Kiss Your Elbow (5 page)

I
N
W
ALGREEN'S THERE WAS
just the usual crowd of civilians. It was way past even the most leisurely lunchtime for actors. No matter how good you were at it, you couldn't nurse an egg-salad sandwich and chocolate malted till almost four-thirty.

I ordered a ham and cheese and coffee, and Maggie had a tuna-fish salad and coffee. We just sat there until the plates came sliding up. I always meant to find out how they manage to get two slices out of one leaf of lettuce. It wasn't till I started eating that I realized how hungry I was so I ordered another of the same. After we finished I reached for a cigarette and felt the tickets that Nick Stein had given me.

“Would you like to go to the theater tonight?” I asked Maggie.

“Is it a real show or some more of your passes?” She'd been with me before and was naturally a little suspicious.

“That new Lucille Blake thing. Not supposed to be too bad.”

“Oh, I don't think so. Not tonight. I still feel a little strange and you must admit that this has been a rather
hectic day. First that damn doorknob and then you rushing in and confessing to a murder. Why don't you ask your precious Bobby LeB. to go?”

“Not a bad idea if I knew where to find him. Might take Libby Drew and find out what she knows.”

“She'd be thrilled to death. Which reminds me I didn't pay for the drinks.”

She reached into her purse and put some money in my hand. I didn't see how much it was. “Here, take this and pay for them, will you? You can pay me back from the reward.”

“What reward?”

“Why else are you so intent on playing Dick Tracy?”

“I still owe you some.” But I didn't try to give it back.

“Yes, dear, I know, but don't let it keep you awake nights. It doesn't me. Call me in the morning and let me know what Libby does for you…in solving your precious little mystery, I mean.” She patted my cheek. “But don't forget Nellie's funeral in the afternoon. She'll give a better show dead than Lucille Blake alive.”

And knowing an exit line when she says one, Maggie walked out of the drugstore pulling on her gloves. A nice girl. Has sense, too, though you generally overlook it when she starts being vague; but this afternoon she wasn't vague at all. I knew she was right. It was silly, I suppose, getting myself mixed up in this Nellie thing. Maybe I was just bored. I felt bored a lot since I got out of the army, but who didn't. Hell, I might as well finish it up now that I had started. Call up Libby and see if she wanted to go to the theater
tonight. I gathered the checks and walked over to the cashiers. It was then that I looked at the money Maggie had put in my hand. Two fifty-dollar bills…enough to last me for a month, if I was very careful. The cashier gave me some nickels with the change, so I went down to the deserted basement and telephoned Libby. She was delighted to go to the theater with me and would meet me at Louis Bergen's bar at eight-fifteen, and I'd better get the
Bronx Home News
or some such paper tomorrow, she might have her picture in it. I told her I would and hung up.

The clock on the wall said it was only about ten minutes to five…a lot sure had happened in one day. That's what comes of getting up before noon.

If I hurried I might have time to get over to Equity before it closed. Then I could ride home on the Fifth Avenue bus and maybe catch a nap before meeting Libby.

The old brownstone on West Forty-seventh Street where Equity has its offices is something right out of Charles Addams and the only reason I ever go there is to advise them of a change in my address or see if the bond is posted for that turkey I may get a walk-on in.

I climbed the creaky stairs up to the third floor information section where they have all the addresses. The fussy little old lady in charge behind the wire fence was just getting ready to go. She was alone—her handmaidens must have jumped the gun. With a great deal of pursing of lips, she finally consented to ask me what I wanted.

“Yiss? And what is it you require?”

“It's kind of silly,” I said. “But I'm trying to locate
someone, but I only know his first name and last initial.” I gave her the teeth, but she was having none of it.

“Are you an Equity member?”

“Yes, for eight years. My name is Tim Briscoe.” This seemed to mean something to her.

“Briscoe…Briscoe? Oh, yes. Someone just asked for your address and phone number not half an hour ago.”

“Who was it? Do you remember?”

“Certainly. It was dear Henry Frobisher. Such a fine man, a real gentleman. I was with him in
Bless You, Darling.
Perhaps you saw it?” I hadn't. She preened herself and patted her hair back in place. “Of course, it was just a tiny part, the party scene in the second act. I wore purple and ecru lace. Dear Henry was so kind about the part being so small, but I do think it better to have a small part with a first-rate management than a lead with some fly-by-night, don't you?” I heartily agreed. She rambled on.

