Mona Berk leaned against the stair railing, "What do you know about David Belasco?"
"Never heard of him," Mike said.
She held up her arms and waved around the open space. "This is his home, detective. Belasco lived in it till he died. My uncle and his oversized ego moved right in. Room to spare for his Napeolonic complex, as you can see."
"Who's Belasco?"
"One of the great figures in the history of the American theater, but I guess you didn't know that. He acted a bit and wrote some plays, rode bareback in the circus, peddled patent medicine that his mother cooked up in her own kitchen. He was entirely self-made, and he went on to become one of the most prolific producers of his day. Flamboyant? Belasco was outrageous. He's been dead since 1931. Uncle Joe kind of saw himself as the second corning."
"How do you mean?"
"Belasco built this theater in 1907-the second-oldest one in mid-town Manhattan. It's a jewel of an auditorium, meant to be very intimate. Only four hundred and fifty seats in the orchestra, another five fifty upstairs. Designed by the same architect who built the Apollo."
The 125th Street theater that had a white-only admissions policy when it opened as a burlesque house in 1914 was renamed the Apollo twenty years later. A great showplace for black entertainers, it had headlined Bessie Smith and Billie Holiday, Duke Ellington and Thelonius Monk, Aretha Franklin, and Gladys Knight. The two houses could not have looked more dissimilar.
"And this apartment?"
"A few years after the theater opened, Belasco built this ten-room duplex on top for himself to live in. That dome?" Mona said, pointing above us to the rich tones of the stained glass. "It's by Tiffany. That chair in Joe's office? It's a pew from the church where Shakespeare worshiped in Stratford. Belasco was over the top. He collected all this, but it was mostly broken up after he died. A lot of the antique furniture was bought by Sardi's, to make a private dining room."
"Berk bought it back?" Mike asked.
"First Uncle Joe bought the theater itself from the Shubert Organization. You don't even want to know what he paid them for it. Then he hunted down all the trophies-the artwork, the furniture, the library."
"But why this theater? There's bigger ones in town. Aren't they more profitable?"
"Joe fancied himself a great showman, just like Belasco. And a ladies' man, too," Mona said, looking at me, maybe for the first time. "The baby pink spotlight? Belasco invented it. Made all his girls look good onstage. The first dimmers on a theatrical stage? Again, David's idea to flatter the babes. Meanwhile, he paraded around town in a bishop's robe and white collar. That's all he ever wore."
"Because he was religious?"
Mona dismissed me with a sneer. "Please. His father was Jewish and his mother was a Gypsy from Spain. You can't see Joe's inspiration? Here's Belasco-a guy who came from nothing, yet he was the man who discovered Mary Pickford, Jeanne Eagels and Lillian Gish, Lionel Barrymore and Katharine Cornell. He starred Humphrey Bog-art in a Broadway play in 1929. You wanted to know how I came in without using the front elevator that brought you upstairs?"
"Yeah."
"Belasco had that small lift installed after he moved in. While the performances were going on in the theater, he'd send for his favorite showgirl of the moment-sneak her up by this private elevator-so he could ply her with oysters and champagne in his bedroom and make love to her during the evening. Uncle Joe? Loved that contraption. He's been doing the same thing right up until he croaked, only he was too damn cheap to pay to oil the cables. Everybody backstage knew exactly when he was getting serviced. The code on the keypad never changed. Hit J-O-E and you wind up right in Joe Berk's bed. Impresario and lecher. Lovely legacy for the family, don't you think, Mr. Chapman?"
Mona Berk continued to descend the staircase. "Why don't you throw on some lights?"
"If I knew where they were," Mike answered, following her down the steps, "I'd be happy to."
"That makes two of us," she said, turning to face Mike and putting her hands on her hips. "Now you can probably think like Joe Berk. It's kind of a guy thing. Some sort of gadget, some flashy device that would do the trick more dramatically than an ordinary switch."
"When was the last time you were here?" Mike asked, sensing that Mona's visit was as exploratory as our own.
