“Penchant for patterns. I like that phrase. It would make a good line in a play. Or maybe I’ll use it for the title of my memoir.” Chris finished his sandwich and balled up the wrapper.
“Thanks. And, since there were two fires and two druggings, I can’t begin to explain a timed drop. If it had been a bomb, that might connect, but this thing was too precise. They had access to a part of your bar no one really goes into. Someone would have needed a key to get into the club the morning the gas line was cut, right? And, to get out the night of the backdrop falling. The fact you had just been down in the basement where the trigger was is strange. And, that you didn’t see or notice anything is stranger still. That tightens the timeline. And, no one saw anyone that struck them as out of place.”
“I wasn’t looking for anything like that. I saw a rat,” he whispered. “That freaked me out a little. I only had the small flashlight. The doors that were supposed to be locked were locked. I unlocked them and got what I needed.”
Liz balled up her wrapper and took Chris’, tossing both of them in the greasy paper bag. “Who might have keys to the club? Or better yet, is there any way into the club other than those two doors off the street?”
“Gosh, over the years, lots of people have had keys to Tamburlaine. Before it was our bar, it had been vacant for a number of years. For some time it had been a speakeasy, then a blue collar bar, then it closed for a number of years before Jimmy bought it.”
“Okay, but these events are all recent. Who might have a key now?”
“Well, Benny had a set; Frank, Nancy Ann, and Matilda all have keys. There’s an extra set in the register, for the alley door anyway.” Chris wracked his brain. “There hasn’t been a need in years to have keys made if that’s any indication. If Benny was working with them—and we’re pretty certain about that, he’d have keys, and know my penchant.”
“So you didn’t have to make keys for Frank or Nancy Ann or Matilda?” Liz leaned closer.
Chris inhaled, enjoying the subtle perfume Liz wore. Chris never liked wearing perfume or using scented soaps. Early in his performing days, he’d gotten away from them for the sake of the performers with him on stage. There’s nothing worse than a snoot full of cheap cologne when you’re trying to hit a high A. “No. I have several sets of keys in the office. I can’t even remember when it was, but I had a bartender who kept losing keys so I had a dozen of them made for the alley door. The extras are in the safe at the club. No one has that combination. And, as far as I know, no one knows how to open the office door except me.”
“Right, that strange doorknob lock thing.”
Rusty Warren sang a soft ballad in the background.
“No one has the basement keys, those are skeletons, you know, old-fashioned things: big and heavy.” He took Liz’s hand into his own. “I like that you’re gnawing on all of this. I’ve just sort of been taking it, but not doing anything. I don’t know why. I’d about given up on things.”
Liz squeezed Chris’ hand. “You didn’t answer my other question. There’s the front door and the alley door. Is there any other way into the club? A coal scuttle maybe?”
“A scuttle is like a bucket. I know that because of the Times crossword. No, the coal door, Jimmy had that sealed shut before I took over the club.” The song ended. “Shit, I hadn’t thought of this until now, it’s been so long…” He stood up. “Come with me.” He led them under the gallery staircase. “That’s a way in.” He pointed to a metal door with a crank handle.
“Through there? Your club is a block away.”
“The speakeasy days. This place was a machine shop then and its owner created that bar and the tunnel to it. So, men came into the shop here, walked the tunnel, and ended up in the basement of Tamburlaine. I can’t remember what it was called back then.”
“You have your own tunnel under a New York City street? That’s incomprehensible.”
“Being a detective, you should know that there are tunnels all over the city.” Chris turned and walked into his office space. He dug around in a cupboard and came up with two flashlights and returned to Liz. “I haven’t used this in years and years. I get a little claustrophobic in the tunnel.” He cranked on the handle, expecting it to be difficult, but it was as if someone had recently sprayed a bit of WD-40 on it, it easily spun with very little effort. He pulled the door open and handed Liz a flashlight.
