by Parnell Hall
The brunette was the one that interested me. Of all the actors on the stage, she was the only one holding a script. That meant she must be the understudy, Sherry Fontaine’s replacement.
I felt a cold chill as I thought that. She was the understudy, replacing Sherry Fontaine in the play. Just as I was the alternate, replacing Sherry Fontaine on the jury.
Life goes on.
The understudy was tall, taller than the other two girls. In fact, when she stood up and crossed to the baseball player, she was his height.
That gave rise to another unsettling thought. Having once been an actor, how often I had heard the words, “I’d kill for that part.” In New York City, with competition so fierce, there were lots of actors who felt that way. Even for an unpaid piece-of-shit showcase, there were hundreds of people dying to do it. Christ. Dying to do it. Kill for the part. The theme of death and desperation pervading the theatre.
Well, it seemed absurd, but with Sherry Fontaine’s understudy being that tall, would she have been strong enough to do it?
In one of those movie moments that sometimes happen in real life, the understudy said, “I’m strong enough to do it, Carl.”
Carl laughed at her, a goofily handsome laugh.
That was enough to snap me out of it. Jesus Christ, get your head out of the clouds before you start coming up with psychic solutions.
I took out my notebook, turned to Marshall Crane. I whispered, “Why don’t you save some time and tell me who’s who?”
“Okay,” he whispered back. “The guy is Claude Breen. The redhead’s Audrey Lake. The blonde’s Jill Jenson. The understudy with the book is Miranda Vale.” He pointed to the bald bullseye below us. “The director, of course, is Walter Shelby.”
“Fine,” I said. “You mind telling me how you’re all rehearsing here, with Sherry Fontaine just having been killed?”
He drew back as if I’d just committed some breach of social etiquette. “The show must go on,” he said. “We’re upset, of course. But the schedule was damn tight without this. Now we gotta work in an understudy. We’re only rehearsing nights, and we open in three weeks. Now, if that seems cold and heartless, I’m sorry, but I happen to have five thousand bucks in this show.”
My eyes widened. “Five thousand bucks? In a showcase?”
He looked at me. “Where have you been? That’s rock bottom. Showcases don’t usually get off the ground for ten.”
Jesus. No wonder I’d never made it as an actor. But at least, Marshall Crane’s interest in the show was defined. I mean, five thousand bucks. Jesus.
I watched the understudy walking across the stage. It was hard watching her. She wasn’t bad, but I couldn’t help thinking the only reason she was there was because Sherry was dead.
Then I looked at the script in her hand. A small bound volume. I remembered Sherry reading the script that first day in the jury deliberation room, when I’d thought she was looking at her crotch. Her crotch. Jesus. Naked. Open. Dead.
I shook my head. Never mind that. Think straight.
Something else about the script bothered me. I realized what it was.
I turned and poked Marshall Crane.
“Yes?” he hissed.
“That script she’s holding?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought these showcases were new, experimental plays, never been done before.”
“That’s right.”
“But that’s a bound script. I thought they only published bound scripts of plays after they’d been produced.”
“That’s true,” he said. “I had them bound myself.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Sort of expensive, but I thought it would lend an air of class to the production.”
“I see,” I said. I didn’t see. From what I’d observed so far, nothing could lend an air of class to this production. The action on stage, such as it was, was simple, banal, and boring. The three women, whom I knew to be playing lesbians from what Sherry had told me, were totally interchangeable, with no distinct personalities whatsoever. The situation, such as it was, seemed to be that the baseball player had gotten involved with one of these three ladies, in fact, the Sherry Fontaine part the understudy was now playing, and the three women were now deciding what to do with him. The dilemma seemed to be whether or not to tell his wife. This was handled by such on-the-head dialogue as, “Should we tell his wife?” The rest of the dialogue was, at best, sophomoric, and sprinkled with single entendres.
As I sat there, I was treated to lines such as this:
BLONDE: “I say, let’s tell her.”
BASEBALL PLAYER: “No, no.”
REDHEAD: “Look at him squirm.”
BLONDE: “Is that right, macho man? You squirmin’ now?”
UNDERSTUDY: “Leave him alone.”
REDHEAD: “You stickin’ up for him now?”
BLONDE: “Stickin’ up. There’s a phrase. You been stickin’ up, baby?”
REDHEAD: “Walk softly and carry a big stick.”
(BLONDE and REDHEAD laugh. UNDERSTUDY looks put out. BASEBALL PLAYER squirms in adorable, goofily handsome way.)
BASEBALL PLAYER: “What do you know from big sticks?”
UNDERSTUDY: “Carl.”
BASEBALL PLAYER: “No. I’m not going to sit here and take this.”
(Carl is standing when he says this—the director, on top of everything, scribbles a note).
BASEBALL PLAYER: “Not from them, I’m not. The only big stick they know comes in plastic.”
