Fatal Gambit

by Ray Flynt

  She returned to the dining table, picked up a burgundy scarf and arranged it at her neckline.

  Brad stepped across the hall and gave Zane the information along with Harriet’s recollection of his grandmother’s wishes.

  Harriet suggested the three of them have lunch at Ezekiel’s Café, the same restaurant where Lillian had met Ken the day before. Brad’s normally talkative aunt grew somber in spite of Sharon’s best efforts to raise topics that might provoke her interest. He recalled childhood admonitions from her against playing with his food, but that’s exactly what Harriet was doing now—rearranging her salad Niçoise.

  Brad cleared his throat. “I understand you heard a few bumps in the night?”

  Harriet shot Sharon a sour glance and kept spearing her salad.

  “Oh, come on Aunt Harriet, I’ve never known you to hold back. Don’t start now.”

  She stared at him. “You sound just like your father.”

  “Well, then I’d be in good company.”

  Harriet snorted.

  “What did you hear?”

  Her shoulders heaved. “That’s just it…nothing specific. Noise. Maybe a door opening and closing. Perhaps a voice.” She scowled at Sharon again. “I should have kept quiet. It’s probably nothing.”

  Brad grinned at Sharon. “You may be right, Aunt Harriet. To ease your mind, I’ll check with the Medical Examiner’s Office just to make sure.”

  Harriet managed a faint smile.

  Brad resumed eating, but it wasn’t long before his aunt shoved her salad around her plate again. He touched her arm. “There’s still something bothering you from your conversation with Lillian.”

  She dropped her fork. “It wasn’t just her grandson’s breakup that worried her. A few years back, Zane got in trouble with…” She glanced about and whispered, “Drugs. Almost killed him. He went bankrupt. Ken talked Zane into rehab.”

  Brad knew the contours of the story from Sharon’s reading of the magazine article.

  “For the last couple of years, Zane seemed his old self. She noticed a change this past month. He called less, only stopped by to visit once, and acted secretive—those are Lilly’s words.”

  “Him not wanting to tell her about the breakup could explain all of that,” Sharon said.

  Harriet pursed her lips. “It was more serious. Lilly worried drugs had reentered his life.”

  Brad put down his fork and looked directly at her. “I know you, Aunt Harriet. You have another concern.”

  She sniffled. “Now that Zane inherits her estate, I’d hate to see it used to support his habit again.”

  “Be nicer than necessary to everyone you meet. Everyone is fighting some kind of battle.”

  Socrates

  470 BC – 399 BC

  10

  Zane arrived early at the stage door for his 4 p.m. meeting with Ralph Lundgren and Hector Morales. He shed his coat backstage, wishing his anxiety would peel away as easily. No performances were scheduled, but the set and light designers were busy making last-minute adjustments.

  He found Cody and Cassie Zimmerman on the stage admiring a new painting above the fireplace.

  “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Hi Zane,” Cody said. “With the change in furniture, Hector thought we needed contemporary artwork in place of the traditional ones. Cassie channeled her inner Jackson Pollock to create this masterpiece in vivid primary colors.”

  Zane gave Cassie a thumbs up. “It looks great. I should commission you to do a painting for our apartment.”

  She blushed. “We can talk about it.”

  Gambit marked the Zimmermans’ first design job in NYC. They’d toiled in regional theatre paying their dues for the last fifteen years. A Broadway transfer would boost their careers.

  Lighting designer, Rhonda Terranova, climbed down from a ladder at the stage left corridor where she’d finished aiming a couple of LED lighting specials. “It will look even better when I add a portrait light.”

  Zane crossed the stage, stopping in his tracks when he saw the digital message strip hidden by plants at the front of the apron.

  Son of a bitch!

  They were feeding the weatherman his lines. If Aaron knew, why the fuck hasn’t he told me about this? Buddy Neil had breezed through his lines the night before with help from a teleprompter.

