Joe went over to pour, and then they sat at the big table in the center of the room.
Norah nodded at the bank of waist-high windows that covered one wall of the kitchen above a counter. “That’s where we serve the coffee and doughnuts between acts. At ten cents an item. Extra dimes for the kitty.”
“And what do you do with the kitty? Nobody gets paid, do they?”
“Nobody gets paid. But we share the universal dream of all amateur groups—our own theater.” She chuckled. “We found a place we could get, too, for twelve thousand. That’s awfully cheap for this neighborhood. All we need, now, is eleven thousand, nine hundred and fifty-two dollars. We have forty-eight dollars in the bank.”
From the doorway, somebody said, “After four years. That’s twelve dollars a year.”
The man standing in the doorway was the elderly man Joe had seen on the stage. He asked, “Is there more of that coffee?”
Norah nodded toward the stove. “Walter, this is Joe—what was that last name?”
“Joe Burke.” Joe rose to grip the man’s hand.
“Walter Hamilton,” Norah said. “Walter’s our current president. Joe is looking for work.”
Hamilton asked, “Local resident, Mr. Burke?”
Joe nodded. “But I—ah—don’t want to act, or anything. I mean—” What did he mean, that he was lonely?
Hamilton smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. There are so many jobs nobody wants in this organization I’m sure you’ll fit in very well.” He went over to bring a cup of coffee back to the big table.
Norah said, “Walter’s a bleeder. If he’d given as much time to the investment business as he has to amateur theater in his life, he’d be a richer man.”
Hamilton looked at his coffee cup. “That last line I’ll buy. But what about my being a ‘bleeder’? What did you mean by that?”
Norah said, “Give me a cigarette and I’ll tell you.”
Hamilton shook his head. “As long as you seem to have quit buying cigarettes, why don’t you quit smoking?” He threw a pack over to her.
She ignored the last question. “What I meant about your being a bleeder, you worry as much about these productions at a seventy-five cent top as some perfectionist would about a Broadway smash. How good do we have to be at the price?”
“That,” Hamilton said, “was a very stupid remark, and you know it, Norah. Don’t you think Max Reinhardt worked just as hard on little theater work in Salzburg as he did when he became internationally famous?”
Norah chuckled. “Oh, Walter—There is a Reinhardt in the house?”
“Oh, shut up,” he said. He took a deep breath and expelled it. “The painful part is, you’re not really cynical. For three years you’ve been acting like a small caliber Eve Arden. God knows why.”
She said softly, “God and Norah.” She looked up. “What was the fuss about on the stage?”
“Larry and Sharon. They don’t see eye to eye, those two. And now, of course, Sharon has that thirteen weeks at a hundred a week behind her. She’s been a professional.”
“Actress,” Norah added cattily. “Why can’t I get to like her?”
Walter was facing the doorway, and he said, “Come in, Sharon, and have some coffee. Relax.”
Norah gulped. Joe turned to see the redhead looking wonderingly at Norah.
Walter said quickly, “We were talking about relatives, about Norah’s aunt. Is it one of your peeves, too, Sharon?”
Sharon didn’t answer. She came in and went over to rinse out a cup. “Some day I’m going to cut Larry Puma’s throat. Lord, what that man doesn’t know about his profession—”
Walter said mildly, “Well, you were rather—dominating the scene, Sharon. Oh, this is Joe Burke, Sharon Cassidy.”
Joe rose. Sharon gave him a nod and went over to the big range. “There’s an assistant director at MGM we can get for the next one, Walter. I’ve been talking to him about us.”
Norah winked at Walter.
Joe went over to help Sharon with the big pot. Her perfume smelled expensive. And her complexion was as flawless at close range as it had seemed on the stage. She smiled up at him and Joe’s hand trembled as he poured the coffee. This was one of those for whom talent would be lagniappe; she projected all she’d ever need without saying a word or making a gesture.
Norah said, “Joe’s one of our local residents, Sharon. He’s a cop.”
“Oh.” No interest in the voice.