BLONDE: “Oh. listen to him.”
BASEBALL PLAYER: “Yeah, their idea of a cheap date is, batteries not included.”
(Squeals of protest.)
BASEBALL PLAYER: (on a roll, goofy laugh) “Yeah, like, how do you make dill bread?—dill dough.”
It was too much. I poked Marshall Crane again. “Yes?” he hissed.
“Pardon me,” I said. “But why do you have five thousand bucks in this show?”
His chin came up. His eyes narrowed, and he said in a clipped voice, with as much cold dignity as he could muster, “I wrote it.”
I have a knack of saying just the right thing.
26.
THEY GAVE ME THE STAGE. Of course, they all thought I was a cop, and I was doing nothing to disillusion them. But as an ex-actor, it was nice to be once again on the stage.
They were all sitting in the front row. The four actors, the director, and the producer/playwright whose dialogue I had demeaned. They were all sitting in the first row, and I had center stage.
Of course, as a failed actor, I have often had the actor’s nightmare, the dream where you’re on stage in a strange play which you’ve never rehearsed and for which you don’t know the lines. This was that nightmare come to life. I was on stage without a script, and what the hell did I do now?
“All right,” I said, “I’m sorry to interrupt your rehearsal, but, of course, you’re all aware of the tragedy, and I need to ask you some questions about Sherry Fontaine.”
“But I told you everything I know on the phone,” Claude, the baseball player protested. “And I’m coming in tomorrow to make a statement.”
So. Thurman had reached him, and god knows how many of the others. Time to tread cautiously.
“I know,” I said. “But I want to talk to all of you together. See if any of you noticed anything last night that might be helpful. Maybe you can jog each other’s memory.”
“But Jill and I weren’t here last night,” the redhead put in. “It was just Claude and Sherry.”
That’s what comes of going in blind. Should I, as a presumed police officer, have already known that?
“Right,” I said. “But you may have noticed something in her manner at a previous rehearsal. Anyway, let’s get the record straight. Just who was here last night from when to when?”
The director cleared his throat. From the front, I couldn’t see the bald bullseye, which was a relief, since I didn’t have to carefully not stare at it. “
As I said on the phone, we were here from eight till midnight. We were working Claude and Sherry’s scene. They were here, and Miranda was here understudying. And of course Marshall and I. Audrey and Jill were not.”
“And it went till twelve o’clock?”
“That’s right.”
“Twelve on the nose is pretty specific. Did you really break exactly then?”
“Around then. We’d just finished a run-through of the scene, and I’d given notes. It was about five to twelve. We wrapped things up and left. All that entailed, really, was turning off the lights. I’d say we were out of here by twelve.”
“You all went down together?”
“Of course.”
“Why of course.”
“You leave the elevator down there, there’s no way to get it back up.”
“Right,” I said. “So you all left together?”
“That’s right.”
“And how did Sherry get home?”
The baseball player cleared his throat. “Like I said on the phone, we shared a cab.”
“Oh?”
“We both live on the upper West Side.”
“Where do you live?”
“115th. Up by Columbia.”
“So the cab dropped Sherry off first?”
“That’s right.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know. Must have been around twelve-thirty.”
“Can’t you give it to me better than that?”
“No.”
“You phone for the cab?”
“What?”
“You call up and order a cab?”
“Oh. No.”
“Where’d you get a cab around here that time of night?”
“We walked down to Canal and got a cab going by.”
“Gypsy or medallion?”
“Huh? It was a regular cab, you know.”
“With a meter?”
“Yeah.”
“How much was on the meter?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You split it, or pay for it yourself?”
“Split it.”
“So what did you split?”
“Sherry gave me five bucks and I paid the cab. I don’t remember what. I think it was about twelve bucks.”
“And you’re not sure what time you dropped her off?”
“Twelve-thirty’s best I can do.”
I nodded. “We’ll find the cabby. They keep a trip sheet. Addresses they go to. The guy may have put the time.”
I was watching him when I said that. I couldn’t swear to it, but that seemed to make him uncomfortable.
“Listen,” I said. “When you dropped her off. . .”
“Yeah?”
“You notice anyone hanging around?”
“In her building?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“She didn’t stop, talk to anyone on the street?”
“No.”
“What did she do?”
“She went right in.”
“You saw her go in?”
“Yeah.”
“Before the cab drove off?”
“Yeah.”
“The cab was headed uptown. She had to cross the street to go in, right?”
“Right.”
“You waited while she did that?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you do that on purpose?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you tell the cabby to wait till she went in?”
“Ah. . . no.”
“Then why did he?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t remember.”
“But you did see her go in the door?”
“Yes.”
“And then the cab drove off?”
“Yes.”
“What made the cab wait there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
He did. I could see the wheels turning. He looked like a man drowning. I couldn’t tell if it was because he had something to hide, or just because for him thinking was foreign ground.