  Zane slumped into a seat in row K awaiting the arrival of the lead producer and director. He stared at the stage. Everything looked a blur. Through the French doors, he focused on the lap pool Cody and Cassie had designed. Using traps in the stage floor, they’d created the illusion of a tile-lined edge, and evoking crystal blue water with paint. Rhonda made it shimmer with her lighting effects. Shame not to take advantage of the pool. He mulled an idea for a script change.

  Ralph Lundgren and Hector Morales entered from backstage at precisely 4 p.m.

  Those two are up to no good. They’ve been strategizing.

  Ralph waved. “Good to see you.”

  As Ralph moseyed up the aisle, Zane said, “You made it out of Chicago.”

  “Yeah, but I might not be able to return if reports of this snowstorm due to hit tomorrow are true.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find somebody to do in this backwater town.”

  Ralph laughed. “Glad you’re in such good spirits. It’ll make our meeting go smoothly.”

  Ralph and Hector sat on either side of him—one seat of separation between. They all faced the stage. There wouldn’t be lots of eye contact, which suited Zane fine.

  “I’m not in good spirits gentlemen, my grandmother died this morning.”

  They both offered their condolences. Ralph suggested postponing the meeting.

  “No. Let’s get to it.”

  Ralph cleared his throat. “We’re here because of you. Hector tells me you haven’t watched the show since Saturday afternoon.”

  “I saw it last night.” Zane turned to Hector. “I came incognito. Overall, I was pleased with what I saw. Good audience response. The laugh lines landed. They got quiet when I hoped, and gasped at the surprises. Is there still a rehearsal scheduled for Thursday afternoon?”

  Hector nodded.

  Zane took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I have a couple of script modifications I’d like to make—”

  “Whoa.” Hector held up his hands. “It’s getting late for changes.”

  “Hear me out. Most of this affects Pawn…Doug can handle it. When the lights come up on scene two, I’d like Pawn to be missing, then have him rise out of the pool wearing a Speedo. We’ll have to wet his hair and spritz him to create the illusion. When he wanders back into the house, he can troop off to the bathroom, return with a towel, and we’ll add a line for him to Rook about not finding any condoms.”

  Hector laughed. “That might work.”

  “Doug and Cicely have great chemistry,” Zane added.

  “They’re dating in real life. Met at Carnegie Mellon.”

  That was the first Zane had heard about it, but no surprise. “After his trip to the bathroom, Pawn stands at the kitchen island, towels off, shimmies out of his Speedo—out of audience view—and shoots a moon at Rook before putting his clothes back on.”

  “Hector, you gotta admit bare skin never hurt ticket sales,” Ralph drawled.

  Hector concurred. “If you can email me the changes, I’ll send them to the cast before Thursday.”

  Zane clasped his hands in front of him. “Let’s talk about the weatherman. He has to go.”

  Hector and Ralph swapped glances. “Me and Hector already discussed this, Zane. Here’s the thing. Buddy Neil has a following. If we fire him—no matter how pretty we package that turd—the show’s gonna lose. Word’ll get out. Gambit fired Buddy Neil…that’s what they’ll say. His followers won’t come. People who never heard of Buddy will pick up scuttlebutt that we done him wrong.”

  Hector reached over and grabbed Zane’s arm. “I don’t disagree with you, but Buddy only has two more shows until the next guest per
former.”

  Zane shot Hector a look. “Who’s that?”

  “I forget his name, but he’s a tight end for the New York Jets.”

  Jesus. A tight end. He’ll be perfect. Not.

  Zane covered his face with both hands.

  No one said a word.

  He shook his head. “When I agreed to the stunt casting, I pictured Regis or one of the ladies from The View—not weathermen or football players. Who do I have to blow to ensure a real actor in the role of Hayden Whitcomb?” He didn’t expect an answer to his rhetorical question.

  My tape recorder idea sounds better and better.

