“Maybe. I’ve got a feeling this is one of those merry-go-rounds where everybody looks guilty and nobody gets indicted. But I’ve been lucky on the last three; that should carry me through a flop.”
“This one’s big, though, Ernie.”
“You’re telling me? Don’t remind me.”
Joe laughed, and stopped laughing at Krivick’s stricken look.
The steak was juicy and flavorful, the salad fine. Joe had made garlic bread and Krivick ate most of that. As Joe poured the coffee, Krivick leaned back and loosened his belt. “That was some meal, Joe. What a life.”
“You wouldn’t trade it for your three daughters, would you?”
Krivick grinned. “Hell, no. God, that youngest one’s going to be a beauty. And bright! No, Joe, I wouldn’t trade you.”
They did the dishes together, and it was only a little after seven. But Joe said, “Maybe they’ll need some help to set up the chairs. We’d better go now.”
There were two hundred chairs set up when they got there, and that should have been more than enough. A paid attendance of a hundred was an exceptional opening night. Tonight the two hundred chairs were filled an hour before curtain time.
Norah was there to handle the lights and she helped Joe and Pete Delahunt set up more chairs. Krivick got into the spirit of it, as the customers continued to pour in, and Krivick hauled the additional chairs from the shed behind the clubhouse.
“Ghouls,” Norah said. “But they’re all paying. Maybe some of them will like the play enough to come again.”
“We live in hope,” Pete Delahunt agreed. He turned to Joe. “That sergeant’s a pretty good guy, isn’t he?” Joe nodded.
“I suppose he’s working, though?” Pete said. “This isn’t a social call.”
Joe nodded again. “He’s always working.” Then he looked past Pete toward the doorway. Krivick was standing there, talking to a man and a woman.
Joe didn’t recognize the woman. But the man was Ray Brennan.
There was a total paid attendance of four hundred and ninety, a new opening night record.
Krivick came over to sit next to Joe in the last row of chairs along the back wall. Joe asked him, “Is that Brennan’s wife with him?”
“That’s her. Maybe she came to see Puma, eh?”
“Or maybe it was Brennan’s idea,” Joe suggested, “though I didn’t mention anything to him but Lonnie Goetz.”
“He can read,” Krivick said, “and your name’s been in the paper in connection with this murder. Hey, look at that.”
Two rows ahead of them, Larry Puma was sitting down next to Mrs. Brennan. Ray leaned over to welcome him as he sat down.
And then the lights were dimmed, and the curtain was going up.
Joe had seen it in fits and starts and pieces; this was his first view of it as a unified, dramatic whole. Larry had given it all the meaning the author had written into it—and more. It moved, it sparkled, it made sense.
As the lights went on, at the end of the first act, Krivick said, “This is almost as good as Boston Blackie. This bunch is okay, right?”
“Right, Ernie. How about some coffee and a doughnut? I’ll buy.”
Out in the patio, they were joined by Norah and Larry Puma. Then Krivick asked Puma, “Would you come around the corner here for a minute? I’ve a few questions.”
As they walked around the end of the building with their coffee and doughnuts, Joe noticed Brennan watching them from in front of the counter. Then Brennan’s roving glance came to Joe, and he waved.
Norah said, “Who’s the man with white hair?”
“His name is Brennan. He’s a former narcotics king.”
“You do have the nicest friends.”
Joe thought of Dick Metzger. He said nothing.
“And why,” Norah went on, “does your friend want to talk to Larry Puma?”
“I don’t know, honey. The play’s going all right, isn’t it?”
“Beautifully. Here comes your white-haired friend and his girl.” Norah lighted a cigarette. “He certainly doesn’t look like a—a criminal.”
Brennan introduced Joe to his wife, and then Joe introduced both of them to Norah. Mrs. Brennan was a brunette, thirty years her husband’s junior. She was a pretty woman and pleasant enough.
As the warning lights flashed for the second act, Ray said, “Would you wait a moment, Joe? I’d like a few words in private.”
After the others had gone back in, Brennan said quietly, “That question you asked me yesterday, did it have something to do with what happened here a few nights ago?”
