The Fourth Wall Page 3

  “Come to the theater,” said John. “I’ve got Phil Carter coming in at eleven. Let’s see how the understudies play together.”

  I told him I’d be there and hung up. The more I thought about it, the better I liked the idea. Vivian Frank had played a supporting role in The Bo Tree, one of two of my plays that had been produced by the repertory company I’d belonged to some years back. She’d brought an intelligence to the role that made me look good, and I was curious to see what she could do with Sylvia Markey’s role in Foxfire. We’d be taking a chance—Vivian Frank might turn out to be one of those performers who can make invaluable contributions in smaller roles but who can’t carry a lead.

  A small group had gathered at the Martin Beck Theatre by the time I arrived. John Reddick was there with his assistant, a severe young woman named Griselda Gold—at least that’s what she said her name was. She’d told everyone to call her Gee Gee but nobody did.

  It was something of a running joke to speculate on where John found his assistants. They were always unknowns with little or no experience whom John would “train” as a way of launching their careers. They all had one thing in common: they worshipped the ground John Reddick walked on. Right now Griselda Gold was clutching a clipboard and listening with an intensity worthy of prayer to something John was saying to her.

  Several rows back sat Gene Ramsay, our producer, and a few of his minions. Ramsay looked as if a thunderstorm were about to break. I stopped to speak to him.

  “I’m not completely convinced Sue should be let go,” was the first thing he said.

  Sue was the actress we were replacing. It had been Ramsay who had insisted on Sue to understudy Sylvia Markey in the first place, in spite of her inexperience. The first thing you think of in a case like that is whether the actress had got her job via the casting couch or not. But I’d decided Ramsay was too money-oriented to risk the box office just to satisfy a little lust.

  “She can’t handle it, Gene,” I said. “She has the voice of a bird. She doesn’t have stage weight. She telegraphs everything. It’s just not her kind of role,” I added in a belated attempt at diplomacy.

  Ramsay grunted. “You should have caught it during tryouts.”

  You were there too, buddy. I shrugged and went to sit down next to John Reddick. “Ramsay’s none too happy about this.”

  “This isn’t what’s making him grouchy,” John replied. “He just told me he’s fining Sylvia Markey twenty thousand dollars for missing a matinee. You know, the day after her cat was killed?”

  I was stunned. “Twenty thousand dollars? Can he do that?”

  “He sure as hell can. He gave Sylvia a choice of two contracts. One offered a high salary and a clause making her liable for missing performances to the tune of twenty thou per miss. The other offered a much lower salary and no liability clause. Sylvia went for the high money and the clause.”

  “What if she’s in the hospital having her appendix out when she’s due on stage?”

  “It’d still cost her twenty thousand.” John said something to Griselda Gold and the girl got up and hurried toward the stage. I watched her go. Griselda was what on stage would be called a chin leader: her chin preceded the rest of her body wherever she went. She disappeared backstage.

  The set looked dingy in the work lights, but soon the overhead illumination came on and Phil Carter and Vivian Frank stepped out of the wings into the light. Griselda rounded a corner and chinned her way back to her seat.

  While John was telling his performers what he wanted them to do, I sat looking at Vivian. In the two or three years since I’d last seen her, she’d put on some weight but she had the height to carry it well. She’d lightened her hair, and she was dressed in a rich brown pantsuit and wore no jewelry. I found myself tensing up, hoping she would read well.

  She read beautifully, her deep contralto never dropping too low to be audible. I tried to picture her playing opposite Ian Cavanaugh and liked what I pictured. John stopped her and Phil and had them read from another part of the play, a scene in which Vivian was supposed to be frightened. Immediately her voice went up half an octave and her words took on a squeezed sound. She was good, damned good. It was a rotten aspect of the acting profession that some no-talent glitter girl could shoot straight to the top while a legitimate actress like Vivian Frank still had to audition for a job as understudy.