“Oh, I should have brought a broom instead of a flashlight,” Chris said as he led the way down a wooden staircase. The corners at top and bottom were filled with cobwebs.
“I’m glad I’m wearing a wig. I can just throw it away when we’re finished.” Liz coughed. “Do you want me to lead?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Here we are.” Chris reached the bottom step and then the dirt floor. A cool draft blew over his feet. “I don’t remember there being another outlet for this tunnel under the stairs. Chris tried to slide between them and the brick wall, but he couldn’t. Liz tried as well, but couldn’t get through.
Liz shined the flashlight back under the stairs. It was a solid brick wall. She shined it toward the ceiling, about twenty feet up. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It would be a long drop from the street. “I think we should press ahead.”
They walked for a bit and then came to a door. Chris sorted through the keys on a rusty ring, chose one of the skeleton keys, and with a little effort, opened the door with an ear-splitting creak. “I don’t think anyone has used this in a very long time.”
“Look.” Liz shined her light into the top corners. “The cobwebs have been pushed away. I don’t know if they got through this door, but they’ve been here recently.”
“Now they’re a they?” Chris shined his light at Liz who shrugged.
“Maybe a they.”
Chris and Liz continued forward, until they arrived at a dead-end, a brick wall.
“Now what?” Liz asked. “Do we need a code word?”
Chris pushed on the wall which opened up and forward. He stepped in and held the wall up for Liz. “Hurry, this fucking thing is heavy.”
“Sorry, hon.” Liz stepped into the room. “Okay, let it go.”
Together, they closed the brick door, which became a box that looked like a filing cabinet. It stood next to another filing cabinet, the one Chris had found the newspaper clipping in.
“Here, look.” Liz shined her flashlight on the ground. There are a set of footprints that go from here to the other wall. And, there are a shuffle of footprints at this cabinet that go to the door and back.”
“I was just in here a few days ago, getting out that newspaper clipping.”
“Right, and you came through the door, right?”
“Yes, Liz.”
“So, someone else went through the wall.” Again, she shined her light. “I can’t believe the building inspector didn’t find this or question it.”
“Come with me.” Chris opened the door into Tamburlaine’s basement. They walked a few feet. He directed his flashlight. “That’s where they discovered the line that pulled down the scrim. They went further. These are the old whore’s rooms; we’re storing costumes and scenery in them. Careful of Audrey II.” Chris patted the oversized foam plant, taller than him in heels.
“Oh, I saw Little Shop the other night. It was really fucking good.” She stopped at the plant and opened its mouth, sticking her head inside like a lion tamer. “You know how it works; you know there’s a trap door or something, but for a moment, you believe that she’s being eaten by this thing.”
“I know. If it weren’t for suspension of disbelief, well, I wouldn’t have a career.” He pulled her out of the plant. “You’re right, though, my kids are doing a swell job.” Chris opened another door.
“What’s that?” Liz shined her light upward.
“The trap door to the stage.” Chris was on the move again. He opened another door and th
ey went from stark darkness and dirt floors to a shiny, state of the art food prep area with a huge walk-in refrigerator and a walk-in freezer. As they came out, one of the prep girls screamed and dropped her knife. “Sorry, dear. No need to be alarmed. We may be old enough to be ghosts, but we’re not.”
Matilda thudded down the stairs. Chris waved at her.
“Chris! What are you doing here? How did you get in here? I’ve been in the kitchen all afternoon and never saw you come through.”
“Never you mind,” said Chris.
“Can we go back for a moment?” Liz asked.
“Of course.” They turned and left with no explanation and Liz led them back to the furthest room. She found a spot in the middle of the wall and pressed. It took a few tries, but then a section of the brick wall lifted, just like the entrance. “Anyone who knew this was here would have easy access to the club.”
“Sure, if they knew about it and had all the right keys. You saw, the doors were all locked.” Chris set his flashlight on top of the filing cabinet, the real one, and then brushed dust from his blouse.