Joe hesitated and then nodded. “One of the suspects in the case used to know Lonnie.”
Brennan smiled. “Mmmm-hmmm. She used to live with him. I recognized her as soon as I saw her up on that stage. What’s she doing in a fly-blown outfit like this?”
Joe shrugged. “What’s Larry Puma doing here? He has plenty on the ball, too.”
“That’s what my wife’s been trying to tell me. Chloe used to be in the theater. If burlesque is theater. I had a feeling, at first, this Puma was back-dooring me. But I guess he’s on the level. What do you think, Joe?”
“I like him, though I don’t know him very well. I just joined this group a week ago.”
“Joined? Is that why you’re messing in this murder? You belong to this gang?”
Joe nodded. “Why else would I be here? I left the Department when I inherited that money.”
Brennan finished the last of his coffee and set the cup on one of the Ping-pong tables. “I see, I see. I’d never played pigeon before, Joe, and it worried me. And then after you’d left, I realized there might be a possibility Lonnie was alive. I saw him go up the ramp to the plane, sure. But when there wasn’t any insurance, and—well, I knew there was a very remote possibility he could have come down from the plane again, after I stopped looking. I mean, if he is alive, I want to know it. Do you know, Joe?”
“I don’t know. There was a rumor that he was alive and in town. His widow claims he’s dead, and the first rumor might not have been reliable.”
“A stoolie?”
“Could be. I don’t know.”
Brennan took a deep pull of his cigarette and dropped it to the concrete. “Well, Chloe will be wondering where I am. That redhead, that Sharon, sure reaches out across those lights, doesn’t she?”
“She’s got it,” Joe agreed. “She’s come a long way from Lonnie Goetz.”
Brennan smiled. “I wouldn’t say that. Lonnie was never tight with his women and this Sharon can’t be making much here. Stay sober, Joe.” He patted Joe’s arm and walked off toward the door to the auditorium.
Larry Puma was picking up the discarded paper cups and putting them into a garbage can. Joe went over to help him.
Larry looked puzzled. “Was that true what the sergeant told me? Is Chloe’s husband a racketeer?”
“Not any more. He’s retired. He used to be the big man in the local narcotics trade. Is it true what Brennan told me, that Chloe was in burlesque?”
“For two months. Did he also mention she’d worked with the Lunts for two years?”
“No.”
“He wouldn’t. Why Chloe should marry that bag of bones is beyond me.”
Joe laughed. “Not too far beyond you, I hope. Have you ever been up to his house?”
“Yes. Once. A party. That still doesn’t answer my question. There are wealthy, decent men, too, you know.”
“And plenty of willing women to snag them. Larry, I never thought I’d have to tell you to grow up.”
Larry dumped a handful of discarded napkins into the can. Joe brought over the soiled paper spoons he’d collected. From the auditorium, a murmur of laughter ran through the audience.
Puma began to collect the sugar bowls. “I think I’ve had enough of this. Is that what you meant by growing up?”
“You know it isn’t. I meant facing certain realities, and one of them is that women appreciate security.”
“Appreciate it? They worship it. It’s their god. So the men scramble and scratch and cut each other’s throats. Is that natural for men?”
“I guess not, Larry. You’re bitter tonight.”
“Sure. I worked on this play. I brought out qualities in it even the author didn’t intend. It’s a piece of fluff, but I’m proud of the job I did on it, if you’ll pardon the immodesty.”
“I’ll pardon it. What’s your point?”
“Only this—what comes across, what projects most vividly of all?”
“You tell me.”
“Sharon. Her red hair and her fine bust and that throaty, phony, burlesque huskiness of hers. That’s what the audience gets. This audience, at least. I’ve been watching them, and she’s it, to them.”
Joe wanted to smile, but he didn’t. He said, “And then your Chloe with that bag of bones and Krivick dragging you around the corner like a thief. This has been a bad night for you, Larry. Tomorrow will be better.”
Larry looked at him scornfully. “Cut out the Pollyanna crap, will you? Tomorrow we work until nine o’clock at Sam’s Shoe Salon. Tomorrow I sit at the feet of women for eleven hours.”