  Soon it was clear she and Phil Carter were rehearsing up there. If something didn’t go right, they’d stop, talk it over, and without any coaching from John Reddick, go back and try it again.

  “This is the kind of directing I like best,” said John. “Just put two professionals on stage and sit back and watch ’em work.”

  I smiled to myself. It wasn’t the kind of directing John liked best, but I knew what he meant. It’s always a pleasure seeing professionals do their stuff.

  Eventually Vivian and Phil reached the last scene of the play, with Phil taking all the parts except Vivian’s. When they’d finished, there was total silence in the auditorium for a moment. Then John said to me in a low voice, “Not only do I think she can handle the role, I think we’re damned lucky to get her.”

  I agreed. We turned and looked back several rows to Gene Ramsay. He nodded, once: yes.

  “I think she’s quite good,” volunteered Griselda Gold. “Rilly, quite good.” John looked momentarily embarrassed; he’d forgotten to ask her opinion.

  So it was settled: Vivian Frank was to be Sylvia Markey’s new understudy. I felt tremendously relieved, and told Vivian so in the flurry of congratulations that followed.

  “Oh, Abby,” she smiled, “it’ll be good acting in one of your plays again. If I ever get to. Sylvia Markey doesn’t miss many performances.”

  “She missed one last week,” said John with a glance at Gene Ramsay. “And it’s costing her a bundle, so she won’t be playing hooky again for a while. But who knows, she might fall down the stairs and break that lovely neck of hers.”

  “That would be nice,” said Vivian without batting an eye.

  “Have your agent get in touch with me,” said Ramsay, “and we’ll work out the contract. Reddick will schedule special rehearsals for you.”

  “Just watch the performance for the next few nights,” said John. “We’ve changed the second act somewhat. We’ll rehearse Monday.”

  Vivian laughed. “It’s like Manhattan Rep all over again.”

  The Manhattan Repertory Company had folded some years ago after making a valiant effort to buck Broadway’s crazy financial setup. Our goal of presenting four new productions a year in weekly rotation had collapsed under escalating costs and the unions’ forcing us to pay three times as many stagehands as we needed. Repertory had been tried many times before Manhattan Rep, and it would be tried again. But the only way to succeed financially in New York theater still was to have one production running as long as you could possibly stretch it out.

  Manhattan Rep had lasted three years and I’d written two plays for the company. One was The Bo Tree, which John had directed; the other was Gandy Dancer, which I directed myself—my first and only chance to direct one of my own plays. It was not a success.

  “I’ll say it’s like Manhattan Rep,” John answered Vivian. “You, me, Abby, Ian Cavanaugh, Hugh Odell—and Leo Gunn to run things backstage.”

  “And Sylvia,” I added. Sylvia Markey had been with us for one season before moving on to greener pastures.

  Gene Ramsay was looking bored. He had no interest in failing ventures, past or present.

  After a while I said goodbye and left. As I was passing through the dark lobby I caught a glimpse of someone lurking near the entrance of the left aisle. I moved closer and saw it was Jake Steiner, Sylvia Markey’s husband. “Jake? What are you doing here?”

  Instead of answering he said, “She’s not as good as Sylvia, is she?” Which, come to think of it, was an answer.

  “No one is as good as Sylvia,” I told him quickly.

  “You said that too
fast.” He looked worried.

  “Jake, how did you know we were auditioning this morning?”

  “I asked Reddick to keep me informed. Do you like lox?”

  The change of subject startled me. “Ah, yes, I like lox. Why?”

  “Come on,” he answered. “I’ll buy you some lox.”

  When we were seated at a table nibbling at the delicate pale salmon he asked me again: “She’s not as good as Sylvia, is she?”

  “No, she’s not,” I said truthfully. “But you don’t need me to tell you that. Sylvia proves herself every time she steps on a stage. What’s the matter, Jake? Something’s bugging you.”

  He toyed with his lox a moment before he answered. “You don’t like Sylvia, do you?”