Joe looked at Norah and found her grinning at him. He said, “I was a cop. But I had a rich aunt. So, I retired.” He made a face at Norah.
Sharon said, “Oh, oh. Norah’s been trying to mislead me, again. Like she did with Dick Metzger.”
Walter laughed. Norah turned pale and glared at the redheaded girl. “That was in bad taste.”
Sharon nodded and came over to the table with her coffee. “But a fact. I’ll drop it if you will.” She sat down. “What a turkey we have. Who was responsible for picking this one?”
Walter Hamilton said mildly, “The Board of Directors. Of which I happen to be president. Why did you try out for it, Sharon?”
“I’m beginning to wonder.”
There was the sound of footsteps coming down from the stage into the room beyond. “Here comes his lordship, now,” Sharon said. “He’d better stay out of my hair.”
Larry Puma was a big man, as big as Joe, and he seemed genial enough now as he came in from the next room. “Did you make the coffee, Norah?”
“Yes, boss,” she said in mock humility.
“Then it should be good.” He stopped to smile at Sharon. “Are we friends?”
She looked at him coolly. “Temporarily. Perhaps it just isn’t the proper vehicle for my doubtful talents.”
He put the tip of his index finger on her nose. “I never doubted your talent.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Well, thank you.”
He went over to get a cup. “Or lack of it. Let’s face it, Sharon; you’ve never been interested in really learning your trade. And you’ll probably never have to, the way you project that—that appeal of yours.”
Hamilton coughed. Norah looked at her nails. Joe studied a thumb. A silence grew in the room.
Sharon said, “You—you big, dumb, egotistical—”
Puma turned from the sink to face her. “Look, I wasn’t trying to be nasty. You’ve got what a thousand better actresses would sell out for. And you don’t want to learn anything more.”
Sharon sipped her coffee. “In your opinion. Larry, I’ve learned a thing or two since the last time I worked with this gang.”
Larry raised a hand. “I know. I’ve heard it before. You were at MGM, weren’t you, Miss Cassidy?”
“Mmm-hmm. Ever work there, Larry?” Her voice honey.
“No. I still get my checks at Sam’s Shoe Salon. I will probably die trying to fit a 4-A on a 6-B foot. And you will be the Clara Bow of the frightened ‘fifties. I. will brag about knowing you to my few, impoverished friends. You win, Sharon.”
Norah said, “Maybe Sam will leave you the place, Larry. He can’t live forever.”
They all laughed, including Larry. But Sharon’s laugh wasn’t a pleasant thing to hear.
This redhead, Joe thought, is all bitch. But it doesn’t make a damned bit of difference to me and it won’t to any other male she wants to put out for.
Some others came in after that and Joe was lost in the welter of names and new faces. They went back in to rehearse, after a while, and Joe and Norah were alone in the kitchen.
Norah rose and stretched. “I think I’ll paddle home. I’ll be damned if I’ll wash those cups again.”
“I’ll wash ‘em if you’ll dry,” Joe said. “That Sharon is really nasty, isn’t she?”
“I’m glad you noticed it. You kept your eyes on her enough.”
“Naturally. With a girl like that in the room, all men become—” He shrugged. “Beasts?” Norah offered.
He rose. “Well, beastly, anyway. L
ike when you stretched, before. Same effect. And you knew it.”
She stared at him. “I stretched because I needed to stretch. Just what kind of a girl do you think I am?”
“I haven’t found out yet,” Joe said. “I like you, though, Norah.”
“Likewise,” she said. “Let’s get to the cups.”
He washed; she dried. From the room beyond came the sound of the hammer again, and from the stage came the sound of voices. The windows to the right of them looked out on a flood-lighted concrete patio that held three table tennis tables, all of them being used by teen-agers at the moment.
Norah said, “We use those tables for the cream and sugar when we sell doughnuts. Nice setup, isn’t it? Keeps the counter from getting jammed up.”
He nodded. “Who was Dick Metzger?”
Silence, while Norah studied a cup. Then she immersed it in the soapy water. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just nosy, I suppose. When Sharon mentioned that name, I happened to be looking at you. God, you looked—bleak.”