Joe brought the sugar bowls and cream pitchers to the counter for refilling. Walter Hamilton’s wife, Jean, smiled at him. “Thank you. Larry in another of his moods?”
“He’s in a mood. Does this happen often?”
“No oftener than it does to any of us. Larry’s more vocal.” She began to rinse out the cream pitchers. “And more talented, which makes it worse, I suppose.”
“Does it happen to Walter?”
She sighed. “Only rarely. Walter’s older and more—adjusted.”
“I suppose,” Joe said, “a playhouse of their own would make them all happy.”
She was pouring sugar. “It would help.” She looked up quickly. “Joe Burke, you weren’t thinking of— You—” She stared at him, out of words.
“Just this second, and only for a second. Forget I mentioned it.”
She nodded, studying him. “You used the word ‘playhouse.’ Did you say that instead of ‘theater’ for a reason? Children, playing games—was that your thought?”
“Not consciously. There’s nothing wrong with children playing games, is there? I like the picture. Jean, if you tell Walter I made that slip about your own theater, I’ll—”
She smiled at him. “Yes, officer. It’s our secret.” She blew him a kiss.
Larry had gone back into the auditorium; Joe went in to find his chair next to Krivick again.
Krivick whispered, “Say, you know, this is all right. I figured, with amateurs and all, you know, it would be corny, but—”
From the row ahead, a lady turned to glare at them. From the other end of their row, someone said, “Ssshhh!”
Krivick nudged Joe. “Commies. I’ll have McCarthy investigate ‘em.”
The second act went on smoothly, the Puma touch evident in every line and gesture and piece of business. But it was in Sharon’s scenes that the silence was most nearly absolute, the audience reaction most nearly immediate.
The second act curtain went down to a solid wall of applause.
“That redhead,” Krivick said, “what a dish.” He stood up. “Let’s go out and have a cigarette.”
In the patio, Pete Delahunt joined them. He was looking happy. “I can guess why they came, but some of them are going to come back. What a job Larry’s done on this turkey.”
“Fine,” Joe agreed. He looked over toward the doorway where Larry and the Brennans were pleasantly chatting.
Krivick said, “If you ask me, that redhead’s carrying the whole show.”
Pete Delahunt looked pained. Joe said, “I’m glad I didn’t ask you, Ernie.”
“So I’m out of order,” Krivick said. “I ain’t had your long experience in the theater, Mr. Burke. I’ll buy the coffee.” He went over to the counter.
Delahunt asked, “Anything new on the—” He stopped.
“Nothing much.”
Delahunt was watching Krivick at the counter. “Alan Dysart moved into his uncle’s house today. So he must be the heir. I didn’t see anything in the paper about it, though.”
“Dysart’s attorneys aren’t the kind that need cheap publicity, probably.”
Krivick came with the paper cups full of coffee. “You guys want doughnuts, too?”
Joe shook his head. Pete asked, “Does this mean I’m in the clear, Sergeant? You wouldn’t buy coffee for a killer, would you?”
Krivick smiled. “You’re as clear as anybody, I guess. Especially since you’re scared of firearms.”
Pete stared at the sergeant. “How’d you know that?” Krivick didn’t answer.
Joe laughed. “What do you think cops do with their time, Pete? They work, work, work.”
“So they work. But there were two people in the world who knew that about me.”
“And now there are three,” Joe said. “Four, with me. Ernie isn’t much of a dramatic critic, but he knows his trade. He’s no amateur.”
“Keep talking,” Krivick said. “I can use the publicity.”
The warning lights went on and off and on; they went in for the third act.
The illusion was constant, the magic continued. A shoe clerk’s polish on a hack’s bit of nothing given meaning by part-time players under the shadow of the basketball backboard.
A small glimmer in a dark night. Joe fingered the bandage on his skull, proud of his seven stitches.
Six curtain calls and then some of the audience headed for the doors; the others went up to the stage to congratulate the players.
Norah came out from the light booth and headed their way.
