The Fourth Wall (14 page)

“Carmen
.”

“Really? Mine too. Risë Stevens?”

“No, Winifred Heidt. Remember her?”

“Winifred who?” asked Griselda.

“Heidt,” said John. “As in Horace.”

Griselda looked blank.

“Horace Heidt,” John said.

“Is he an opera singer?”

At that point John gave up. It's kind of hard reminiscing with someone who's never heard of the people you're thinking about. We split the check and went our separate ways.

13

Gene Ramsay announced the formation of a
Foxfire
touring company and the rush was on. Somehow every actors' agent in town got hold of my phone number, and my answering service started making threatening noises. Even Griselda was sought out and pestered nearly out of her mind. Ramsay was set up with an organization to deal with this sort of thing, but Griselda and I weren't.

Ramsay had told Phil Carter he was playing Hugh Odell's role in the Saturday matinee, giving him two days to get ready. Hugh raised hell; in fact, he got kind of ugly about it. But there was nothing he could do; Ramsay's will was law. Phil Carter understood that his performance Saturday was an audition for the touring company.

But it was the female lead that caused the biggest furor. Every actress in New York seemed to want the part, and don't you think
that
was food for the old ego! But the competition immediately narrowed itself down to four candidates—all were name actresses, good box-office draws, and fully capable of handling the part. I wished we had four touring companies so they could all play the role.

But a decision had to be made. Ramsay chose one actress, I liked another, Griselda preferred a third. Ramsay solved the problem by giving the role to the fourth. I understand that's the same way Eisenhower got the African Allied Command in World War II.

Saturday afternoon came, and we were all going out of our way to say reassuring things to Phil Carter. He was understandably nervous, much more so than when he'd substituted for Ian Cavanaugh—he had more riding on the performance. Griselda Gold chinned her way around backstage, trying not to show her excitement. She'd spent most of the previous two days helping Phil rehearse and she wanted him to make a good showing. Tiny told me his mumph was on the biddle, and I said I hoped it would get better soon. He looked at me rather oddly.

Carla Banner bumped into me and apologized and muttered something about never being able to find a broom when you needed one. From the disgusted look on her face I knew exactly what was wrong.

Do you know about theater gremlins? They never come out during the day; they wait until dark to do their damage. Oh, I don't mean like causing flats to fall over or fly ropes to fray—something else causes that sort of thing. Trolls, maybe. But the gremlins, what they do is, they hide in their secret hiding places until the night's performance is over and everyone's gone home except maybe a night watchman and he's in some other part of the building. They wait until they're sure no one's around to see them. Then slowly, silently, they tiptoe out—
and sprinkle nails on the stage floor
. No one has ever seen them do this, you understand. They're much too sneaky to let themselves be observed.

When they've finished sprinkling nails, the gremlins go back to their hiding places congratulating themselves and giggling like crazy. And then the time comes for the next performance and somebody says
where did all these goddam nails come from
and the umpteenth assistant stage manager is put to work sweeping the stage and he's grumbling about it and the gremlins are giggling harder than ever. Sometimes the man with the broom misses a couple of nails; then the gremlins laugh so hard they're gasping for air. Because if even one nail, only one, is left on the stage—
somebody
is going to step on it. Nobody chooses tetanus as a hobby—but that's not the main problem. What happens more often than not is that someone steps on a nail and skids and falls down boom.
Invariably
in the middle of a big dramatic scene. The audience roars with laughter and the gremlins are having hysterics. Then the performance ends and everybody goes home and the gremlins come out and the whole thing happens all over again.

Right now the man with the broom was supposed to be Carla Banner, but she was nowhere in sight.

“Where did that girl disappear to?” Leo Gunn complained. “I told her to sweep the stage ten minutes ago.”

“I just saw her,” I said. “She was having trouble finding a broom.”

Leo shook his head. “Carla's a good kid, she really is. She's co-operative and easy to work with. But
slow
—she's slow as molasses.”