Why would Frobisher want to see me? And I thought he didn't even know my name. I wondered if it was too late to call him. No, he didn't look like he was going back to his office when we left him. Anyway, Kendall Thayer was at the Casbah and he was pretty good about taking messages for me.

“And wasn't that tragic about his son?” Purple and Ecru Lace was still rolling along.

“His son?” I wasn't paying much attention, trying to puzzle out why he should want my phone number.

“Being killed in the war. Such a blow to dear Mr. Frobisher. An only son, too. I met him once, you know.”

“No, I didn't know.” And I didn't want to know. I just wanted to get Bobby's address and beat it home and find out if Frobisher had called and if so why. But Tootsie, here, was determined to take me down Memory Lane, willy-nilly. “Such a lovely boy, too. So well mannered. Mr. Frobisher brought him to rehearsal. Such a tragedy. Were you in the service, too?” I admitted I was. “Mr. Frobisher's son was killed in action. In Normandy, I believe,” she said accusingly. Well, my God, Tootsie, I'm sorry. I apologize. I did not mean to offend you. I know I'm not lovely or very well mannered, and my father can't give you a job in purple and ecru lace, but please don't make me feel guilty just being alive.

“I'm sorry, Mrs…. Mrs….”

“Tuckerman. Mrs. Tuckerman. Of course, my stage name was Marianne Rice, but then…”

“Yes, well, Mrs. Tuckerman, I'm really in rather a hurry….”

“Oh, yiss, of course,” she said coldly, all efficiency again. “Now who was it you wanted to locate? It's really past hours, you know.” I told her what I knew and she flew to the files.

“We have a Robert LeBor, but he is in Hollywood now. Would he be the one?”

“No, I shouldn't think so. Any others?”

“There's a Robin LeBaron…but of course he's dead, poor soul, so I should scarcely think he would be the one you are after, would you?”

“Scarcely. Is that all?”

“Yiss, that is all. Are you quite sure he is a member of Actors' Equity?”

“No…not exactly.”

“Well, really, Mr. Briscoe.” Angrily she took her coat from a cupboard and started to put it on.

“Can you suggest any other place I might look? You've been so kind and helpful perhaps you might know some other place.” That thawed her out a little. She paused for a second.

“Is your friend a member of the profession?”

“I'm almost positive of that.”

“There are still, you know, other organizations. Professional organizations—AFRA, Screen Actors Guild, Chorus Equity and, I believe, those night club entertainers have some sort of an organization, too.” I hadn't thought of that possibility. My thanks were slightly overdone, but she must receive a kind word so seldom that by the time I had escorted her down to the street and said goodbye I was pretty sure I could play gin rummy with those address cards from now on.

There must be someone I knew who was a member of those other unions, and I could get them to check for me. It was such a long shot that there didn't seem to be any particular need for secrecy. And if questioned, I could always say I found a watch or a ring with an inscription. “Ever thine, Bobby LeB.,” or some such.

And Mr. Frobisher wanted my phone number. Money in my pocket and a phone call from a top-flight producer. What more could I ask?

Things were certainly looking up.

I
GOT OFF THE BUS AT
Washington Square and walked to the Casbah. Kendall Thayer was sitting in my room when I opened the door, calmly reading all my old letters…. I don't particularly like people reading my mail and told him so.

“My dear boy, these are as nothing.” He wasn't the slightest bit ruffled at being caught in the act. “If you like I'll show you some of my fan mail…show you what real passion is.” He tossed mine back in the bureau drawer. “These are all just amateurs…no finesse, no imagination.”

“It's just too damn bad about that, and get the hell out of here and stay out, and if I ever catch you in here again I'll knock your ears off.” I was getting very angry.

“Calm yourself, my boy. Wounded vanity that is all. Besides, you had phone calls.”

“Well, why didn't you say so?” I took off my coat and hat and threw them on the bed. Kendall immediately snatched up my hat and handed it back to me. “Say, what's the idea?” I had a good mind to punch him, old as he was.

“Don't you know that it is bad luck to put a hat on a bed?”

“Never mind that.” But I took the hat and threw it on the shelf in the closet. “What about those calls?” He handed me a slip of paper.

