Start Shooting (30 page)

“Nine o’clock!”

Julie jumps back. I throw the sheet and leap out of bed. “I had to be up
two hours
ago.” Blink, scramble. “You promised—”

“You were out cold. I made an executive decision.” She grabs my shoulders. “Plenty of time. Everything’s in the bathroom. Blanche’s clothes are hanging right here.” She points at the door. “Clean up, catch a cab ninety minutes from now. Even you can’t take that long to get ready.”

“Sorry.” I kiss her, then push her to the door. “Me. Get ready. Bye.” Julie backs through and I throw the deadbolt her key opened. My script’s on the floor. I’ll clean up, make up, dress up … then speed-read what I already know by heart. Then I’ll … big exhale … then I’ll do the absolute best I can.

I take the 9-millimeter to the bathroom and lock the door. The shower works wonders; clean is almost an orgasm. The clothes, not so much. I “Blanche” them up, belt the slip dress that’s too big, and wish for bodice frills I don’t have. Ruben’s knuckles left bumps I can’t cover but color that I can. The strawberry blond hair goes into the semi-bun that I can release mid-scene. Blanche drank; Blanche flirted; Blanche wielded a biting snobbery to lie about her lost social standing. Underneath it all, Blanche was desperate, only a gentleman of means could save her.

The 9-millimeter is on the bed. I do a turn for Julie’s antique mirror.
The veined, aging silver reflects a tragic calculated lie in a cheap evening dress; a desperate woman unraveling toward suicide or a mental-institution future. My hand gently strokes my hair; I will not
unravel
, I’m a Mississippi Southern belle aging much too fast due to unreasonable circumstances, standing in my sister’s squalid French Quarter apartment. I can smell Stanley, her apish husband, his friends; their lack of culture, their coarseness and vulgarity—

Door knock.

I jolt out of the French Quarter, grab the 9-millimeter, and two-hand it at the door.

Julie wouldn’t tell anyone I’m hiding here. Would she? Unless … they made her. I step to the door. In the peephole is Tracy Moens—jeans, Nirvana T-shirt, ponytail, ball cap—she appears to be alone in the tiny section of hallway I can see. Can’t tell if she’s nervous. I grab Ruben’s .38 from my purse, slide the gun under the mattress, unlock the door, then jerk it open using the door’s blind side as cover.

Moens walks in, peeking around the door as she does. I slam the door behind her, expecting a shoulder crash that doesn’t come. Moens squares up, sees my 9-millimeter aimed at her face, and stumbles back. “That, ah … for me?”

One hand lowers the 9-millimeter, the other locks the door. “I was in Blanche DuBois; you scared me.” I lay the 9-millimeter on the leatherette table by the chair.

Moens sits on the bed; spreads her fingers on my script, rubbing the pages. Then nods like we’re on the actress journey together. “I asked Patti Black to run the prints on your pistol grips.”

“And?”

“Are you trying to kill Ruben Vargas? For Coleen?”

“What?”

“Ruben Vargas is a dangerous fellow, Arleen; not someone I’d threaten … if that’s what you’re doing. And Robbie Steffen is almost as bad.”

“Your exposé isn’t a threat? Exhuming my sister isn’t a threat?”

“The
Herald
and I are different. I have protection you don’t.”

I snatch my script from under her hand. “
You don’t have act three, do you?
Your story’s a sham without an ending, a grandstand to save the
Herald.
”

“We’re way deeper into the story than that.” She pauses, but her green eyes stay on me. “Lots of secrets, Arleen.”

“One of ’em is you’re a fraud who’s run out of brilliance and innuendo. Show me the grips or get out.”

“Something’s up, Arleen, something new that involves you, Robbie Steffen, and Ruben. Ruben was in a fistfight with a sergeant early this morning, a sergeant who was on the job when Coleen was killed, a sergeant who’s being deposed by the Duprees tomorrow. We could talk about that instead.”

I point her to the door.

Moens stands but not to leave. “Seven hours ago you gave me pistol grips from a .38 Detective Special. The gun they came from was fired within the last twenty-four hours. The same caliber gun was used in Greektown in the Robbie Steffen shootings. Robbie Steffen and Ruben Vargas helped you with the
Streetcar
audition, according to Anne Johns, your director.”

My phone vibrates.

“Yesterday you were downstairs in Julie’s office thirty minutes after the shooting in Greektown, and so was
Bobby
Vargas. Five minutes after you and I left for the Shubert Theater, Ruben came by the L7. Maybe he was looking for his brother, maybe he was looking for you.”

“Get out.”

