She took a small tape recorder from her coat pocket and switched it on. Holding it close to her mouth, she asked, "Your credentials as well as your sincerity were called into serious question today. Do you have any further comments to make on that subject?"
Simon thought for a moment as the young woman lifted the tape recorder to his face. "We followers of the old religion have always had to deal with prejudice and opposition. In this age of so-called religious tolerance, we have to deal with character assassination more frequently than outright physical attacks. Today was no different."
"Yes, but the point seems to be that you have been accused of not really being a follower of the 'old religion.' How do you respond to that?"
"It is an absurdity unworthy of a response."
"And the remarks made about the rituals your group practices, that they are not really witchcraft rituals?"
"Also unworthy of a response."
She nodded. "Okay. What about the film, Satanists of Salem. Any comments on the film?"
Simon glanced at the traffic on Seventh Avenue, hoping to see an unoccupied cab which might extricate him from this unwanted interview. He saw none. Sighing once again, he said, "I decided to make a historically based film dealing with my ancestor, the warlock John Proctor, and the people with whom he was involved during the Salem witch trials of the 1690s."
"Yes, yes, we know that, but what about the statements made on the show that your ancestor was not a practitioner of witchcraft?"
A passengerless cab drove by and responded to Simon's hail. "Excuse me," he said to the young woman as he climbed into the backseat.
"But Mr. Proctor . . ." she said, trying to press the tape recorder close to him and pulling back as he shut the door.
"Madison Square Garden," he said to the driver. Simon sat back as the cab moved out into the midtown traffic. He gazed blankly out into the maelstrom of humanity as it rushed past the window of the moving vehicle.
What a day, he thought dejectedly.
What a way to make a living.
CHAPTER TWO
October 29, continued
Harry Schroeder chewed nervously upon his unlit cigar and glanced at his wristwatch for the seventh time in the past three minutes. He grabbed his stomach spasmodically as a brief wave of gas assaulted what he swore was the beginning of an ulcer, and he squinted into the cold wind as he looked down the seemingly endless expanse of city traffic. A black teenager pushing a garment rack nearly ran him over, and only the shrill "Heads up!" the boy shouted at him awakened him to the danger. Schroeder jumped back and shouted angry imprecations which, fortunately for the chubby middle-aged man, were blithely ignored.
Schroeder pulled a dingy gray handkerchief from the back pocket of his wrinkled trousers and wiped his face. He was sweating profusely, the cold wind notwithstanding. He was the kind of man who always perspired, who was forever physically uncomfortable no matter what his environment. He could bathe thrice daily and still seem unwashed. A freshly pressed suit would collapse into wrinkles the moment he put it on. A slight but perceptible aroma of the locker room seemed to follow him wherever he went, and he had both been aware of this fact and lived with it for so long that he no longer gave it any thought.
This was not the only reason for his wearing cheap suits. He was by nature a conservative, not in any political or social sense, but rather in that he deplored waste and sympathized quite consciously with the ant rather than the grasshopper in the old fable. He had numerous clients in his managerial stable, but Simon Proctor had been his most lucrative for many years. As the annual yield from Proctor's records and concerts began to diminish, slowly at first and then with increasing rapidity over the past few years, Schroeder began to conserve. Why spend three hundred dollars for a suit from Lord and Taylor when one off the rack at Alexander's for fifty-nine ninety-nine would do just as well?
Of course, he was not even beginning to approach penury. He was merely a cautious man. Simon Proctor had risked everything on the production of this film of his, and the next six months would tell if Proctor was at the beginning of a new and successful phase of his long, circuitous career, or if his recent efforts were merely the dying gasps of an incipient has-been.
Three years from now, Simon Proctor might have his own television special, or he might be a three-minute slot on a "Where Are They Now?" show.
Schroeder glanced again at his watch. Where the hell is he?
As if in answer to the unvoiced question, a taxi screeched to a halt at the curb in front of the forecourt of Madison Square Garden, and Simon Proctor climbed glumly out of the backseat. He tossed a few bills to the driver and turned to walk toward the massive entertainment complex. Harry Schroeder waddled over and intercepted him. "Simon! Simon!"
