“Anytime at all,” Perry agreed. “I’m sure Isaiah will open the store early or stay late if he knows you’re coming.”
Isaiah glared at Perry who smirked from behind the pages of his comic.
Chapter Eight
The temperature outside had dropped fifteen degrees overnight, and without a working heater in my car, my fingers and toes were numb by the time I reached the Bleak Street. To my surprise, the place was bustling. A semi was illegally parked in the street out front, and two panel vans and a pickup truck were crammed into the tiny parking lot behind the building. Luckily, my car was small enough to squeeze into a narrow space between the truck and the Dumpster.
The backstage area trembled from the sounds of power saws, pneumatic nail guns, and rock music blasting over the theater’s sound system. Paint cans, buckets of plaster, and toolboxes cluttered the back hallway. A thick snake of orange electrical cords ran down the center of the hall, and yellow caution tape blocked off the doors to the stage. Usually, the set strike involved a couple of guys with strong backs tearing apart plywood. This seemed like the construction of an entire city.
I tossed my coat and purse on the desk in my office. Actually, ‘office’ was a grand term since the space also doubled as the prop closet/costume room. Although, right now, it looked like a playroom where a pack of adult-sized children had refused to put away their toys. Castoff costumes were piled in a corner, and the plastic bins for smaller props had been upended all over the floor. Because prop master was the least favorite of all my jobs, I had given the cast free access to the room. Which, I now realized, had been a bad idea. If Charles saw this, he’d have a fit.
When Charles stormed through the door, however, he didn’t give the mess a second look. His eyes were bloodshot, and his stubbly chin looked like it hadn’t been shaved since Saturday. “Cassie! Thank God you’re here.” He shoved a sheaf of papers at me. “This is all of the information about the renovations. And these…” he dumped a stack of manila folders on my desk, “…are the bios of the actors auditioning for 16 Voices. Oh, and run down and get me a latte before I have a nervous breakdown.”
“Renovations?” I frowned, mystified. “What renovations?”
My questions went unanswered because he’d already left. “Charles, wait!” I chased him down the hall and into the theater.
The condition of the house stopped me in my tracks. An army of men in coveralls was spreading canvas drop cloths on the slanted floor while others used crowbars on the walnut wainscoting. The seats had been unbolted and stacked along the walls. Scaffolding stretched all the way to the ceiling, allowing workers to drape a protective cloth over the theater’s massive chandelier.
A bulldog of a man demanded that I either don a hardhat or leave immediately, so I slapped on the one he handed me. I strode up to Charles who was shouting at another member of the construction crew. “You can’t tear the stage apart tomorrow! Where am I supposed to hold auditions?” the director wailed.
“Not my problem. Now, either put on a hardhat or get out.” The man walked away, leaving Charles to fume.
“Did you fetch my latte yet?” Charles demanded when he noticed me.
“Not until I get some answers.”
He sighed and motioned for me to follow him. When we reached his office, he shut the door. “Do you see this?” He pointed to his head. “Since Saturday night, my gray hairs have doubled.” He rubbed his unshaven cheek. “The entire renovation is to be completed in time for the opening of 16 Voices. Which is now in three weeks instead of six.”
My jaw dropped.
Charles nodded at my stunned expression. “Yes, it’s madness I know, but Hedda wants Victor out of her hair. The sooner his play is staged, the sooner he’ll return to New York.”
Having met the pompous blowhard, I understood why Hedda wanted him gone. But still. “Why on earth is she renovating now? Why not wait until after he leaves?”
“Victor said that any theater staging his play must meet Stuyvesant standards.”
I tried to estimate how much money Hedda was spending on the project but gave up after the first half a million. “Why is she so intent on impressing Victor Stuyvesant of the New York Stuyvesants?” I couldn’t say this without rolling my eyes.
“Don’t mock him, Cassie. He’s a very powerful person.” Charles shut his office door. “Victor could buy and sell both Hedda and her ex-husband five times over. He runs the largest grieve in the eastern United States. Perhaps in the entire country.”