“You still have to play detective, do you?” Her voice was low. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He was a—a dilettante. He dabbled in art and music and literature—and gullible blondes. He was a very charming, very wealthy, very useless tall and handsome gentleman who drove his Jaguar over the cliff on Chautauqua three years ago.”
“Accident?”
“I suppose.”
“He died?”
“Immediately.”
Joe put a hand on Norah’s forearm. “Serious, huh?”
She was motionless. “I guess it was, Joe.” She took a deep breath. “It wasn’t until he died that we learned he had a wife.”
CHAPTER TWO
NORAH LEFT SOON AFTER THAT, and Joe went back in to watch the rehearsal. They were working on a different scene, and Walter Hamilton sat in one of the chairs along the wall. Joe went over to sit next to him.
Walter whispered, “I’ve been thinking about a job for you, and I know one you can do tomorrow. Someone has to take our placards and posters out to the merchants around town. Would you do that?”
Joe nodded. “I’d be glad to. I suppose, the way Sharon and Larry Puma are getting along, one of them will quit the play.”
Hamilton shook his head. “Larry won’t. And we need Sharon; she does bring the customers in. So we’ll coddle her.” He rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “Four years of headaches for a net of forty-eight dollars. Why do we do it, Joe?”
Joe shrugged. “I’m a Johnny-come-lately, so I don’t know, yet. But it’s kind of—oh, magic, maybe?”
“Illusion,” Walter said. “Like any art. Or like—living. I guess we’d all cut our throats if it wasn’t for our illusions.”
Joe smiled. “Speak for yourself. I’ve been a cop too long to have any.”
“I see.” Hamilton looked at Joe and back at the stage. “You seem to have instilled some in Norah. She showed more interest, tonight, than she has in any male for years. She’s a really fine girl, that Norah Payne, Joe.”
Was it a warning? Joe said, “She seems very nice.”
“She is very nice. But she’s the kind of woman who isn’t complete without a man.”
“Like Sharon?”
Hamilton shook his head. “Sharon doesn’t need men; she needs what they can do for her. Do you want to pick up those placards at my house, or shall I bring them to yours?”
Joe rose. “I’ll pick ‘em up.”
“All right. It’s 19040 Bollinger Drive. I won’t be home after eight in the morning, but someone there will give them to you. Welcome to the Players, Joe.”
“Thanks. I think I’m going to enjoy it.”
Walking home, Joe had a sense of belonging to a community for the first time since high school. It was one of those rare freaks of weather for California, a warm night, the wind coming from the desert. He stood for a moment in the little park across from his house and looked out at the lights of the Santa Monica Bay.
He thought of Norah, but the thought of Sharon crowded Norah from his mind. A tramp she might be, but even Larry Puma had to admit her attraction was immense.
And how did he know she was a tramp? A girl with her face and figure is going to be resented early in life by other girls. And if she has any spirit, she is going to learn to protect herself with the weapons women use on others, a sharp tongue.
And Puma could be wrong about her talent. It didn’t figure that a shoe salesman should know more about theatrical talent than MGM. It didn’t figure right to Joe.
At the time.
It was only ten o’clock and he wasn’t tired. He turned on his television set, but there wasn’t a drama to be found. He snapped it off and went into the study.
His new books stared back at him; his record player stood mutely against the north wall. Through the full-length windows he could see his walled and brick-floored patio. He’d have a party out there for the gang when he got to know them better. And no bologna on unbuttered bread; Sharon could help him plan it.
In high school, in his junior year, he’d been pressured by the drama teacher into playing the part of a college football player, a loud and extroverted character who got his come-uppance in the end.
The school paper had called him “more than adequate” in the role. The drama teacher had overlooked him in subsequent productions, but she was a busy woman. And perhaps because he’d protested so much about his initial appearance she did not have the incentive to force him further.
He stood now, seeing his image in the full-length windows, trying to remember some movie cops he’d sneered at through the years.