Proctor glanced angrily at him and kept walking. "Harry, if you weren't such a fat old fool I'd knock your teeth out."
Schroeder ignored the remark. "How'd the show go?"
Proctor spun on him. "Didn't I tell you to be sure to check out the other guests in advance?"
"Sure, of course. I did that, Simon. Why?"
"And what did you find out?" Proctor folded his arms and glared at Schroeder with impatient irritation.
"Well—" Schroeder thought for a moment, "there was some old priest pissed off about witchcraft and some lady from the PTA or something."
"And?" he demanded.
"That was it, Simon. Just those two."
"What about Eisenmann, the anthropology professor."
"Oh, yeah, him. What about him?"
"Yeah, Harry, what about him? Why the hell didn't you tell me about him?"
Schroeder shrugged in confusion. "I didn't see any need to. I mean, I figured he was just another guest for a later segment of the show, nothing to do with you."
Proctor closed his eyes as if imploring the powers that be to grant him patience. "Harry, what is anthropology?"
Schroeder shrugged again, somewhat defensively. "I dunno. Some kind of medical thing, isn't it?"
Proctor sighed. "Harry, you stupid son of a bitch!" He turned and began to walk toward the Garden, with Schroeder following behind him.
"Simon, what happened? What's wrong?" he panted.
"That guy was an expert on witchcraft and he made me look like a goddamned fool, that's what happened!" he spat.
"An expert on witchcraft! You're kidding!"
Proctor stopped suddenly and turned to Schroeder, his fists clenched at his sides and his face flushing. "Do I look like I'm kidding?" he demanded.
Schroeder gazed into the blazing eyes for a long moment. Then he averted his own eyes and muttered, "Gee, Simon, I'm sorry. I thought—"
"You're sorry!" Proctor shouted. "What damned difference does that make?! You're sorry!" He spat a guttural sound of contempt and turned again to walk on. "My whole goddamned career is riding on this stupid movie, every last cent I have is invested in it, my reputation is resting on the idea that it's a true story about real witches and real witchcraft, and I go on network television to have myself shown up as a fraud and a charlatan, to have the movie reduced to the level of a grade D slasher-porno, flick, and you're sorry!"
Schroeder sighed dejectedly. "I'm sorry" he repeated.
"Oh, Harry, will you shut up?" Proctor entered Madison Square Garden by the main entrance and then walked left, down the long side corridors to the interior stage entrance. Schroeder followed him in silence all the way, huffing and puffing as he waddled in Proctor's wake.
Simon Proctor glanced at the stage from the right-hand wing before walking to the dressing room, but he did not take any time to inspect the stage preparations in any detail. I pay those goddamned roadies enough, he thought bitterly. Let them attend to it. He knew that the setup for his concert was rather complicated, what with the explosive devices and fog machines added to the customary light-show system, but he trusted the crew as much as he resented them.
"Lousy fifteen percent," he muttered under his breath.
"Wha'd
ja say, Simon?" Schroeder asked breathlessly.
"Fifteen percent," he repeated. "That's all I ever see of the proceeds from these goddamn concerts. After renting the hall, paying this fee and that fee, salaries for these assholes and those assholes, shelling out for overheads on all sides, all I ever see is fifteen lousy percent." He glared again at Schroeder. "And you get a cut of that."
Schroeder did not respond. He knew that Proctor was in a bad mood, and he had no intention of worsening it by pointing out that in a good year fifteen percent of concert proceeds was no mean fee. He followed Proctor into his dressing room and sat quietly in a chair a few feet away from the makeup table.
Proctor sat down and stared at himself in the mirror. He shook his head in disgust and then reached over for the jar of cold cream. He scooped a generous handful of the thick substance from the jar and began to slather it over his face. The green-tinged, clown white greasepaint of his customary warlock makeup began to dissolve beneath the cold cream, and as he rubbed it into his skin with one hand, he peeled off the mustache and goatee with the other. He winced slightly as the spirit gum caught on a stray whisker. He tossed the hairpiece onto the dressing table and then vigorously massaged his face with both hands for a few minutes. He reached over to a tissue dispenser and pulled out a few sheets. After carefully wiping the cold cream and greasepaint from his face, he went over to the sink and began to wash his face in hot, soapy water.