Then his eyes widened as he got it. “The light must have been red.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. The light at the corner. It must have been red. When it turned green, the cab drove off.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That would explain it. At any rate, you saw her go into the building and she didn’t talk to anyone.”
“That’s right.”
“What did she talk about?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“On the ride uptown. What did you and Sherry talk about?”
“Oh.”
“You did talk to her, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what did you talk about?”
He seemed uncomfortable again, and I thought I’d hit something, until he said, “About the play.”
“What about the play?”
“Well, Sherry had these ideas. . .” His voice trailed off.
“About your scenes?”
“Yeah.”
“She was giving you direction, telling you how to play your part?”
“Well, yes. And. . .”
“And what?”
“Well, she was talking about changes.”
“Changes? You mean in your lines?”
It was as if he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He nodded, dismally.
I couldn’t blame him. The look Marshall Crane was giving him could have cut glass.
It was disappointing. I was hoping his discomfort was over his relationship with the woman, over something she’d said. But no, it was just the stupid play.
“All right, aside from the play,” I said. “Did she talk about anything else?”
“No. Just that.”
“Well, what about her mood?”
“What?”
“How did she seem? Was she the same as ever? Was she different than the night before? Did you notice anything that you can tell me that might help?”
He thought. “I would say she was pretty much the same, only more so.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Sherry was always very opinionated. Very bubbly and up. Well, she was last night, too, only more so. Like when she’d have ideas, sometimes I could discuss ’em with her. Last night she was having none of it. They were her ideas, they were right, and she didn’t want to hear anything else.”
I frowned. “Did she seem angry or frustrated?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, like, these are my ideas, they’re right, why doesn’t anybody listen to me?”
He shook his head. “No, no. Just the opposite. She was very pleased about everything. Very gung ho. Like, these are my ideas, they’re right, let’s do ’em.”
“Was she the same way at rehearsal?”
“Yeah.”
“How about the rest of you—those of you that were there—how did Sherry seem?”
The understudy spoke up. “I think Claude’s right.”
“Oh?”
“About how Sherry was. Yesterday she was in a good mood. More than a good mood. She seemed. . . I don’t know. . . exultant, sort of. Over the top.” She frowned. “Look, it’s hard to talk about someone who’s dead. And I’m playing her part—that makes it worse. But. . . well, I have to say it. She acted like she was queen and we were nothing. Like she was a professional and we were amateurs. Like she knew everything and we didn’t know shit.”
I turned to the director. “Is that right?”
He stroked his beard. “That’s a little strong. But—”
“Strong, hell!” Marshall Crane put in. It was as if a dam had burst, as if he’d been holding it in and could contain himself no longer. “She was wrecking the play. You know it, and I know it. It was like she was doing the “Sherry Fontaine Show,” and nothing else mattered. She wouldn’t take direction, she wouldn’t say the lines.” He jerked his thumb at Claude. “She got him so screwed up, it’s
like we’re starting over.” He snorted. “Professional, huh? I’ve never seen anything so unprofessional. I mean, I’ve heard of things like this happening in the movies, but in the theatre? Damn it, the actors respect the lines. You do the play.”
I looked them over. I’m not sure all the actors would have felt so strongly about respecting those particular lines, but at any rate, there were no dissenting votes.
“All right,” I said. “But essentially, that attitude is the same one she’d had throughout the production? It’s just last night was more extreme?”
The director nodded. “I think that sums it up.”
“Aside from the play—did she mention anything else?”
The director shook his head. “Not that I heard.”
The understudy said, “She mentioned the jury she was on. Said it was a big pain in the ass, was keeping her from auditions and from learning her lines.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But nothing else? About her personal life, I mean?”
“She mentioned the party,” Claude put in.
“Party?”
“Yeah. There’s a party tomorrow night we’re all invited to. She was excited about that.”
“Oh yeah, and what party is that?”
“It’s a private party for theatre people. Upper East Side. No big deal, but it was to her. Thought she might meet someone famous. Always looking to get ahead.”
“What’s the address of this party?”
“I don’t know offhand.”
“Who does?”
Marshall Crane did. He gave me the address and I wrote it down.
He seemed rather pained. “Are you going to this party?”
“I may have to check it out. If I do, I will be low-profile, low-key, and I’ll try not to spoil your fun.
“All right. Can anybody think of anything else?”
Nobody could.
“What about boyfriends? She ever mention anyone?”
They all looked at each other, as if for help, as if no one had the answer.
The understudy frowned. “The way she talked, I don’t think she had anybody. At least not now.”
“But she had her eye out,” the redhead said. It was a catty remark. I gathered the redhead was not all that broken up over Sherry’s demise.
“She was going with someone a while back,” the blonde put in. “But they split up.”
“You know who?”
“Dexter something-or-other.”