  Their continued silence told him he was right. “Aaron mentioned a Variety story about a woman who received a Drama Desk award back in the eighties and is wrapping up a cameo at Paper Mill Playhouse. I’m sure she’d be perfect, if she can still remember lines. If not, we can always rig up a teleprompter at the front of the stage.”

  Hector flinched.

  He motioned for Ralph to join him a few steps away. The two of them huddled in whispered conversation during which Zane imagined Hector filling Ralph in on the fact they’d already been using a teleprompter to aid the TV weather guy. For all his faults, Ralph prided himself as a theatre connoisseur. Fingers crossed he’d do the right thing.

  Zane had no plans for the evening. For a few moments, it seemed he might have to hold his ground until theatre security turned out the lights for the night.

  Ralph finally said, “Lemme see what we can do. No promises.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ralph stood. “There’s another topic we’d like to discuss.” He gestured to Hector.

  “This morning, I met with a reporter from The Post. Part of the publicity campaign Aaron set up. We talked about the show, then the conversation turned to you—specifically your addiction history.”

  If he weren’t already numb, Zane would have felt emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

  “The reporter said you’d been seen recently in a Greenwich Village bar known for cocaine sales. You need to watch yourself.”

  Hector stood. Both men marched down the aisle. They believed the innuendo—didn’t even ask for a denial. Shit.

  Zane rose from his seat, reached in his pocket for his keys, and came up empty handed.

  Shit.

  Just what he didn’t need on this piss-poor day.

  Dammit. Where did I put my keys?

  11

  Twelve days until opening

  Zane closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. With too many issues trudging through his mind, his body wouldn’t oblige. He pressed his chest against Aaron’s back hoping intimacy might beget relaxation. Instead, Aaron muttered, “You’re too hot,” and rolled away.

  Propping up on one elbow, Zane checked the time: 2:12 a.m.

  Fuck.

  He slid from under the covers, donned his robe, eased the bedroom door shut behind him, and padded toward the kitchen. Thanks to the Keurig, he held a mug of coffee in two minutes.

  Light filtered through the living room windows as the glow of street lamps ricocheted off neighboring buildings. New Yorkers never knew what a dark night looked like. Zane remembered summer vacations at Chautauqua during his teen years, lying on a chaise in the back yard while his grandfather pointed out one constellation after another, back when Milky Way meant more than chocolate calories.

  At a table overlooking a high-rise apartment, he powered up the laptop and opened Final Draft software. He cracked his knuckles over the keyboard to summon the muse.

  The muse would have none of it, even after a few sips of coffee.

  The reasons keeping him awake now stifled his creativity. He stared at the manuscript of Gambit. He needed to make changes, but was uncertain of where to begin. More coffee didn’t help.

  Zane saw himself as a playwright, but he required validation that his career wasn’t a one-trick pony. Love it or hate it, critics’ reviews about Gambit wouldn’t worry him—passionate audiences were another matter. He longed to tell the stories that filled his brain. But if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound? The same held true of a playwright without an audience.

  An ambulance sped east on 28th Street, siren warbling, its pulsing red lights reflecting off an adjacent office tower.

  The city that never sleeps.

  His grandmother’s death hit Zane in ways he hadn’t anticipated. She was his only relative—leaving him her sole heir. He felt adrift, wondering to which shore he should sail.

  Gambit had brought him to Aaron. They’d met at the first rehearsal, acting like teenagers as they checked each other out, then going for dim sum afterward and talking long into the night. Amidst the smiles and flirting, they shared a love of theatre and both had recently abandoned multi-year relationships.

  After leaving Ken, Zane had spent five nights in a Times Square hotel. Ken owned the condo they’d shared, four blocks away in the same Chelsea neighborhood. Zane might have left Ken sooner but for needing a roof over his head. Now thanks to the inheritance from his grandmother, he’d be able to afford his own place. His relationship with Aaron could flourish without feeling he had to “stick things out” for the sake of his living arrangement.

  Zane brought the mug to his lips, realized it was empty, and returned to the kitchen for more coffee.