"Why bother, Simon?" Schroeder asked.
"Hmmm?" he grunted.
"Why bother taking off the makeup? You're just gonna have to put it back on in a couple of hours."
"It's obvious, Harry, that you've never worn makeup, never been married, never had sisters or daughters."
"Wha'dja mean?"
Proctor spit out some soapy water. "I put this makeup on early this morning. By the time of tonight's concert, it'd be half worn off and running anyway. If I don't put it on fresh tonight, I'll turn into the incredible melting man on stage."
"Oh." Schroeder nodded. "Well, that might be a good career move." He grinned at his attempt at levity. An angry glance from Proctor told him that the attempt was not appreciated, and he coughed nervously.
Proctor sat back down at the dressing table and lighted a cigarette. He inhaled and then blew the smoke out with a sigh as he gazed at himself in the mirror. Without the Mephistophelian makeup he was not the arresting, striking figure which his album covers presented to the public. He considered the sallow complexion, the weary eyes, the crow's-feet which radiated outward from them, the graying roots which were emerging from his scalp beneath the dyed black hair, and the hair itself, so long as to look absurd on a man in his mid-forties. A worn-out, washed-up old hippy, he thought morosely. Faded flower power.
"Look, Simon," Schroeder began gently, "it isn't as bad as you think it is. The movie is supposed to appeal to your fans. How many of them watch the Percy Campbell show?"
"Then why'd you book me on it?"
"Hey, publicity is publicity!"
"Yeah, and bad publicity is bad publicity." Proctor sat back wearily in his seat. "Besides, there was a reporter from Rock 'n Record magazine there. Tried to interview me after I left."
"You talk to him?"
"Her," Proctor said. "Briefly. But she heard the whole thing, and you can bet that their next issue's gonna carry a story about it. Let's face it," he sighed, "we're really screwed. Without my credibility, I'm just a painted clown up there."
"Simon, there are other singers who use all sorts of references to the Devil. It's all just entertainment."
"Of course it is, Harry," he spat, "don't you think I know that? But they make no pretense at being serious. My whole act is based on the idea that I'm for real, that I really practice witchcraft. Without that, I don't even have the saving grace of parody, of humor, of put-on. I'm just a pretentious fraud." He shook his head again. "I'm ruined, Harry. This is it. I'll never be able to pay off the loans I took out against the film's proceeds. The other backers'll hound me for years."
"Oh, Simon, don't be such a goddamned pessimist!" Schroeder said, growing slightly annoyed. "The film hasn't even premiered yet. Okay, let's say it isn't a big money-maker. Let's say it's a complete flop! Don't you realize how much money there is to be made on video cassette sales? And after we cut out the sex and violence, we can rent it to TV stations."
Proctor laughed humorlessly. "Cut out the sex and violence and you'll have a fifteen-minute short."
"Yeah, well, I told you to tone that stuff down."
Proctor flashed an angry look at his manager. "Hey, look, Harry I don't need any I-told-you-sos, okay? Especially from you." He placed the cigarette between his lips and began to scratch his scalp. "I give you an easy little job that any jackass could do, ask you to check out the other guests on the show so I can be prepared for anything, and you mess it up."
"Okay, okay already," Schroeder muttered. "Look, the Campbell show isn't network, right? It's syndicated, and I don't think it's popular on the West Coast. It’s on at eight in the morning or something. So even if the film bombs in New York, it might still go over big in California."
"Damn it, Harry, I'm not just talking about the goddamn movie!" Proctor shouted. "It's my whole career, don't you understand?"
"So let's say things get bad for you around here. So you move out to California. Why not, Simon? You've always been an East Coast act anyway, not too big on the other side of the country. Look, there's just as big a market for this witchcraft music out there as there is here—bigger, in fact."