I frowned. “Grieve?”
Charles blanched and stuttered before quickly recovering. “It’s an old-fashioned word for business organization. Victor made Bertrand Peabody the person he is today, and in turn, Bertrand made Hedda who she is. Both Hedda and her ex-husband are very indebted to him. Bertrand and Victor are close allies, but Hedda and Victor frequently butt heads. Still, now that Victor is here, Hedda insists that we must all do whatever we can to keep him happy.”
As I digested this bad bit of news, Charles rubbed his forehead and grit his teeth. “Gods, this headache is going to be the end of me.” He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and withdrew a bottle of aspirin and a fifth of bourbon. “Join me?”
“It’s only ten in the morning!”
“Yes, but I’ve been here all night.” When I declined, he shrugged and downed a handful of aspirin with a swig from the bottle. “I have a feeling that this is going to be a very long three weeks.” He squinted at the bottle then threw back another swallow. “I only hope Hedda remembers how hard I’m working for her.”
“You better slow down. I’m pretty sure being drunk on the job won’t improve her opinion of you.”
To my relief, he screwed the cap back on the bottle. “What would I do without you and your level head?” He raised his voice to an onstage level. “Blest are those whose blood and judgment are so well commingled!” Then he wilted and sank down into his chair. “Ah, hell. What does it matter how hard I work? Last night, Hedda made it clear who her favorite is. No doubt, Luquin is reaping his rewards right now.”
I’d witnessed Charles’s mercurial moods swing from exhilaration on opening night to outrage during rehearsals, but I’d never seen him this defeated. When he unscrewed the cap again and tilted the bottle to his mouth, I stopped him. “I’ll hire on as stage manager on two conditions.”
His expression brightened. “Anything!”
“First, you’ve got to stop drinking.”
He gave me a sour look, but stashed the bottle back in the drawer. “Fine. What’s the second?”
I took a deep breath. “I want to audition for a part in 16 Voices.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Cassandra, but those auditions are closed.”
The lines I’d read the night before had been playing and replaying in my mind all morning, and I was desperate to get a part. “Please, Charles. I’ll beg if I have to.”
He pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment. “Okay, why not?” he finally said. “But we’ll have to do it here since the stage is wrecked.”
“No problem.” I grinned when he handed me a script. “I’ll read for Voice Five.” It was the one I’d rehearsed the night before.
Charles settled himself behind his desk and nodded for me to continue.
I stood and gave myself a moment to channel the character. Then, roughing my voice as if about to cry, I began. “‘A week after two pink lines showed up on the home pregnancy test, I saw my boyfriend making out with my best friend.’ ”
I read a few more lines before Charles stopped me. “Okay. Thank you.”
My heart sank at the familiar tone of voice. Still, I had to ask. “Is that, ‘Thanks, you’ve got the part’? Or ‘Thanks, don’t call us, we’ll call you’?”
Charles’s expression didn’t change.
My spirits plunged. “Right.” Swallowing back tears, I surrendered the script. “I guess I’ll go clean up the mess in the prop closet.” I started towards the door, then stopped. Without turn
ing around, I asked, “What’s wrong with me, Charles?”
I desperately wanted him to say that I’d be in the spotlight again someday. That all I had to do was work a little harder. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry, Cassie. I truly am. You really were a wonderful actress.”
Were a wonderful actress. My heart, which had been lying on the floor, fell down the stairs and into the basement.
Charles said, “If you don’t want the stage manager position, I understand.”
My shoulders slumped. “No, I’ll take it. At least I’ll be in a theater.”
“Good for you! Illegitimi non carborundum. Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”
Yeah, right. Easy for him to say.
I retreated like a whipped dog down the hallway and into my office. I needed to face facts. At the ripe, old age of twenty-three, my career was over. King Lear had been both my debut and swansong.
Struggling to keep my tears in check, I began placing some costumes on hangers and others in a ‘needs to be laundered’ pile.