“Then why don't you fire her?” said a voice from behind us. I turned to see Vivian Frank standing there.

Leo grinned crookedly. “For one thing, she's the only one who can understand Tiny.”

Vivian smiled quickly and said, “The door of my dressing room sticks a little, Leo. Would you mind taking a look at it?”

Leo glanced around before answering, so I said, “I'll find Carla. You go see about the door.” He nodded.

“Thank you, Abby, you're such a help.” Vivian gave me a Betty White smile and drifted away.

What's with Vivian?
I found Carla easily enough; she'd been waylaid by Griselda Gold.

“Whatever you might think about Martin Luther's motivation,” Griselda was saying as she pointed her finger at Carla's nose, “you've got to give him one thing. He stood up for what he believed in.”

So did Hitler
. “Carla,” I said, “sweep the stage?”

Carla slapped her hand to her mouth in an oh-I-forgot gesture and scuttled off.

“Come along, Griselda, we're in the way here. Let's go out front.”

We stood at the back of the theater, overlooking another of those package-rattling matinee crowds—not the ideal setting for a nervous actor trying to impress his boss. I spotted Gene Ramsay in one of the house seats, about halfway down.

When the performance began, Phil Carter was still nervous—and it showed. He didn't blow any lines, but he made quite a few false starts. His nervousness persisted until almost the end of the first act, when at last he showed signs of settling into his part.

At intermission, I looked at Griselda and Griselda looked at me. “What do you think?” I asked her.

“I don't know, what do you think?”

“
I
don't think he can handle it,” said Gene Ramsay, coming up to us. “The man's come unglued.”

“Allow for the audience,” I said. “This is the kind that can throw even a regular. It must be murder for an understudy.” Griselda excused herself and went backstage to “be supportive.” “It seemed to me he was getting into it there toward the end of the act.”

“Maybe,” said Ramsay noncommittally.

“Well, we don't have to decide now. Wait until the next act.”

Griselda didn't come back, so I watched the second act by myself and witnessed something of a minor miracle taking place. That air of innocence John Reddick had spoken of suddenly blossomed forth, and the character of Alex became a living human being—confused, vulnerable, making wrong choices, one of those people you want to take by the shoulders and shake at the same time you're feeling sorry for them. At curtain call Phil Carter got as much applause as Hugh Odell usually did.

“Changed my mind,” Ramsay growled on the way out. “He's got the part.”

John Reddick had showed up during intermission and had watched the second act from backstage. “Was I right?” he asked me, grinning. “Or was I right?”

“You were right. Once he got his nervousness under control he was solid in the role. Ramsay says okay.”

We went to congratulate Phil; Ramsay was there giving him the good word. I think everyone in the cast was glad for Phil; an understudy's lot is not a happy one.

Most of the cast and crew elected to stay in the theater for the short time between the matinee and the evening performance, sending out to the Stage Deli for snacks—no heavy meals before a performance. But as John Reddick and I were leaving, Ian Cavanaugh called after us.

“Are you going for something to eat?” he asked. “I want to get out of the theater for a while.”

We told him to come along. Ian was no longer guarded day and night, at his own request, so he had freedom of movement once again.

“I hope you're not going someplace like Elaine's or Gallagher's,” he said.

John and I had been heading for Gallagher's, as a matter of fact. But we both understood how much Ian disliked places that catered to celebrities.

“Well,” said John, “there's a scroungy little bar on East Forty-third that serves the best meatball sandwiches I've ever tasted.”

“Sounds ideal,” said Ian. “Let's go.”

When John said the bar was scroungy, he was being euphemistic. The place was a dive. It was one of those bars that are kept so dark you either stand inside the door like an idiot for five minutes until your eyes adjust or you stumble forward like a blind man and pray you don't sit down on some stranger's lap.

“I think I see three places at the bar,” said John. “Bartender, are those stools empty?”