  Snow tumbled past the window overlooking the Italianate steeple of the Church of the Holy Apostles. Big flakes coated a nearby rooftop in the time it took to brew his cup.

  This’ll bring the city to a halt.

  Back at his laptop, Zane tried once again to work on the script. He had to find a way to shake up the opening of scene two and ratchet up the tension between characters.

  Gambit examined the impact of social media interactions. At times, the online world seemed like a parallel universe. Brash Facebook posts resulted in persons losing out on jobs. Misinterpreted texts, caustic message board conversations, and insidious gossip pushed people into rash decisions. The assumed veil of privacy afforded by the Internet prompted folks—even Congressmen—to share intimate photographs with strangers.

  The premise for the play: What if anonymity were stripped away and the boorish, destructive behavior of social media was confronted face-to-face?

  His characters had chess piece names for a reason. As they came to know each other, they’d confront prior online behavior. Just as Zane faced choices in his own life, each character’s challenge was whether—as information became known—he or she would be willing to remain part of Hayden’s experiment.

  His fingers met the keyboard.

  Scene 2

  SETTING: Same as Scene 1.

  AT RISE:

  KNIGHT is seated on the hearth, deep in thought after stuffing the envelope in her purse. BISHOP is down L, tucking his envelope in a jacket pocket. ROOK emerges from the back hall.

  ROOK

  (Looking around)

  Where’s Pawn?

  BISHOP

  (He shrugs)

  We thought he was with you. (Grinning, aims thumb toward bedrooms) You know, gettin’ it on.

  KNIGHT

  (Standing. To BISHOP)

  You aren’t funny. Now that we’ve read our so-called gentle rules, I suspect the messages were as different as the money we received.

  BISHOP

  (Suggestively)

  You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.

  KNIGHT

  Just stop it. I’ve had enough. (She charges for the kitchen island, opens her purse, and puts a cashier’s check for $500 on the counter.) When you’re a teacher, it’s hard to make ends meet. But I’m done wasting my time. (She pulls out her smartphone.) I’m calling a cab.

  ROOK

  I’ll go with you.

  BISHOP

  Do you have any idea what a cab to the city will cost?

  KNIGHT

  I only have to make it to the nearest Long Island Railroad station. (She taps her phone, before moving to
ward the window stage L.) I can’t get a signal.

  ROOK

  What about Wi-Fi?

  KNIGHT

  (A few more taps on her phone) Dammit. Password protected.

  BISHOP

  Well, ladies, you might as well stick it out. It’s a long walk.

  ROOK

  (Moving past the French doors and pointing)

  There’s Pawn.

  (Outside, PAWN emerges from the swimming pool. He grabs his clothes, enters the living area, and deposits them on the kitchen island. He heads to the bathroom, returns with a towel, and shimmies out of his Speedo.)

  At dawn, snow continued to fall at a furious pace.

  Zane reread the additions to the opening of scene two and the new business with Pawn rising out of the pool. After double-checking the spelling, he created a new document and emailed it to Hector. The changes were a bit more than he’d suggested during their Tuesday meeting. Hopefully, the director would share them with cast members, and they could work the new material in during their Thursday afternoon rehearsal.

  Wet flakes stuck to tree limbs in the commons area eight floors below him, where a white blanket already covered the ground.

  The weather app predicted 16 to 20 inches before tapering off that evening. After five hours, the storm was making good on its promise. Actors would have plenty of down time to study new lines.

  Armed with a fresh mug of coffee, Zane sank into the black leather sofa and tuned to NY1—the twenty-four-hour news channel. The mayor had already declared a state of emergency, urging non-essential personnel to stay home. Schools were closed. Buses and subway lines would run less frequently. All flights in and out of LaGuardia and JFK were canceled. Radar maps showed the nor’easter skirting Newark Liberty Airport, where half of its flights were affected.

  In spite of urging everyone to remain indoors, reporters—bundled against the howling wind—broadcast scenes of snow-clogged streets and storm-induced fender benders.