“That's how I happened to come across your letters, looking for a piece of paper.” I didn't say anything, but looked at the slip. Mr. Frobisher and Mrs. Lanson, both, wanted me to call them as soon as I got in. And Diana, the woman I had been out with last night, had called…no message.

“I trust that means you have a job with Mr. Frobisher.”

Kendall helped himself to the pack of cigarettes when I was getting one for myself. I didn't feel so annoyed with him now so I let him get away with it.

“But his show's already in rehearsal.”

“There's many a slip before opening night. Fine man, Mr. Frobisher. I remember when I was with him in
Star Light
…. I was just back from the coast…. I had a scene….” I quickly shut off this scrapbook browsing. I'd heard it all before. Kendall had a memory like a library, and with that memory…

“Kendall, did you ever hear of anyone named Bobby LeB.?”

“Bobby Le Bee? What a curious name…No, I'm sure I should remember it if I had.”

“LeB. is just the initials of his last name—L, E, capital B.”

“There was a Robert LeBor who's a director in pictures now. Just an assistant director when I knew him. Is he the one you mean?”

“No, he's in Hollywood. Any others?”

“Well, a Robin LeBaron died several years ago. I never knew him personally, though I think he was considered quite good. Of course I was on the coast at the time.” I could have saved myself a trip to Equity if I'd thought of Kendall first.

“No, I know about those two. Any others…” He seemed to be poking about in that rye-soaked brain for another one but he couldn't quite make it.

“It seems to me there was another one somewhere along the line…. I'm not very good on names.” He was doing all right. “But I never forget a face. I can't quite seem to place him. It's a rather unusual name. Now let me see…”

“Well, don't strain yourself. Beat it now, I want to make some calls. But if you remember, let me know. By the way, I suppose you heard that Nellie Brant is dead?” His reaction was a momentary expression of definite pleasure before he could pull that old saggy face into the proper grimace of sadness. Why is it old people are glad when other people die? Or is it just actors?

“Why, no…1 didn't know. I haven't been out of the house all day.” He evidently forgot the trip to the liquor store for whiskey with the two bucks I had given him this morning.

“Was she dead when you got there?” That startled me.

“When I got where?”

“Why, I thought you told me you had an appointment with her this morning.” I didn't remember telling him anything of the kind, but I may have. This morning I wasn't playing it so cozy. Still it did give me a start.

“Did I? Well, I was wrong. It was somebody else.”

“Sure. I probably just misunderstood you.”

“Yes, I guess you did.”

“We played together, you know. She was with me on
Front Page Stuff.”

“No, I didn't know.” It had never even occurred to me she'd been an actress. “What was she like?”

“A brilliant comedienne. I remember we had one scene together. I was playing Lord Washburn…pearl-gray cutaway. She mistook me for the butler—very amusing. That scene took all the notices. I think I still have them if you would care to look at them. Mr. Frobisher was stage manager then, you know.” I hadn't known that, either. But, like agents, producers don't spring full-fledged out of sea foam.

“What happened to Nellie? Why did she stop acting if she was so hot?”

“Another great tragedy of the theater.” Presumably he meant he was the first. “She was a singer, and, I believe, she strained her vocal cords or something, because after a while she couldn't sing anymore.”

“Okay, scram, will you, Kendall? I told you I've got to phone.” I started looking up Frobisher's number in the phone book. Kendall strode majestically to the door, which, in my cheese-box, takes some doing. He rested one hand on the door casing and gave me burning stare No. 6A with all the stops out.

“I go.” Pause. “I go to return anon.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” I began dialing Frobisher's number. Kendall relaxed.

“You wouldn't, perchance, have a couple more fish swimming around loose, would you?”

“No, I wouldn't.” I made a mistake in the number and had to start over again. “Get the hell out, will you?” I threw the telephone book at him, but he closed the door too soon and it just hit the door and slapped to the floor.

A clipped British accent finally allowed me to speak to Mr. Frobisher.

“Mr. Frobisher, this is Tim Briscoe. You asked me to call you?”

“Oh, yes, Tim. I wondered if you would be available for a part in a show I have in rehearsal?” How available can you get?

“I believe so, Mr. Frobisher. Of course, I have a couple of things on the fire….”