“Yes, but they could have access. We need to see if we can find out who has these keys other than you. Or, is it possible they used your keys? You don’t carry anything but the alley key and your house key, right?”
“Right. I have to go back and change. I’m on in about an hour.”
“Okay,” Liz said.
Chris envisioned the hamster on the wheel inside Liz’s head.
Thirty-nine
Chris gazed out at the full house as he played “Roll me over, lay me down, and do it again.” The audience did its part by singing the prescribed choruses: men, women, virgins, etc. The number, one of Chris’ favorites, raised raucous great laughter from the audiences. Years had passed without him hearing this tuned-in joy from an audience. Years. He thought about those years; he wondered what had kept him going all that time? That long ago promise. “Yes,” he’d said as Jimmy lay dying. “Yes, he’d keep Tamburlaine open, no matter what.” And here he’d arrived, nearly full circle: Tamburlaine’s popularity was growing; there were articles and reviews and tweets, whatever those were. Ingram created a website and Facebook page for Tamburlaine and people were clicking on links and liking things, that’s what he’d said.
The number ended and Chris, still tinkling lightly on the keys, started into the long story of the housewife, a station wagon full of boy scouts, the divine trucker on the highway, the Tupperware…it remained his favorite of Rusty Warren’s routines. As he talked, the audience laughed at all the right parts and held their breath at the right time. And as he talked, he found himself taking the time to look deep into each person’s eyes. That had been one of his things when he’d headlined at Tamburlaine all those decades ago. He’d sing, because in those days, drag queens actually sang; while he sang, he’d look at the audience members he could see—the stage lighting in the big room often hindered his sight, leaving him only the first few tables. But, he looked deep into the dark house, imagining the eyes of those patrons in the back. Sometimes, a guy with eyeglasses that reflected the stage caught him, held him for a moment. No one ever said it, but Chris knew, without doubt or question, that that’s what truly made him the headliner. In those few moments, one here, another there, looking deep into a patron’s eyes, he made a connection. In that moment, he changed, no longer just the entertainment, but a person. That was the point for him, that in drag he remained a person, someone important on the planet, someone who made a difference, who existed, dammit. Despite what society or others might think.
Chris stumbled for a moment. His fingers continued, but he went up. He’d been so deep into his own thoughts that he’d forgotten where he was in the story he told. Chris looked to Liz, sitting her post in the corner, watching the comings and goings of everyone who entered and left the bar.
Liz mouthed, “Boy Scouts.”
“So, I picked up the Boy Scouts and barrel assed down to the church to set up…” Chris was back on track. He continued telling the story, his favorite of Rusty Warren’s…he’d already thought of that tonight. This used to be so easy for him, performing and thinking of other things. Maybe it was the booze, too much or too little, that was the question. “Two of them fighting, three of them have to pee, are you ready for this?” Yes, those were the words, they continued and his thoughts wandered. Where had he been? Oh, yes, Jimmy dying. The desperation in his eyes as Chris held him in his arms. Wanting to be done, but not wanting to be done.
They’d never been lovers. That’s not to say they’d never had sex. That happened in the theater. You drank too much, you slept with everyone, at one point or another. Most of the boys simply moved on over time. They got their big break or they found themselves in a day job or working as a dresser for a show. It didn’t matter where they went, just that they went. And, as they moved on, there were other nubile men to take their places; there were new drag queens looking for a home, a place to be and perform.
For so many, like Chris, like Liz, performance didn’t define their choice of living their lives dressed in women’s clothing. For so many, there was no alternative. They were them, they felt right as women. They didn’t want to be women; those, like Chris, relished being a man, sleeping with men, being gay. No, this life expressed an inner self stronger and more important than just being a gay man or a straight man or any other type of man. Chris was a drag queen. A queen.