"It's been years. Since my father died, more than five years ago," she said, pushing aside the folders on the desktop that we had been looking through. "Ah, the Empress Josephine."
She held up a small statuette of Napoleon's consort that was in a cradle next to the telephone. "I'm betting it's her breasts, detective, what do you think?"
Mona Berk pressed on Josephine's chest and the lights went on in wall sconces all around the room. She swiveled the nipples and they dimmed. "At least Uncle Joe was consistent. He never let propriety stand in the way of a quick feel."
"If you're so close to your relatives, why haven't you been here in that long?"
"Close to my cousin, Mr. Chapman. As you can cell from my profound lack of sympathy for the dearly departed, I' didn't have a lot to do with my uncle."
"The business Joe Berk ran, isn't it a family enterprise?" I asked.
"I'm sorry. Did you say your name was Alice?"
"Alexandra Cooper. Alex."
Mona Berk was saving all her charm for Mike. A few months ago it would have worked well for her, but now he wasn't in the mood to respond.
"Family? Don't make me laugh. We're not exactly cut out of the pages of a Louisa May Alcott story," she said, parking herself in her uncle's desk chair. "But that's probably more than you need to know. You want to leave one of your cards for me, Mike? I'll call you if there's any way you can be helpful. Maybe some security for the funeral. That's going to be a mob scene."
"I don't do funerals, Ms. Berk. I'm a homicide cop."
He had Mona's attention now. "Homicide? Briggs told me this was an accident. You said you were here for a routine notification. What are you?"
"The investigation your uncle was helping us with is actually a murder case. Maybe you heard about it on the news today."
"I don't listen to the news. It's too depressing. Who died?"
I looked at Mona Berk, slumped back in the oversize chair, a ribbed turtleneck clinging to the outline of her well-toned body. The bottom of the sweater didn't meet the top of her jeans, and she rubbed the exposed crescent of her flat abdomen with her left hand. The only thing that distracted me from the petulant expression on her face was the large sapphire she sported on her ring finger.
"A dancer. Galinova. She was killed at the Metropolitan Opera House."
"And what does that have to do with Uncle Joe?"
Mike sat on the edge of the desk. "First of all, Ms. Berk, have you ever heard of Galinova?"
"You don't need to be all 'Ms. Berk.' I'm Mona, you're Mike, she's Alice."
"Okay, Mona. Did you ever-"
"Talya? Is that the one they call Talya?"
"Have you ever met her?"
"Nope." Berk was pulling open desk drawers and flipping through piles of paper, fidgeting mostly, rather than examining them like Mike and I wanted to do.
"Did you know anything about her relationship with your uncle?"
"Professional? I didn't think he was into dance."
"How about personal?"
She grimaced. "Spare me the details. A classical ballerina falling for his shtick? So how did she die?"
"She was accosted by someone backstage who got her to a remote hallway upstairs. Tied her hands behind her back and threw her headfirst down an air shaft."
"Awful," she said, covering her mouth with her hand. "That's really awful. Joe had something to do with her?"
"I think she wanted to be in one of his shows," Mike said.
"Which one?"
"See, Mona? We ask you a few simple questions about the family business and you're ready to show me to the door, but now you want answers from us." Mike stood up and motioned me toward the elevator door.
>
"Okay. The Berk Organization. The most dysfunctional family to hit the boards since the Sopranos. What interests you about us?"
"I'm looking for links between your uncle and Galinova. He was with her at the Met just a short time before she died, and witnesses tell us they were arguing. It might have had something to do with a plan she had to work with Joe," Mike said. "Maybe it's my own ignorance about the theater. I always thought that producers were responsible for the creative oversight of a show, and that the rich backers were like silent partners. They didn't really have any influence on the creative side."
"Angels, Mike. You're thinking about angels."
"Well, what was your uncle's role?"
Mona played with the dimmers on Josephine's chest and laughed. "The last thing I'd call Joe is an angel. Not even a dead angel. Anyway, Broadway has changed a lot. The angels are the producers. It's all economics, Mike. It's become so prohibitively expensive to stage a show-millions of dollars in most cases-that raising the money has become a huge burden."