On being reassured that they were, we groped our way forward and sat down. The television was at our end of the bar, but the volume was low enough for us to be able to talk easily.

“Are you sure this place is licensed to serve food?” I said.

“I don't know,” John said back. “I never had the nerve to ask.” He ordered beer and meatball sandwiches for all three of us, and while we were waiting I found I could see again.

Three mountainous sandwiches were slapped down in front of us. John hadn't exaggerated; they were delicious.

“Mmm,” said Ian.
“Wunderschön
.”

“Was I right?” said John.

“Mmmmh,” I answered, my mouth full.

John nudged me and nodded toward the other end of the bar. “Look who's here.”

I looked. It was the man I'd held up for five cents a couple of days ago. John gave the bartender a nickel and asked him to deliver it to the man in the tweed jacket at the end of the bar. We watched as the man looked at the nickel in surprise and said something to the bartender, who jerked his thumb over his shoulder at us. I lifted my hand and waved. At first he didn't recognize me, but then he remembered and smiled and waved back.

A nice-looking woman in good clothing came up and stood next to Ian. “Hi,” she said. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

Ian pretended to be shocked. “I am never familiar. In fact, I'm very proper.”

She didn't get it. “You're an actor, aren't you? I know you're an actor. I've seen you.”

And then this woman
leaned
against him, breasts first, without even the slightest pretense of subtlety. Ian pulled away from her, which made him lean against me. I pulled away from
him
, which made me lean into John. John leaned away from me. We must have looked like three drunks, all listing to leeward.

Ian finally got rid of the woman and we were able to sit up straight again. “Holy Moly, Batman,” I laughed, “does this happen to you a lot?” Ian just grunted.

“It was Captain Marvel who said ‘Holy Moly,'” John corrected me.

The two men ordered another beer. John was trying to read his watch in the dim light. “I wonder what time it is? I've got to be somewhere by eight o'clock. I've got a new girl, Abby,” he confided to me and at least six other people within hearing distance.

I expressed polite interest.

“I want you to meet her,” he went on. “Rachel's a truly special woman.”

So were Julie, Laura, Barbara, Susan, Ivy, and Lou. I'd long since given up all hope that John would ever find someone with whom he'd be comfortable for more than a few weeks at a time. Now it was Rachel's turn. John launched into a panegyric to this new woman in his life. I'd heard it all many times before, but Ian was less familiar with the spiel.

I half-listened to John's monologue and half-listened to the other sounds around me in the bar. The television set overhead chattered away for the most part ignored; in my half-listening state the only words I seemed to catch were the ones that were mispronounced:…
ant-eye perspirant
…
abzorb
…
starcher own 'erb garden
…
rekkanize
…

“She designs clothes,” John was saying, “and she's good at it, really good. I'm trying to get her interested in costume design.”

…
maple surrup … eggszactly
…
gore-may dinners
…

“Wait till you meet her. She's got style, real style.”

After using one tube of Ultra-Brite, look in the mere
.

“And
all
woman—”

… nookyooler power … Massatoosetts … Foxfire …

“Let me tell you what she did—”

“Hold it, John,” I interrupted. “Listen.”

…
found the body when he returned home at three-fifteen this afternoon. Odell told police he'd last seen his wife at eleven this morning when he'd left to keep a dental appointment. Odell was treated for shock at Midtown Hospital and released
.

“What?” said Ian. “What is it?”

The killing is the latest in a series of incidents to plague New York's hard-luck play, Abigail James's
Foxfire.
In late November actress Sylvia Markey was the victim of—

“What did he say?” John demanded of the bartender. “Did you hear it?”

“Some actor's wife,” said the bartender. “Got her throat cut.”

Rosemary Odell. Vapid, mindless Rosemary—who couldn't possibly be a threat to anyone. Rosemary, the joy of Hugh Odell's middle years.

Murdered.

Part Two