“Cassie?” My least-favorite actor stood in the doorway.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “What do you want, Darryl? And before you ask, I’m not giving you Tabitha’s number; I don’t know any agents who are taking on new clients; and your paycheck has already been mailed out.” These were answers to the top three questions he always pestered me with.
He blinked. “I’m looking for Charles. Do you know where he is?”
I threw a pair of shoes into a bin. “Around here somewhere.”
“Okay. Sorry to bother you.”
He sounded so subdued, contrite, and completely un-Darryl-like that I finally gave him my full attention. To my surprise, his gangsta wannabe look had disintegrated into a bum sleeping in an alley look. His complexion was sallow, and the skin beneath his eyes looked bruised. His long hair, usually carefully styled, had grown stringy.
When I saw that he was barefoot, I really started to worry. “Where are your shoes?”
He glared at me, a little of his Darryl-ness returning. “You puked on them, remember?”
“Yes, but you do own more than one pair, right?”
He looked down at his grimy feet, surprised. “I guess I forgot to put them on this morning.”
No one forgets to put on shoes. Especially not with the temperature hovering at twenty-five degrees. Then I recalled a time, about four months ago, when I’d walked over a mile from my house to the Bleak Street before remembering that the theater was twelve miles away. I’d even had my car keys in my hand. I’d simply walked past my vehicle without remembering to get inside.
When I met Darryl’s empty gaze, I finally recognized his ravaged appearance. Those bewildered eyes, that overly pale complexion…this was what I’d seen in my own bathroom mirror every morning in the weeks following my Cipher audition.
Not taking my eyes off of him, I laid aside the Dracula cape that I’d been folding. “What happened to you?”
His eyes jerked from mine. “Nothing happened to me.”
“Are you sure?” I thought back to the weekend. He’d been his oily, Darryl self after the curtain fell on Saturday’s performance, and he’d been an obnoxious ass at the bar. Then, afterwards… A sudden flashback swept me to Saturday night. My breath caught. “Something happened to you in the alley next to the Lamplighter.”
Fear flickered in Darryl’s eyes. Then his face shut down like he’d been unplugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m fine. I had a little bit of a hangover on Sunday, that’s all.” His hand crept to his neck, and his fingers explored the underside of his jaw.
It was the same gesture I’d made a thousand times after my audition at the Cipher when I couldn’t keep my fingers off those twin spider bites. Seeing Darryl do it overwhelmed me with panic. Stars exploded before my eyes. “GET OUT!” I shouted loud enough to drown out the Led Zeppelin blasting on the auditorium’s speakers. “Leave! Right now!” I bullied him into the hallway and slammed the door.
The monster prowling behind the locked door of my mind bellowed. My panic surged. I sank to the floor and covered my head with my arms. When I started to shiver, I grabbed the costume closest to me and pulled it around my shoulders to keep warm. It was the black suit jacket Andrew had worn onstage, and it smelled of him, a little musky, but familiar. I buried my face in the sleeve, wishing Andrew was with me right now. My fingers sought out the necklace he’d given me, and I tried to channel its good energy into my psyche. Slowly, I relaxed and leaned my head back against the wall.
When Charles barged in, he blinked in surprise. “Are you all right?”
“I’m tired, that’s all,” I said. Feeling foolish, I tossed the suit jacket into the ‘needs to be cleaned’ pile.
“Victor’s finally arrived. He wants to discuss staging, and I’d like you to sit in.”
I dragged myself off the floor and followed Charles into the auditorium where, mercifully, the crew was taking a lunch break and both the pneumatic tools and the music had fallen silent.
“Have you heard from Andrew?” Charles asked. “I want to give him first pick of the roles.”
My spirits dimmed even more. I had sent him several more texts and had even called, but I hadn’t heard from him yet. “No.”
Ignoring the ‘hardhat area’ signs, we picked our way towards the back of the demolished house. Victor sprawled in one of the few remaining seats still bolted to the floor. Today, he wore dark glasses, a fedora, and a dancer’s black leotard that clung so tightly to his torso that his ribs stood out like pickets on a fence. His skin was so pale it nearly glowed. He wore the lazy, satisfied smile of a spoiled monarch whose every need had been sated.