She stood up and started to walk toward the elevator. "You know what you need now to become a great producer? A checkbook. Find material that's worked well before, package some popular talent with familiar names that people will pay big ticket prices to come see. Why do you think revivals dominate the Broadway theater? You don't need ideas to produce them. You just need a deep pocket."
"And Joe Berk had that."
"So now you're going to tell me what show he was talking with Talya about, aren't you?" Mona said to Mike.
"When I find out what it is, I'll let you know."
"If it's anything to do with a story about Evelyn Nesbit and Stanford White, be sure and give me a call," she said, testing Mike now but getting his best poker face. "That project is my idea and nobody's going to steal it from me."
Mona pressed the button and the doors opened. "I take it we're all leaving? I've got to be ready to help my cousin in the morning. That nice young cop at the door won't let anybody in, if that's what you're worried about."
I knew Mike wanted to stay but couldn't come up with a reason to offer Mona Berk. We stepped into the elevator with her.
"Exactly how are you related?" Mike asked.
"My dad was Joe's older brother. Isidore Berk. Izzy."
"He worked with Joe?"
"Yeah, but my dad was the class of the business."
"And you, you're part of the organization?"
"I've got my own office. Around the corner-1501 Broadway. The Paramount Theatre building. Do you know it?"
"Yeah," Mike said. "That great-looking tower with the docks and the globe? Sinatra's old hangout."
We were on the ground floor, in the narrow corridor that led to the street. "Have you seen the house?" Mona asked. "I mean inside the Belasco Theatre?"
She turned the knob and a door marked exit opened. This time, the light switch panel was on the wall and she illuminated the front orchestra of the fan-shaped auditorium. We followed her in and she lowered herself into one of the plush gray seats in the first row.
"Pretty spectacular, isn't it?" Berk said, looking up at the brilliantly painted murals that lined the proscenium and arched over the boxes on stage right and left. "Can you see?"
Mike and I leaned our heads back and studied the ceiling.
"Each portrait is a tribute to one of the great dramatists-Goethe, Moliere, Shakespeare. Those figures over the stage? They're all allegorical. Everett Shinn, the Ash Can School-he was the painter," she said, pointing at the nudes represented against the lush green-and-gold background. "That's Mother Love, sheltering Innocence, and the other? It's Devotion dispelling Grief with a kiss."
That was her only reference to grief since we'd encountered her.
"You know this place well," I said.
"You can't imagine how many hours I spent in Broadway theaters, waiting for my father while he made deals with other producers or tried to sweet-talk actors into coming to work for him. Going to rehearsals and openings, going back again whenever there was a cast change to see if the understudy could handle the part. Going a third or fourth time if a new song was added or a dance number cut. I could probably draw the interior of every one of them from memory."
"Would you mind giving me your number, in case we need to talk with you again?"
"Sure. My cell's the best." She smiled at Mike as she gave it to him.
"Can we see you out?" Mike asked.
"I'm just going to sit here for a while. I think it's my favorite place to be-an empty theater at night. All the artifice is gone, all the things that directors impose on our imaginations. Now it's just a stage that's full of possibilities. We'll hang out-just me and Belasco's ghost."
Mike started for the door ahead of me.
"Hey, Mike," Mona said, "I'll give you something to tell those dancers over at the Met. They know about ghosts?"
Mike wasn't amused.
Mona got up from the seat and walked to the edge of the stage, boosting herself up to sit on it. "Every theater has a ghost. Ask anyone who's ever worked on Broadway. There's a ghost in every house. And now that someone's been murdered there-at the Met-they'll never get rid of it."
It's not the first time, I started to say, but she wasn't playing to me in any event.
"Maybe Joe threatened Galinova. Maybe it's another Belasco trait he tried to imitate."
"What are you talking about, Mona?" Mike asked.