He took a deep breath and faced his image squarely. “Look,” he said hoarsely, “so she’s a tramp, huh? So she’s mine, too. Just keep your tongue and your hands off her, understand?”
It wasn’t exactly Bogart, but he’d seen worse. Maybe it would be better to underplay it, like those Limeys. He composed his face and lifted his eyebrows sightly.
“I know she’s no angel, of course. But that’s not your concern. Because, you see, she’s mine—all mine.”
No, no, no. He wasn’t thin enough and superior enough to give that any punch. Let’s see, maybe Dana Andrews like, casual and with undertones. He put a hand in his pocket and smiled wryly.
“We understand each other. Morals?” A chuckle. “I’m not concerned with her morals and I’m sure she isn’t. What makes them your business?”
He wasn’t the most objective critic in the world, but even he had to admit he hadn’t quite brought it off. Well, somebody had to sell the doughnuts and take the signs around and wash the coffee cups.
He took the signs around next morning. The signs stated that A KISS FOR KATE, a three-act play by Roney Scott, would be presented by the Point Players at the Playhouse on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, March 5th to March 7th, inclusive. Admission was only seventy-five cents. All seats.
The merchants were surprisingly agreeable about giving him space in their windows. But after covering all the realtors and filling stations, the two jewelers, both weekly papers, the specialty shops, he still had over a dozen cards left.
Four of these he placed in super-markets in Santa Monica. That should give him a maximum of coverage for a minimum of distribution. The others he placed as strategically as possible in Malibu and Topanga. The posters Norah had painted were for prearranged distribution in focal points in these communities.
Driving back from Malibu, he had to stop for some bathers who were crossing the road, walking to the beach from their car, which was parked on the east side of the highway.
The girl was Sharon Cassidy. The man with her was older, about fifty, tall and slim. The car he’d parked was a new one, a big Chrysler convertible.
In his ‘47 Chev, Joe sat quietly, hoping she wouldn’t look his way. Because the chances were she’d snub him, seeing the car, and though it was a thing he knew, it wasn’t a thing he wanted to find out.
She didn’t
look beyond the radiator ornament. Driving away, Joe tried to analyze the stupidity of his reasoning. Didn’t he have any pride, any dignity? What the hell was it to him what she thought of him, a girl who judged everything and everybody only by the possible advantage to herself?
She means to me, he thought, just what she probably means to that ageing wolf she’s with. Only oftener, because I’m younger.
He had no illusions about girls like Sharon. He kept telling himself.
But there wasn’t any sensible reason why a man of his means should drive a ‘47 car. It looked silly sitting in front of a fifty-thousand-dollar house. The least he should do was get a new Chev or Ford or Plymouth.
He went into Santa Monica that afternoon and bought a new Chrysler convertible, a duplicate, except for color, of the car he’d seen parked on the Pacific Coast Highway that morning.
When he brought it home, he considered leaving it in the driveway at first. But that, he realized, was infantile exhibitionism; he drove it into the garage.
He was frying some eggs when his phone rang. It was Norah. “Did I see you driving a new Chrysler past our office about ten minutes ago?”
“I’ve got one. Where’s your office?”
“On Sunset. I work for the Point Realty Company. Would you like to buy a house?”
“I bought one. Hey, why don’t we go to the beach?”
“That isn’t why I called. Walter told me you’re taking the signs around, and I wanted you to know the posters are ready.”
“I’ll get ‘em. You don’t want to go to the beach?” “I shouldn’t. I’m supposed to show a house at five o’clock.”
“I see. It wouldn’t be good business to put it off?”
A pause. “They aren’t going to buy, I’m almost sure. And any of the other salesmen could show it. I— That’s certainly an impressive car you bought, mister.”
“Then we could go to dinner,” Joe suggested. “And maybe a show or something? It’s a beautiful day, blondie.”
“I know, I know. All right, I’m sold. Pick me up at my apartment in forty-five minutes.” She gave him the address.
It was an apartment house on Sunset, and she was ready and waiting in front when he drove up. She stood on the curb a moment, admiring the car while Joe admired her.
Blood on the Boards Page 2
