Final Act (4 page)

Damn,
deep breath.  H
ere we go.

“Andrew, I was just setting out to find you.  Something has to be done about the noise.  Those morons may not be serious about their roles, and that’s why they can’t get within sniffing distance of a lead, but I’m trying to focus, get in character.  Speak to them, please, ask them to show some consideration for others.”

“Impossible, Charlotte; it’s the last night and their adrenaline is flowing faster than
a New York City fire hydrant. 
Relax.  You’re a pro; your performance won’t be hurt.  I know your powers of concentration – phenomenal.  Tune them out, dear heart, just like you do the Director.” 

Amused and a
ppeased, she tweaked his left cheek and closed the door. 

More approving glances.

When t
he next one to open a dressing room door
, Andrew
wasn’t surprised.  He had hoped his timing would be good. 
Now he had his chance to really show his stuff for the person who opened the door wouldn’t be so easy to appease. 
Tall, gangly, Philip Lawson,
aka
angst driven Rick
, was a powerhouse among actors. His skills were admired and envied by all who work
ed
with him. 

He had a p
roblem though
, a big problem. 
The man was a quaking, quivering mess
on
the
first and
the final performance of every play.  Never bothered by the performances in between.  But on these nights, th
e thought of the rising curtain drain
ing
his confidence
. 
Andrew had worked with him on two previous plays and had
coaxed, cajoled, and
manipulated
the terrified actor
to go on stage.

Wringing his hands, voice quavering, Philip made his appeal.
“Look, Andrew, I’m sorry but I’m in an awful state.  I don’t know if I can go on stage tonight.  My guts are in knots, I can’t breathe.  It’s really got a grip on me.  I’m scared shitless.”

“Calm down, Philip, you’ll be okay.  You always are.”

“I don’t think I can do it, honestly.  Can you get
John, s
tand-in?  I can’t go on.”

“Listen, Philip, if you don’t go on, nobody goes on.  You’re the lead
.
John, y
our stand-in’s
,
left town for a try out in Toronto.  He checked with me this afternoon
to get the ok.
I gave it to him Philip because I knew I could count on you.  Listen; can you hear the noise back there?  It’s your colleagues.  They can’t contain their excitement.  They just want to go out there
on the night of the last performance
and give their all.  Are you going to deny them?  Can you do that to them?  And what about all those people filing into the theatre, making their way to their seats, looking forward to the play, most of them faithful fans of yours.  Can you do that to them?”

“John’s in Toronto?”

Andrew looked at his watch. 
“Yep,
plane should’ve
landed an hour ago.”

Someone poked their head out of the main dressing room.

“Hey, Philip, give ‘em hell tonight buddy.  And don’t forget the party at
Salty’s
.
”

Philip
turned, waved at the actor, and
took a deep breath.

“Okay, Andrew, I’ll go on. 
My ulcer is jumping.  I’ll be in bed for a week, I know it.”

“
You’ve made the right choice,
Philip
.  You’re exuding positive energy.  W
hy don’t you give the deep breathing exercises another try?  If they don’t work, I think I have something in my office that will fix you up.”

That’ll keep him puzzling for awhile.

The door next to Philip’s opened up and Camira,
a
black eyed
Aboriginal
beauty
,
a truly graceful woman,
aka
Maggie the Cat
,
smiled
and
wink
ed at him
.  T
he young woman was a gift
from
the gods,
talented, warm, and caring. 
Andrew
returned the
smile, signalled her not to speak and
hurried
down the hallway
before Philip
changed his mind and
made another
anxious
appearance. 

He mounted the three steps to the
empty
stage
, the two men at his heels
. 
He looked around the stage
expecting to see Jeffrey.  He
wasn’t
there.
His hopes and heart plummeted.
 
He had acted too soon.  He wasn’t going to New York.  Andrew hoped the two men couldn’t see the tremor in his right hand. 

He
his heart
leapt at
th
e sound of
footsteps mounting the
stairs. 
Eleanor Foster-Sutton, Set and Costume Designer, made her way across the stage, embraced Andrew, the breath from her air kiss tickling his left ear. 
He introduced her to the Board members.  They chatted for a few moments.  Andrew
fought to
quell his anxiety
and
broke into their conversation as soon as opportunity allowed.

“Eleanor,
darling
, Ed’s on a
prop
mission.  Can you do me a huge favour and round up the troops for the toast?  I’d better wait here for Jeffrey.”

Eleanor nodded her perfectly coiffed head
and left
.

He watched her exit; a glorious performance.  A tall, cool, award winning, blonde, aristocratic beauty nearer
60
than 50, possessing a regal stance that some had been heard to compare to the famous Ms. Hepburn. 
But no
fear of her coveting the Director’s chair, the woman
, after countless awards and kudos,
was still striving for the perfectly designed set
, having
no
clue it would never happen.  Andrew
couldn’t never understood why some people stalled but he knew there were more that did than didn’t.
 