"The theater world thrives on superstition and legend. You won't get anywhere if you don't understand that. Belasco fell in love with one of his actresses. Carter-I think her name was Leslie Carter. He was a total control freak, just like Uncle Joe. Starred her in a lot of plays but wanted complete control of her life, even though he continued to have other mistresses."
Mona went on. "She surprised Belasco by getting married to another man, and he went completely berserk. He forbid her to ever enter this theater again. There was a big row, and she ended it by placing a curse on him-a curse against his vindictiveness."
"Yeah?"
"You ought to find out if Galinova had another lover, Mike. Jealousy-there's something to enrage my uncle, I can promise you that."
"What about the ghost?"
"I'll let you know tomorrow, detective. Rumor has it that all throughout the night you can hear the bloodcurdling screams of Belasco's ghost echoing in this theater," she said, winking at Mike. "I'm just praying I don't have to listen to Joe Berk screaming, too. I spent enough of my life doing that."
13
" Aha! What's the matter with you two? You look like you've seen a ghost," Joe Berk said, propped up against the pillows in his private room at Roosevelt Hospital. "Cats was the longest-running show on Broadway. Fifty million people around the world saw it and what? You jerks didn't make it? Couldn't buy a ticket? Nine lives, baby- just like a cat-and Joe Berk still has five or six to go."
Mike had called me at five in the morning to tell me that the paramedics had revived the self-proclaimed wizard in the ambulance on the way to the emergency room. The cops who had originally notified Mike of Berk's collapse on the street had gone off duty an hour later and never learned that the EMTs had saved the man's life minutes after picking him up. It was only after we'd been home a couple of hours that Mike-struggling with insomnia since Val's death- heard the news story about Joe Berk's rescue on the radio.
Dr. Lin-So Wong, who admitted Berk to the hospital, was standing with us at his bedside at seven a.m. on Monday, explaining to us the effects of electrocution as his patient listened intently. Wong patted the older man's hand and checked the readings of his pulse and blood pressure.
"Mr. Berk is quite fortunate not to have suffered very severe burns. It's the vital organs that are so susceptible to disruption by the flow of the electric current."
"So how come he's alive?" Mike asked.
"Because the EMTs had just finished their pizza in one of those joints on Broadway," Dr. Wong said, pursing his lips into a smile. "Because they were there
within ninety seconds after he went down, and they had a defibrillator on board. A minute more without oxygen to the brain and we'd have a different result."
"I'm walking across the street with my kid, going up to Baldoria for something to eat," Berk said, giving his own version of the events. "You know that scene in the Frankenstein movie where they juice up the monster? You see those lightning bolts flashing when they bring him to life? Lemme tell you, I saw stars when I landed on that manhole cover. I take a few steps, I think to myself, No way Joe Berk is gonna die by frying on top of a goddamn sewer. I deserve better than that."
Mike asked the doctor, "He really kept walking? I thought they'd declared him dead at the scene."
"Very common reaction for an electrocution victim to keep moving for several seconds. Yes, his son said he actually walked a few feet farther and then collapsed. Apparently he'd sustained ventricular fibrillation and went into cardiac arrest. The paramedics were right to think he was dead. If it weren't for the defibrillator on the ambulance, well-"
"Finish the sentence, doc. The lights would be dimmed all up and down the Great White Way tonight, no? Banner headlines everywhere."
Berk looked paler and weaker than he had on Saturday, but hadn't lost much of his moxie.
"He'll be staying with us awhile. He's not out of the woods yet."
"Now they'll really try to kill me. Hospital food."
"What's the danger?" I whispered to the doctor, taking him away from the bedside while Mike looked at Berk's medical chart, copying down his date of birth and some of the legible medical notations.
"Blood offers less resistance to the electrical current than other body tissues. Usually there's a large amount of current that flows through blood vessels, and that can cause damage to the lining. Increases the risk of thrombosis. Stroke is always possible."
"What's your guess? How long will you keep him in?"
"If he doesn't fight it, I'd like him here for the rest of the week."
Death Dance Page 10