“An hour later you were assaulted on Rush Street just south of Hugo’s by an ‘unnamed assailant.’ The valets described a man who could easily have been Ruben. They said the two of you were talking, then bang, you hit him and he hit you. He was dragging you toward a car when they yelled him off.”

I jerk open the door. “Are you leaving, or do I throw you out?”

Moens stares. “Bad news, Arleen. The only prints on the grips … are yours. Your parents filed them when Coleen was murdered.”

“Out, goddamnit!”

“I can help you. The cops aren’t reaching under the right rocks yet, but they will be. The secrets in the Four Corners won’t stay buried, Arleen. It’s too late. And whatever you’re into with Ruben and Robbie—”

“If you have proof someone other than Anton Dupree murdered my sister, show me.” My phone vibrates again.

“I will. First we finish last night’s conversation. About your mother
and
father;
your mother’s brother. How the secrets in the Four Corners—”

“My sister’s dead. I’m not.” I grab my purse, stuff the 9-millimeter in it, then the script. “Coleen’s at Holy Sepulchre where she’s
staying
. I’ll be at the Shubert. When you and your tabloid have
proof
, call me.”

Moens follows me out, talking to my back. “Detective Richard A. Hirshbeck worked Anton Dupree’s third and final trial. Hirshbeck kept an informal file, sometimes called a ‘street file,’ on all the cases he worked. I have his file. After Anton Dupree was executed, Detective Hirshbeck wrote a letter to the state’s attorney’s office asking that they reopen the case. Two days before he was to meet with the state’s attorney, Detective Hirshbeck died in a gang-related drive-by.” Moens jumps the last three steps to the bottom. “A gang-related drive-by, Arleen, seven years
after
Hirshbeck had retired.”

Downstairs the L7 isn’t busy yet. I recognize Anton Dupree’s father from his photograph in the paper; he’s the spokesman for their lawsuit and the only surviving relative. Mr. Dupree gets up when Tracy Moens and I exit Julie’s office two feet apart. No question Moens brought him here to confront me and that’s what he does.

“We must have your help.”

I try to sidestep him but he slides left and won’t let me. Tracy blocks me from the other side. Mr. Dupree and I stare from three feet. He’s about sixty, looks older, frail the way some black men do when their hair is graying and their suits are too big.

“It’s the right thing to do, Ms. Brennan. For my boy; for your twin sister.”

“You mean for the lawyers”—I nod at Tracy—“and this bitch’s newspaper.”

“No—”

“Then don’t sue for the money—don’t demand any; none for you, none for the lawyers. We’ll all sue just because it’s good for
your boy
and my sister.”

“No. My boy was—”

“Your
boy
, Mr. Dupree”—I lean into his nose—“was a
rapist murderer
. My sister was
thirteen
, wearing a school uniform when your boy
fucked her to death.
” I turn to hit Tracy Moens in her perfect pretty face
but she’s already stepped back. A Cubs fan opens the door to enter. I shoulder into him, bounce his hat off his head, and storm up Clark Street.

The gypsy cab changes lanes, trying to beat southbound traffic that shouldn’t be on the street. Moens emphasized
father
. Wanted to drag my ma in as well; wants to exhume Coleen. Under my script, my purse vibrates. Shubert. Shubert. Shubert. I’m about to be late to the single biggest chance I’ll ever get. I dig out the phone careful not to spill the 9-millimeter. Ruben Vargas’s number is on the screen. Fifteen minutes from my moment on planet Earth and he won’t leave me alone.

Be Blanche. New Orleans
.

My phone vibrates again. If the window would open, I’d throw the phone out. Ruben Vargas again. That monster better not be at the theater. I touch the 9-millimeter; he better not. Robbie, either.

The phone blips in my hand before I can shut it off—911 messages. The first is a text message: “BREAK A LEG … BUT IN A GOOD WAY—BV.” BV is Bobby Vargas. We
did
talk last night, wasn’t a dream. He was so sweet; hard to imagine he and Ruben are related. I dial Bobby, get his voice mail, and tell him: “Fingers crossed, Bobby. On my way in. Love you for calling, means a lot. Bye.”

The other message is from Sarah, my agent: “WHERE ARE YOU?”

Twenty years. Breathing too short. Push back in the seat. Be calm; be professional; be
ready
.

The driver turns onto Monroe. Ruben’s car isn’t parked out front; he’s not under the marquee or at the doors. My phone vibrates again. Ruben’s number on the screen. I pay the driver and jump out. Sarah has her phone in her hand and greets me chest to chest at the curb.

“Blanche!” Her hands go to my shoulders and press us apart for inspection. “Absolutely awesome. Feel good? Everyone’s ready. Waiting.”

