the paramedic.

  “Never you mind. What’s his name?”

  “Chris Marlowe,” said the paramedic.

  “What happened, Chris?” asked the cop.

  Chris blinked: hand.

  “Check his hands,” said the cop. She slid to the side a bit to allow the paramedic more room.

  “The right one, it’s red, inflamed.”

  “Chris thinks he was poisoned.”

  Thirty-three

  Chris opened his eyes to a giant spider stain on the ceiling tiles. His whole body ached, the pain worse in his joints than anywhere else. His arm bent tightly. But, he appreciated that it moved.

  A machine near his head beeped. Ah, another hospital scene. Chris faced the sound. His neck felt like it might snap. But, he could move.

  “You’re awake!” The voice that spoke feminine and strong.

  “I…” his throat felt like he’d swallowed sandpaper.

  “Here.” That voice again. Huge breasts accosted him. She held a cup with a bendy straw.

  With some effort, he sipped. Water in his mouth. Some dribbled out; some down his throat. Cool and good.

  “Code Breaker,” he whispered.

  The woman’s wholehearted laugh, soft at first, grew bigger and overtook her whole body. Those big tits shook and bounced. “That’s me. I’ve been called lots of things, but Code Breaker is a new one. I like it. Gonna have business cards printed up.”

  “You saved me.”

  “You saved yourself. Turns out that little guy who held your hand pressed a patch to your palm...instead of it being nicotine or estrogen, it was a poison called tetrodotoxin. It’s related somehow to blowfish or snakes or something. Some odd combination of toxins. They’re trying to trace the maker. It’s really unique. Poisoning by patch. No one has ever heard of it. But, you survived because of the Morse code blinks. Where’d you learn that?”

  “I dated a boy when I was in the Navy.” Chris winked. “He taught me. We’d send messages to each other.”

  “You were in the Navy?”

  “Enlisted in the Navy instead of being drafted.”

  “Me, too. Maybe we met over there.”

  A nurse came in. “Mr. Marlowe, you’re awake.” She nodded to Chris’ visitor. “It’s nice to see you.” She poked and prodded, took vital signs and temperature. She left the room.

  “You’ve sat here all this time? How long has it been?” Chris gave up the effort to sit up. “What’s your name?”

  “Detective Nashe, Elizabeth Nashe. If I had friends, I’d ask them to call me Liz.”

  “Well, Liz, a friend you are. I can’t believe it. With your humor and fashion sense, they must swarm around you.”

  “We
ll, I’m not like the rest of the gals.”

  “To me, you’re a perfect lady, Liz. There’s now a bottomless tab at Tamburlaine for you.” Chris reached up with some effort and rested his hand on Liz’s.

  “You’re a perfect gentleman. Or, is it lady?”

  “I tend to be somewhere in between these days.” He again did his best to adjust himself; it was too much effort. “I wish I could see you better.”

  “Oh, here.” She stepped aside, pushed a button, and the head of the bed rose. “Better?”

  “Much.”

  The machines beeped again and then stopped.

  “Please, sit. How long have I been out?”

  “Almost three days.” Liz pulled a plastic chair closer to the bed. The feet scraped the floor. She sat and took Chris’ hand in her meaty paw.

  “Three days. Have you been sitting here for three days?” Chris couldn’t believe that anyone would do that.

  “No, I’ve had to leave to work my shifts. I’m a dispatcher for the force. And, I slept some, too. You’ve had a string of folks coming in, spending time. You’ve got lots of people who care for you.” She took her hand away and searched her pockets. She pressed a crumpled, stiff tissue to the corner of her eye.

  “Who the hell is doing these things to me?” Tears formed and began to spill from his eyes. “I don’t know who I’ve pissed off so much that they’d want me dead.”

  “Don’t upset yourself. The important thing is that you’ve survived. A tall, young woman with two names told me about the other poisoning, the fire, the gas line. I find it strange that they’d attempt fire twice and poison twice. You’d think if they failed they’d move on to something new, something different. Or, you might have two different people trying to kill you. A firebug and a poisoner.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel better? ’Cause I don’t think it’s helping.”

  “Sorry. I worked cases for a long time.”

  Interested, but tired, Chris asked “You don’t anymore?” Anything to turn the attention away from him at the moment, to get his mind off recent events.

  “Twenty years. I solved lots of crimes in our fair Gotham. I was about to retire and I got shot. Survived. That’s good. Didn’t really have anything to do during my retirement. I’ve always been something of a loner. So, I weaseled my way back into the force. I like being a dispatcher. It gives me something to do. Sometimes gets a little hairy. But, I do miss solving cases.” Her face brightened. “So, tell me the details of your recent experiences and we’ll see what we can figure out.”

  Chris relayed everything that had happened: the developer, the new partnership, the hiring and firing of employees, and the revival of Tamburlaine.

  While he talked, Liz took out a journal from her shoulder bag and made notes with a marker. She wrote things inside boxes and flourished lines connecting them.

  He liked Liz, not just because she’d saved his life. It was rare to meet someone near his age without an agenda or too much baggage. “What are you doing over there? An art project?” Chris asked. His joints still ached horribly.

  The last nurse he told that to returned with a syringe. “This will help with the pain,” she said, pushing the drug into his IV.

  Within moments, a warm sensation creeped through his body. Sleep came quick and heavy.

  Thirty-four

  “Home again.” Chris led the small band who brought him from the hospital to Tamburlaine. They’d filled three cabs. “Matilda, hello. Frank.” He hugged them both in turns. “Food and drinks for my caretakers. How wonderful to have all of you watching over me at all hours.” He walked to his end of the bar and sat down.