"I won't move to California," Proctor said glumly "I don't even like to spend time there."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because California's filled with crazy people, that's why."
"Oh, sure, and New York is sane city? Go spend a Saturday night in Washington Square Park, and then tell me about California!"
"I don't live in New York," he pointed out. "I live in New Hampshire."
"Okay, so you make your money in Los Angeles and San Francisco and you live in Oregon or Nevada. What's the big deal? Money from California isn't as good as money from New York?"
"They got people there who take all this Satanist crap seriously, Harry. I don't want to live in the middle of that."
"What am I hearing!" Schroeder exclaimed. "Your whole act is that you take it seriously yourself!"
"Yeah, but I don't!" Proctor turned to face him. "And the kids who listen to my records and come to my concerts don't take it seriously either. They just get a kick out of thinking that I do, and they pretend that they do, but it isn't serious, none of it."
"So maybe it's the same in California."
"Land of fruits and nuts? Don't make me laugh."
"Look, Simon—"
"Harry, will you shut up?!" Proctor yelled. "I'm in no mood for this! What are you doing, trying to get me to move three thousand miles away before I turn into a losing proposition for you?"
This stung Harry Schroeder, and the hurt showed on his face. "Simon, that's not fair and you know it. I stuck by you for twenty years, didn't I? Who discovered you, singing retread protest songs in that basement in Brooklyn twenty years ago? I did. Who got you into the Village clubs, into Folk City, for Christ's sake! I did. Who got you your first record contract, and who kept getting you signed up with other record companies every time your contracts got canceled? I did." Schroeder turned away, his pursed lips quivering.
Proctor felt a twinge of guilt penetrate his anger. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I'm upset, that's all."
Schroeder condescended to be mollified. "Yeah, sure, I understand." He slapped Proctor lightly on the back. "Look, I'm going out to get some dinner. You wanna come?"
"No, I'm just gonna sit here and try to unwind. Hey, bring me back something, will you?"
"Sure. Whaddaya want?"
He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Sandwich and a six-pack."
"Okeydokey," Schroeder said. "Lemme make sure I got some money with me . . ." He fished around in t
he back pocket of his baggy trousers for a moment and then drew out his wallet. As he unfolded it, an envelope dropped out and landed on the floor. "What the—oh, yeah, right. Hey, Simon, this letter came for you today at my office. I almost forgot about it."
Proctor sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I thought you had somebody to take care of fan mail."
"Yeah, I do, but this isn't fan mail. I thought you might like to read it."
"Well, you were wrong. Toss it out."
"But you don't even know what—"
"Okay, okay, so read it to me," he said irritably. He was in no mood to argue.
Schroeder shrugged and removed the letter from the envelope. "It's from Los Angeles."
"California,"' he muttered. "Great."
Schroeder cleared his throat. "It says, 'Dear Simon: You don't know us, but we know you. We've listened to your music for years now, and we think that you're one of the greatest talents around. ' "
"Come on, Harry, will you?" Proctor said. "I don't need to hear any fan letters. They don't help pay the bills, you know?"
"This isn't exactly a fan letter," Schroeder said. "Listen: 'Because of your music we've become Satanists ourselves. We've been studying witchcraft for nearly a year now, and we feel that it is time for us to begin to spread the Satanist faith.'"
"Great," he repeated. "Missionaries. Wonderful. Just what I need."
" 'But we are concerned about your songs,' " Schroeder continued reading. " 'The more we have studied the black arts, the more we have come to suspect that you are not truly a member of an established coven. There are too many errors in your songs, too many inaccurate statements and misleading ideas. We have begun to suspect that you are not really a Satanist at all.' "
Proctor laughed despite his depression. "This is a pisser, Harry it really is. On TV today they called me a monster and a fraud, and my own fans are saying I'm either a fraud or a heretic! That's really wonderful, Harry. Thanks a lot for bringing me that letter. Really helps my mood."
"Shh," Schroeder said. "There's more."
"I can hardly wait," he muttered.
Candlemas Eve Page 4