Darryl stood in attendance. He must have raided the costume donations box for his bare feet were covered by a pair mismatched loafers. He hovered at Victor’s elbow, reciting his curriculum vitae. “Before County Dracula, I played waiter number six at the Gem Theatre, and before that, I was a clown in a Hal Leonard Chevy commercial. Then…”
Victor cut him off with an imperious wave. “Who gave this spoiled piece of meat permission to audition for my play?”
“Hedda invited him,” Charles said. He eyed Darryl’s shoes with some misgiving. “She usually has good instincts.”
“Not this time, she doesn’t. He’s deplorable. Get rid of him.”
Darryl’s shoulders slumped, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. He looked so dejected that I actually felt sorry for him. “Shouldn’t we at least let him read? After all, Hedda did want him to audition.”
Victor peered over the tops of his glasses. His pupils were unsettlingly large, swallowing up all the color in his irises. “Ah, it’s Luquin Astor’s number one fan. That was quite a performance you gave last night.”
I ducked my head, my cheeks hot.
“Don’t be embarrassed. That god-awful exhibit was enough to make anyone scream and run.”
Charles frowned at me. “What were you doing at the Muse yesterday?”
“My sister catered the opening,” I said. “I was waitressing for her.”
“Too bad you weren’t invited, Charles.” Victor’s voice dripped with false sympathy. “Luquin can’t paint worth a damn, but he handled the stress of the induction quite well. Hedda was very proud of him.” His smile widened. “I’d say she picked the right man for the honor.”
Charles flushed and his lips thinned.
Victor sat up a little straighter. “Now, about 16 Voices. I want each of the actors wearing wire harnesses so that they can fly about the stage.”
Andrew would love the wire fu – he had made me watch Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon with him at least a dozen times – but I envisioned a nightmare of tangled wires and injured actors.
I expected Charles to explode, or at least comment, on the impossible staging, but he didn’t. Though his smile tightened into a grimace, he nodded his assent. “Make a note of that, Cassie.”
I shook my head. “You know that w
e can’t have sixteen actors on harnesses at the same time! That’s an air traffic accident waiting to happen!”
The director spoke through gritted teeth. “Just make a note.”
Victor smiled. “Very good. Now then, the pen for the menagerie will be built stage left.”
I looked up from my notepad, stunned. “Menagerie? Like in live animals?”
“Of course. And at center stage, I want someone to construct a giant mouth that the actors can fly in and out of.”
No way could this guy be for real. Not even the County Dracula director had been so outrageous. I glanced at Darryl who looked equally perplexed.
When Victor began talking about how every one of the sixteen actors would have twenty, completely different, costume changes, I couldn’t keep quiet. “Is this a joke?”
“Cassandra!” Charles made a desperate, slicing motion with his hand. “If Victor wants costume changes, that’s what we’ll have.”
I clamped my mouth shut and continued to make notes. Victor’s lack of aesthetic was making my head ache. I swore he was making up things as he went along.
Finally, even Charles had enough. Keeping the overly tight smile screwed to his face, he began patting his pockets, looking for his cigarettes. “Cassie, would you take over for a bit? If you want me, I’ll be outside having a smoke.” He nearly ran from the auditorium, letting the doors bang shut behind him. I was pretty sure he was headed to the parking lot to indulge in some primal-scream therapy. God knew I wanted to do the very same thing.
Instead of becoming angry that his director had left, Victor smiled. “I suppose that means you’re in charge now,” he said to me.
“I guess.” Wasn’t today my lucky day? “Can we go back to the staging for a minute? I have a couple of questions. When we did County Dracula…”
“You worked on that play?” Victor asked.
“I was the stage manager.”
“And I was Renfield,” Darryl piped up. “Helga loved my performance.”
“That’s Hedda,” Victor corrected sharply, making Darryl cringe. The playwright looked back at me. “As the stage manager, what was your main job?”
Stage Fright (Bit Parts) Page 9