  His friends, a rag-tag bunch, ordered drinks and took bites from the trays of food set out on the tables.

  “What shall I pour for you, boss?”

  “Bottled water, Frank. We’ve got to clean out my system. Very strict diet the next two weeks.” Frank set the bottle in front of Chris. “Thank you. Your quick action probably saved my life. If he’d held on to my hand any longer, well, they don’t think I would have survived. If he’d have actually gotten the patch to adhere to me, well, that would have been the end of it for me.”

  “Happy to be of service.” Frank blinked back tears. “Do you want me to turn on the lights? The music?”

  “No. It’s nice like this.” Chris sipped from the bottle. He longed for bourbon or coffee. But, he’d followed orders. At least for a day or two.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” Ingram asked. “If there’s anything you want or need me to do, just let me know.” He popped a meatball into his mouth.

  “I see you’ve come to enjoy Matilda’s food.” Chris poked Ingram playfully in the side.

  “Very good,” he mumbled through a full mouth.

  “Why are you here and not resting at home?” Nancy Ann asked, placing an arm over his shoulder.

  “I’ve had plenty of rest. I wanted to see the place. Make sure you all hadn’t given away the fixtures.” Chris laughed at his own joke. “I do plan on getting home before the festivities begin here tonight. I’m going to take a few nights off from performing. Get my stage legs back.”

  Chris didn’t want to admit it to anyone: he was afraid to get up on stage. The thought of being around people he didn’t know frightened him. He’d have to get over that. For now, he’d trust his gut. Chris contemplated checking into a hotel, a room with a great view and room service, but he decided to simply go home.

  “Well, we want you back here on stage as soon as you can muster it.” Nancy Ann hugged him close and kissed his cheek.

  “Has anyone seen Jerry? I thought he’d be along today.” Chris took in the group drinking at his bar. A few waiters, the kitchen and bar staff. A few performers.

  “No. Haven’t heard from him. I can call Jericho if you’d like?” Nancy Ann tugged her phone out of her pocket.

  “No. That’s not necessary. Just curious.” Chris drank more water. He was ready to go home, but didn’t want to appear inconsiderate to those who had been taking care of him and his club. He finally decided it was time when a patron walked into Tamburlaine.

  Without saying a word, he slid off his stool and headed toward the front door. Just as his hand touched the knob, Ingram cupped Chris’ elbow. Chris jerked his arm away.

  “Can I walk you home?”

  “No. I’ll be fine.” Chris raised his hand toward the door again.

  “We’ve made a promise to Jericho. You are to be accompanied.” Frank approached.

  “Fine. Frank, please walk me home.” He knew his words would sting Ingram, but went with his gut. He didn’t fully trust the boy. He didn’t know why.

  “Of course, boss.” Frank escorted Chris to the loft. He waited while Chris opened the creaky, metal door and walked him down the alley and into the kitchen. “You call me, any time. I’ve got your back, okay?”

  “Thank you, Frank. I like knowing you’re in my corner.” Chris kissed Frank’s cheek and engaged the locks after he exited. “Afraid of my shadow.” Chris tossed his wrap on the chair. There were several throws there. He picked them up and carried them to the dressing room. The house was clean, but chilly. He hung the wraps before altering the thermostat.

  He stripped naked. In the bathroom, he turned on the hot water in the shower, his figure gaunt in the mirrors; he discovered tape and tabs and debris stuck on various parts of his body.

  Chris took a moment to pick the stuff off and then focused on his hair. It was going to be a nightmare to get his curls in shape. He sat and slowly untangled his ringlets until a brush ran smoothly through his hair.

  The shower was perfect and he stood under the flow of water so long his fingers and toes pruned. It felt good to be warm and clean. He toweled off, pulled on a thick robe, and spent a few moments brushing and flossing his teeth. Wrapping a towel around his mop like a turban,
feet in slippers, he padded to the kitchen.

  He contemplated a drink and decided to stick with the water diet; the doctor told him that he needed to drink at least two gallons of water every day before he had anything else. The liver and kidneys had to be flushed of all toxins, like a broken record.

  He took a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He picked up the pink princess phone. It again had a dial tone. He replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  Chris got comfy on the couch. He didn’t want music. He didn’t want a movie or television. He breathed deeply and listened. The only sound was his own breathing and the wag of the cat clock’s tail. It was nice to have a moment to himself.

  The tears came on like a surprise attack. Chris went with the flow. All the water he’d been drinking seemed to flush from his eyes. He cried. Huge, physical convulsions washed over him.

  As he cried, he thought of the pain he’d been through recently. Was it worth it? Maybe he should just sell the club and the land. Get out of New York City. Move to Miami or San Diego or Hawaii. That’s what Rusty Warren did, retired to Hawaii. They could be neighbors, perhaps. Play bridge together. Share a kugel on the holidays.

  Silly. Such silly thoughts. He’d lived in the city his whole life. At least, his whole adult life. He’d been connected to Tamburlaine all that time, too. He’d promised Jimmy to keep it going. He’d promised Franz that he’d keep the place open forever. He thought of Jimmy’s art collection. Most of it gifted by old Franz. A wonderful man. Jimmy, Franz, the promise, thinking of them brought on great sobs. He could barely catch his breath from one convulsive sob to the next.

  All the queens from the past sashayed before him. Each with their own style, like an o’ so odd collection of Radio City Rockettes. So many of the girls now dead. Most of them dead. All of them from those early days dead. So many lost during the eighties, AIDS. So many of the queens and boys didn’t survive. He and Jerry were among the only ones left. Sure, there must be a few more, in nursing homes, tucked away by their families. They never returned to Tamburlaine in person, but they were there, still. Their energy kept life in the place.