“Mommy!” Chris yelled. The audience laughed heartily and applauded raucously at the punchline of the story. He brought up one of the waitresses, a very tall, very thin, very funny queen. Chris played “Adelaide’s Lament” from Guys and Dolls; the queen sang.
Midnight, the peak of everything: Four hours to go. Chris brought up The Piano Player from the big room, who played for anyone who wanted to sing show tunes. Despite being decades younger, The Piano Player knew almost as many songs as Chris.
“Here, boss,” said Frank, as he poured Chris a double bourbon. Chris downed the glass and set it on the bar. Frank refilled it.
People came up to him, wanted to meet him, shake his hand, tell him about some other experience they’d had at Tamburlaine and how glad to know it had reopened. All the while, Liz sat in her corner, watching.
Chris finished his second or was it his third double bourbon before heading into the kitchen. The evening’s seatings were finished. The stainless steel kitchen sparkled like a jewel. Matilda, propped against the counter, wrote in her notebook.
“Hello, Mr. Marlowe. Would you like something to eat? I can make you a plate lickity split! Wonderful, fall off the bone chicken tonight.”
“Are there a few drumsticks? Maybe some coleslaw, too?”
“No coleslaw left, but I can cut up fresh cucumbers and tomatoes?”
“Perfect.” Chris pulled himself up on a stool and watched as Matilda put together a plate of humble foods in a five-star manner. “Thank you,” he said as she placed the plate and utensils in front of him.
“If you don’t mind my saying, you’re not looking great tonight, Mr. Marlowe.”
Chris swallowed a piece of cucumber. “I don’t mind.” He wanted to tell her that he’d had a few too many bourbons, that he was drunk. But, he didn’t. Instead, he ate heartily, allowing Matilda to add two more drumsticks to his plate. The skin was salty and crisp, the meat fell off the bone. His fingers, with red lacquered nails, were sticky with chicken grease. Pieces of paper napkin stuck to them.
When he’d finished eating, Matilda came around the expediter’s counter, stood next to Chris, and, with a warm, wet, dish towel; she cleaned and then, with another towel, dried his hands.
Tears came to Chris’ eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Matilda simply smiled; she picked up the remains of Chris’ dinner and thumped back to her own side of the shelves. No more words were exchanged. Chris sat for a while longer, enjoying his full stomach and the
kindness that had just occurred.
Forty
“Chris, we’ve got to talk about this.”
“Oh, Liz, can’t we just sit and listen to some music, rub each other’s feet, pet the cat.” Chris pushed open the metal door, allowed Liz to pass him, and pulled it shut with a bang.
“Chris, you don’t have a cat, do you?”
“A what? A cat, no, just the clock with its ever wagging tail.” Chris held the door open for Liz. He tossed his wrap on the chair and kicked off his heels. “Beer?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, Lizzy, don’t sound all verklempt.” Chis handed her a beer before pouring bourbon over ice in a crystal glass.
“Ice cubes?”
“My doctor said I should continue to drink more water.” Chris offered a hand to Liz, who pulled herself up. “Come on.”
“I don’t think ice in whiskey counts.”
“You get your water your way and I’ll get mine in my way, right? Of course, right.”
“I can see you as Dolly! Wouldn’t that be wonderful, you walking down all those stairs and all those handsome men singing and dancing just for you?” Liz plopped on the long couch, pulled off her sweater, removed her big guns, and dropped them on the table before putting the sweater back on.”
“Elmer, that’s disgusting, letting your tits just sit there like that.” Chris laughed.
“Listen, you treat your tits your way and I’ll treat my tits mine.”
“Now who’s auditioning for Dolly?” Chris had turned on the CD of Streisand’s Hello, Dolly!
“Hallelujah, something other than Rusty. Here, give me your feet.”
“Rusty Warren paved a great career for me.” Chris nudged Liz with his foot and she started rubbing again. “Oh, that feels good. You give the best foot.” He laid his head back. “So, what do you want to talk about? Like I don’t know.”
Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival Page 17