Sarah’s nerves make mine worse. Today I’m her new project, the flavor of the day. I matter, and have a hundred percent of her attention. Blanche DuBois stutters. I squeeze my eyes shut—be
ready
. Blanche answers that she will be, has to be.

Sarah eases back. Worried? Or she understands, knows where I am. Where Blanche is. I push down the jitters, keep the energy, hold the energy; be bold, brazen, bet it all. But professional. For us, for Blanche. Hold back, all of it inside, ready. Stanley’s an animal; Ruben’s an animal. Stanley, Stanley, Stanley.

Through the Monroe Street doors into the Shubert’s lobby. The lobby’s empty, vast, and cold. Only one black-lacquer door is open. A gaffer gives me a thumbs-up. The aisle down is side-lit dim; the theater’s dark, five heads are in the tenth row, center. As I approach, Anne Johns, friend of Ruben Vargas and Robbie Steffen, rises from the seats in a black Armani jacket, jeans, cadet cap, and wire-rimmed glasses. She sidesteps seats into the aisle, every inch of her the award-winning director she is, and says, “Hi.” Her tone is delicate, almost somber, as is her hand when she touches my shoulder. “We’re ready when you are.”

Bring it. New Orleans, postwar.

I smile patrician, 1940s Southern holding on to the last of it, and don’t speak. On the elevated stage Jude Law is seated on a brass bed across from a bureau and mirror. A trunk is open on the floor with flowery dresses—Blanche’s dresses, my dresses—thrown across it. A flimsy curtain hangs between him and what would be the bathroom, another curtain separates what would be the kitchen. An end table by the bed
—my bed
—a partially consumed bottle of liqueur and a glass. Under an open bowling shirt, he’s wearing a strap T-shirt. A jolt straightens my back: We’re doing the
rape
scene, not the pages Sarah sent.

My eyes cut to Anne Johns. She hands me the scarf I used in the first audition and squeezes it gently into my hand. “Blanche might want it for the yacht.”

Mr. Shep Huntleigh’s yacht. The desperate creation—the last hope—of a woman spiraling into madness. The scarf is Blanche’s talisman, “proof” that her imaginary Caribbean cruise and millionaire admirer are real, that her new life is about to unfold. The scarf is my talisman as well.

Sarah walks me down the last thirty feet of descending aisle, takes my purse at the stage, and whispers, “Everything that’s ever happened to you. Your sister, Coleen. All of it.”

Onstage my palms are wet when I shake Jude Law’s hand. I haven’t looked at the audience, the five heads who own Blanche’s and my future. Jude has blue-collar eyes—sexual, violent, knowing. His hand is too strong gripping mine. Feet apart, shoulder dipped, he is motionless swagger; male, control. No good wishes are offered. He is Stanley and points me to my mark in the bedroom of the cramped, steamy, New Orleans apartment he shares with my pregnant younger sister. In ten steps he is offstage to where Stanley Kowalski will enter.

Arleen Brennan ceases.

Blanche DuBois steps into the bedroom and grins, twirling on the dark edges of delirium—drunk, rejected, retreating into the last of a shattered fantasy world that will save her from past indiscretions, elevate her to a position of dignity and safety befitting a Southern woman of charm and breeding.

“Toast to the future!
My telegram has arrived at the telegraph office! Mr. Shep Huntleigh, Dallas millionaire!
Oh my, yes, he and I. Our own Belle Reve and a return to the genteel days of finery and distinction.”

I pirouette for the bureau’s mirror and an audience of future admirers, glorious me in my white satin evening gown—and stumble. It’s the heat, or possibly I’ve had a bit too many of my drinks for the day, and the exhilaration that comes when a lady prepares for … for her millionaire to whisk her away.

I smile out into the dark apartment and the night beyond. “Oh, what a wonderful life we will have in Dallas, Mr. Shep Huntleigh and I! Never again will I encounter those who think me pretentious, my overly fragile chin too high.
Me
, of all people, gossiped about as a shopworn Southern belle who may have known too many men, searched too diligently through the loneliness for the safety a respectable marriage can provide.”

I pirouette, thanking a gentleman for a compliment.

“Have I lied?
Why?
Because I tell what
ought
to be the truth? That is no sin; a woman must protect herself in this world. The brutes and lowborn may savage me for a harmless prevarication, but not my faraway millionaire. No, no; Mr. Shep Huntleigh of Dallas knows me to be a beauty, a beauty of mind and a richness of spirit. This gown, all my dresses, will be spotless again—every one of my detractors will
see—my rhinestone tiara will shine, no more casting my pearls before swine. Ha-ha!”