  Whew. “We’re not close friends,” I said carefully, “but I don’t dislike her.” I stopped eating and looked at him. Jake was twelve or fifteen years older than Sylvia, a solid, comfortable-looking man. But he didn’t look comfortable now. “What’s this all about?”

  “Sylvia has an enemy,” he announced.

  “Of course she does,” I said unthinkingly. “She’s far too successful not to have made a few enemies.” Then it hit me. “You think I am her enemy?”

  “No, no, I don’t mean that!” Jake looked distressed. “I just meant I wished she had a close friend in the Foxfire crowd, somebody I could talk to about this.”

  This. What this?

  “Are you talking about whoever killed the cat?”

  “The cat and a couple of other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “You know our apartment was broken into last month?”

  I remembered Sylvia talking about it. “I thought nothing was taken.”

  “Nothing was. But all of Sylvia’s clothes were destroyed. Ripped to pieces.”

  I gaped at him. “Sylvia didn’t say a word about that!”

  “She wouldn’t. She felt … dirtied by what had happened. You know—the thought of somebody coming into your home and handling your things. It’s not something you like to talk about.”

  I nodded; it was easy to understand how Sylvia felt. “You did call the police, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. They shook their heads and made out reports, and that was the end of it. Only that wasn’t the end of it. Because whoever did it came back and did it again.”

  “Again?”

  Jake nodded unhappily. “Sylvia bought a whole new wardrobe. Then she came home one day and found all her new clothing in shreds. And this time that … that nut went through the bureau drawers, ripping up her underwear and her nighties—her intimate things.” Jake’s face darkened as he remembered. “Her make-up was smeared all over the walls, perfume bottles smashed, that kind of thing. None of my stuff was touched.”

  I was too shocked to answer immediately. “How did he get in?”

  “Evidently just unlocked one of the doors. No sign of a forced entry. We have a front door and a service door, and a balcony only a human fly could reach.”

  “A professional burglar. Who just happened to be in a nasty mood.”

  “I don’t think so. We had the locks changed, but he was still able to get in the second time. My keys never leave my pocket—nobody could get hold of them to make impressions. But Sylvia’s keys were in her dressing room while she was on stage. It’s somebody at the theater, Abby.”

  I fought against believing it. “It could still be some weirdo off the streets—”

  Jake shook his head. “After we had the second set of new locks installed, I told Syl not to carry her keys to the theater any more. And whoever this creep is, he hasn’t been back since. You see? But since he couldn’t get at her at home any more, he got at her at the theater. He killed her cat.” He rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. “These are acts of hatred, Abby. Somebody hates Sylvia enough to do these things to her.”

  I poked at the piece of dead fish lying in front of me. The vandalism and the killing of the cat could be unconnected acts, but I didn’t believe it. Jake must be right: Sylvia had an enemy. I tried to imagine what it was like, knowing someone hated you so much he’d destroy your personal belongings and your pet just to make you feel bad.

  “Do you have any idea who it might be?” I asked Jake.

  “I was hoping you could help me there. You know these people, I don’t.” Jake ran an investment counseling firm; he’d probably never set foot backstage in his life before he met Sylvia. “Somebody that sick can’t keep it hidden all the time. There have to be signs, times when he gives himself away. Can you think of anybody like that? Anybody behaving strangely?”

  “Just normal backstage bitching, Jake. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “But now that you know …”

  But now that I knew, I’d be looking at everyone through different eyes. “You want me to watch for giveaway signs.”

  “Would you, Abby? The police can’t do anything. And there’s no reason to assume this nut is finished with his sadistic tricks.”

  “I’d be glad to, Jake, but I’m going to Pittsburgh next week. Have you told anyone else?”

  “No. The only one of them I know well is John Reddick, and he’d blab it all over town.”

  “Look, when I get back maybe I can—God, I don’t know how to … investigate!”

  Jake smiled for the first time. “I’m not asking you to play detective.”

  “The hell you aren’t. Jake, have you thought about that? Hiring a private detective, I mean.”