 

S
he’s a talented woman, but she’s cold,
cold enough to cause a toothache
.    

Andrew smiled at the Board members and did what he always did so well.  Started a conversation and turned on his never fail charm.  He nodded, smiled, and chuckled his way through the conversation as he tried to subdue his mounting anxiety. 
A
familiar
voice broke
his tension in two.

“So this is what you do when you’re not being watched, Andrew”, Jeffrey said. 
“Making time with the power brokers, shame on you.” 

Andrew
smiled and said nothing. 
Jeffrey bantered with the two men for a few moments then
walked over to the stereo, opened the liquor cabinet, took out his bottle of bourbon, grabbed one of the crystal glasses from the tray on top of the cabinet and poured himself a generous amount for the toast. 

Andrew hid his disgust at the thought of t
he toast
.  A
time wasting, stupid, arrogant affectation
he insisted on every night of the last performance
;
the only difference, this time it would be done as quickly and quietly as possible on stage.  It was nothing but
an ego trip
. A
waste of the actors’ time who had better things to do than stand on stage and watch him slurp his bourbon.  One consolation,
he thought,
it’ll be the last one he makes.   

“How are the troops doing
, Andrew
?  Are they on their way?”

“
Yes,
Eleanor’s rounding them up
now
.” 

M
urmurs of conversation
amplified as actors and crew drew closer to the stage.  Within minutes, everyone stood huddled together like circus performers before the ring master. 
Henry Ward, the show’s producer,
his planned
late minute entrance c
atching everyone’s eye, crossed centre stage and stood next to the Director.

The sound
s
of the audience beat against the closed curtain.

Jeffrey, his
usual
sonorous
voice
lowered
to a gruff whisper
, gave his toast (
Charlotte miming the
well known speech
behind his back) lifted his glass and downed the contents in one swallow.  Within three minutes
,
the convulsing ceased
and
Jeffrey Stone
lay
dead
centre stage
. 

8:00pm

Kate
finger combed her short chestnut curls, slipped on her new jeans and blouse.  She reached in the closet for her white cashmere sweater
,
warmth minus fleece
, for
a cool evening
.  Deciding to wear her black, leatherette platform boots, she muttered under her breath for the five minutes it took her to get them on.  A quick glance in the mirror then out the door. 
 

The streets were congested; it took almost thirty minutes for her to drive across town.  Finding a parking spot in the popular night life of the inner city wasn’t going to be easy.  She was circling the block for a second time when her cell rang.  She checked caller id – Sandra.  

“Kate, there’s a slight change in plans.  Abir phoned.  She’s running late and so are the taxis.  I’m going to take my car, pick her and Hanya up.  It means a twenty minute delay getting to The Dock.”

“That’s fine.  It’ll take me that long find a parking spot.  See you in a bit.”

Circling the block for the third time, Kate began to lose patience;
a start up frustration grumble in her belly. 
Was
Gordon right?  Was
she losing control?  Did she need professional help?  The very thought made her wince.  She would be damned if she would contact
a
precinct psychologist.
  She didn’t trust the politics.

She could try to get Sandra alone for a few minutes tonight and ask her if she’d be willing to take her on.  A psychologist with years of counselling experience and
a patient list longer than a roll of Charmin
, she had to know what’s she doing
. 
Nix it, we’ve been friends for ever and why put our personal relationship at risk?

Her mind jumped to Abir, her smart, savvy Harvard
educated lawyer
friend
.  No,
never.  Abir’s personal life was chaotic – the woman
gave up a stunning career to follow her loser, soap opera actor boyfriend to Canada
–
no,
the beautiful Egyptian born Muslim
wasn’t suitable.
 
   

Hanya
, she’s
the most logical choice.  A first nation woman,
a
feminist,
an
Anglican priest, university
lecturer and part time counsellor for the local
suicide help line
,
who could be better? 
Kate shook her head.  No, it w
ouldn’t work; she couldn’t do it to her; the woman’s agenda was crammed tighter than a fashion model’s clothes closet. 

Screw it, she thought.  I didn’t get this far for nothing.  I
’ll figure out how to handle it myself. 
M
anoeuvring the car into the tight
parking
spot
,
she shut off the engine and picked up her ringing cell. 

Caller I.D. showed Gordon R
amsey
, the Team Leader of the Murder Squad. 
Kate’s heart sank.  Did he get a complaint about a disturbance outside a gym?  She took a deep breath and answered, his voice bellowing in her ear.

“Kate, whatever you’re doing, drop it. We have a dead
body, centre stage,
at
T
he
Strand.
  Roger’s
out in the boonies with his Mustang, he’ll join us as soon as he can.  Meet you
there.”