“It's a small part in the last act. I've had someone rehearsing it for two weeks, but I'm afraid he isn't working out. Frankly, you just stand around and look attractive until it's time to wind up the plot, but you'll have a few good lines and they take doing. The part pays a hundred and a quarter. Would you be interested?”

“What do I wear?” If I was going to have to buy a new suit, maybe I could get more money.

“Just a dinner jacket. You can supply that, can't you?”

“Yes, sir.” I certainly had a dinner jacket.

“I know this is rushing things a bit, but we open in less than a fortnight. How about it?”

“I'd be glad to, Mr. Frobisher.” There didn't seem to be much point arguing about money. He could get hundreds of actors who would jump at the chance to be in a Frobisher show for minimum.

“Fine. It's settled, then. Eleven tomorrow morning at the Lyceum Theater and I've made an appointment for
you at Hans Trindler's studio for publicity photographs at nine, if that's convenient.” Convenient? Trindler was only the best photographer in the business.

“That's perfectly convenient, sir.”

“Good. I'll see you at the Lyceum tomorrow at eleven.” He started to hang up.

“Oh, Mr. Frobisher. There's just one thing, if you don't mind my asking. How did you happen to pick me?”

“Today at Sardi's. You see, it does pay to drink a little.” So I hadn't been fooling him.

“And I thought you didn't even know my name.”

He chuckled. “As a matter of fact I didn't, I asked Renee.” God bless Renee the hat-check girl. I'd have to give her a bigger tip from now on. “I'll see that you get your contract in the next few days. Goodbye.”

That's the way it goes. You beat your brains out banging on agents' and producers' doors and what do you get? Nothing. But you happen to have a drink in a bar at a certain time and you end up with a job at a hundred and a quarter per—or that's what I told myself. As I furiously dialed Maggie's number to tell her the good news, I really believed I had been offered that part because Mr. Frobisher thought I would look attractive standing around until it was time to wind up the plot. Well, part of that was true.

Maggie finally answered.

“This is Tim. Guess what.”

“You, too?”

“Frobisher, you mean?”

“Lyceum Theater, eleven tomorrow. You, too?”

“Yes, isn't it marvelous?” I said.

“I just can't believe it.”

“And Trindler is taking my picture tomorrow morning for the show.”

“He's already got some of me on file, but promise me you'll give me one of you.”

“I promise.”

“Frobisher said I was only a small part in the last act.”

“Me, too. I wear a dinner jacket and look attractive.”

“A cinch. I'm having a fitting at Chez Ernest tomorrow at ten for my dress. Jenny Pittenger is doing the sets and supervising the clothes. I hope I get something good.”

“Chez Ernest?” I said. “But that was in the book and Nellie…”

“Now, Tim, let's not start that again.”

“But don't you think it's funny?”

“Not particularly. Ernest does Frobisher shows. It's a break getting my dress there. I like his stuff.”

“Maggie, can I go with you tomorrow?”

“Darling, I didn't know you went in for that sort of thing.”

“I'd just like to find out something.”

“If it were to keep me company, I'd adore it, but not if you're going crawling around people with a magnifying glass.”

“I promise not to goose a single goose.”

“Well, all right,” she said reluctantly. “Meet me there at ten.”

“What about tonight? Let's celebrate.”

“Haven't you a date with Libby?”

“I'll break it.”

“Oh, I don't think so, darling. I'd better get a good night's sleep. I must look ravishing tomorrow. Don't forget you promised me a picture, so smile pretty at Trindler's birdie. Good night.” She hung up, and I got undressed even though I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep.

I wished now I hadn't bothered to call up Libby, but I was too excited at having a job to stay in all evening by myself, so what the hell.

There was a knock on the door just as I got all my clothes off and flopped on the bed. It was Kendall again with a fistful of clippings.

“Here are the notices of
Front Page Stuff
I promised you. All the interesting parts are underlined.” I knew without looking that the interesting parts were all concerned with the brilliant portrayal of one Kendall Thayer replete with pearl-gray cutaway.

“Thanks. Just throw them on the dresser and close the door softly on this exit. Make believe you're Madame X.” Kendall looked a little hurt, but closed the door softly. I stretched out feeling just like Little Jack Horner with a plum on every finger.

Being an actor can be the most wonderful thing in the world…when you have a job. But when you haven't, brother, it's hell.