  He hesitated. “Yes. Syl doesn’t want to. You know how she is—she doesn’t like the idea of, well, of looking like a victim. And that’s how it would seem, if a detective suddenly started asking questions. But I’m going to hire one anyway if something else happens.”

  “Do you think it will?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is, I’d like to wring that bastard’s neck! Who the hell does he think he is—invading our lives like that?” His eyes were glassy and a vein throbbed in his neck. “It’s just that I feel so goddamned helpless! How can you fight an enemy you can’t even identify?”

  “I know.”

  “It’s sick—the whole thing’s sick.” The anger suddenly seemed to drain out of him. “I wish I knew what to do.”

  “Eat your lox,” I said.

  4

  The Three Rivers Playhouse in Pittsburgh was within walking distance of the point where the Allegheny joined the Monongahela to form the Ohio River. I was too late for the Three Rivers Arts Festival and too early for the Three Rivers Piano Competition, but right across the Allegheny sat Three Rivers Stadium, not far from Three Rivers State Park. My hotel was rather unimaginatively called the Hilton.

  I was sitting in the Playhouse lobby waiting for Claudia Knight, who was directing a program of two long one-acts I had written about a hundred years ago under the joint title of Double Play. No one was much interested in one-acts at the moment, so I was both pleased and surprised when the Playhouse decided to produce them. The plays were of the sort that are called experimental for lack of a more definitive term; and when I read them over for the first time in years, I winced. Had I ever really been that young? I’d done some hasty rewriting and promised to return to Pittsburgh for the final rehearsals.

  Claudia Knight had turned out to be the driving force behind the revival, if so elegant a term can be applied to plays that had received only amateur productions in the past. Claudia was a tall, copper-haired, big-eyed young woman who dressed like a fashion model and was careful never to say the wrong thing. She made a point of knowing everybody and remaining on good terms with everyone she knew. Definitely a woman on the rise, she didn’t exactly curry favor but she was clearly making as many contacts as she could from her Pittsburgh base. I wondered how many playwrights she’d invited to the Three Rivers Playhouse before she found one that took the bait. She always addressed me courteously as Ms James and unflaggingly deferred to my superior wisdom and experience. She made me uncomfortable.

  Cl
audia was coming toward me now. She bent down and sparkled into my face. “You’re back. I’m so sorry I’m late.” We were both early. “Did you get everything worked out all right?”

  “Yes, thanks. The play’s going well now.” And it was. Sunday’s performance of Foxfire had been solid and satisfying.

  “That’s good.” She sat beside me. “And I have some more good news for you. Brian Simpson is coming here to see the one-acts.”

  That was both good news and bad news. Simpson ran a theater in San Francisco, and everything he did attracted a lot of attention. But Simpson was a rather eccentric producer-director, tending to disregard the playwright’s intentions in order to indulge some whimsy of his own. He’d done a Watergate version of Oedipus Rex, and his most recent project was a futuristic treatment of Kyd’s The Spanish Tragedy with an entire rock group cast as the Ghost of Andrea. I shuddered to think what would happen to my experimental one-acts in his hands.

  “When I talked to Brian yesterday,” Claudia was saying, “I told him we were delighted with both your one-acts. I told him they were definitely worth his serious consideration.” She tapped my arm on the word definitely, making sure I understood she was helping me with my career. So I owed her one.

  I thanked her for the endorsement and asked how rehearsals were coming along.

  “Very well, I think.” She glanced at her watch. “Why don’t you come watch? It’s about time to start. Then afterwards you can tell me if we’re doing something wrong.”

  We walked into the auditorium. “Did you have any trouble casting?” The Three Rivers Playhouse operated in conjunction with a school of the performing arts—in this case, drama and dance only. The policy was to hire professional actors to play the leads and fill in the smaller parts with students. I’d had to return to New York before Claudia had finished casting.

  “No real trouble,” she said. “We’ve got some good people. One of them you know. Jay Berringer.”