Krivick said, “This blonde coming over; that’s for you, huh, Joe?”
“If she’ll have me.”
“With your dough? Well, I’d better be getting home. The missus will be waiting. Thanks for the meal and the show and the beer, Joe.”
“You’re welcome. If I learn anything interesting, I’ll get in touch with you, Ernie.”
“Do that.” Krivick nodded at Norah, coming up, and went past her, toward the door.
Norah said, “It came off, didn’t it? It played beautifully.”
“It did to me. I’m no judge.”
“For a turkey like this, you’re an excellent judge. Wasn’t it great? Aren’t you excited? Where’s Larry?”
“It was great. I’m not excited. Larry’s talking to the white-haired man and his wife, over there near the door.”
“Oh, that Brennan person. She’s nice, though, isn’t she?”
“Two years with the Lunts,” Joe said. “And two months in burlesque. Larry thinks she’s special.”
“Well, then, she is. Larry’s bright about people. We ought to have a party, Joe. Wouldn’t you like a party?”
“I’ve a house full of liquor,” Joe agreed. “You invite the people you want. But not Ray Brennan. I don’t want him in my house.”
“All right. I’ll invite all the people I want. And Sharon, too. She does register, doesn’t she, Joe? She does project.”
Joe lied with a shrug. “I’ve seen too many of the type.”
Norah put a hand on his lips. “That was nice. I’ll go ask the gang.”
It came off better than his Department party. Pete Delahunt brought mix from the local liquor store and Smith picked up a carful of chop suey from the Chinese restaurant.
They danced, they gabbed, they drank and ate and argued and laughed and forgot the time clock waiting for them.
Norah said, “Actors make fine parties. I suppose because parties are an illusion, too.”
“I’m trying to follow you,” Joe said, “but I’ve had a lot of whisky.”
“I mean parties are pretending we’re gay and bright and adventurous, even though we’re not really any of those things.” She moved close to him. “Dance with me again. Where did you learn to dance?”
“At the Palladium. Where did you?”
/> “At dancing school. Why is it that people learn it better at public dance halls?”
“They give it more time. I used to dance three nights a week.”
“You must know lots of girls.”
“Too many.”
“Weren’t you ever in love, Joe?”
“Not since I left high school. Not until a few days ago.”
She looked up at him, and he kissed her, and next to them Pete Delahunt said, “None of that.” He was dancing with Jean Hamilton, and Jean held a small clenched fist aloft in approbation.
Then Leonard Smith cut in, saying, “I’m just drunk enough not to give a damn about my height. Let’s give it a whirl, Norah.”
Joe grinned at both of them and went out into the kitchen. Sharon was in there, sitting in the breakfast nook with Walter.
Hamilton said, “Fine liquor you serve, sir. Is my wife behaving?”
“She’s dancing with Pete.” Joe mixed himself a drink and brought it over to the nook. He slid in next to Walter. “Having a good time?”
“With this kind of whisky? Who wouldn’t?” Walter looked at Sharon. “But our ingénue seems to be sulking.”
“Nobody in there misses me, I’m sure,” Sharon said. “Who were those people Larry was talking to at the play, Joe?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Ray Brennan.”
Sharon nodded. “I thought I remembered him. Are they friends of Larry’s?” “I guess.”
Sharon smiled. “That should be interesting to Sergeant Krivick.”
Joe said nothing. Walter asked, “Am I missing something I should be getting?”
Sharon patted Walter’s hand. “Nothing. Why don’t we dance?”
Hamilton slid out. “It will be an honor and a pleasure, at least for me.”
They went out through the doorway to the dining-room.
A few seconds later, Larry and Norah came through from the entrance hall. Larry was a little unsteady on his feet.
He said, “Behold the sulking host. Fine whisky, Joe.”
“My feet wouldn’t take any more of it,” Norah said. “I brought him in here. Why aren’t you mixing with your guests, sir?”
Larry slid in next to Joe; Norah sat across from them.
Joe said, “I was mixing with my guests. They just went in to dance. How are you feeling, Lady Norah?”
Blood on the Boards Page 13
