Scene Stealer (5 page)

Abner T. Bean's Theatrical Agency was located in a famous, but by New York standards, old building on Broadway. There is always an old building being torn down or a new edifice going up in Manhattan. Bean's building, in the heart of the rapidly diminishing theatre district, had once housed music publishers and tunesmiths. They were gone now, along with their melodies and lyrics. The building's designation as a landmark, however, kept its handsome brick from being torn down and replaced by another featureless office tower.

No longer a mecca for musicians, the building served as a backdrop for gaunt, sad-eyed peddlers and hustlers who set up cardboard boxes on the once-glamorous street; here they hawked their bogus merchandise. New Yorkers ignored them; tourists stopped, examined and occasionally bought an imitation Gucci scarf or fake Rolex watch.

The building was equipped with two elevators, their doors decorated in early twentieth century art deco designs and vibrant colors. Unfortunately, only one was in working order. A man who looked as though he had been installed along with the car operated it. The worn, visored cap perched on his head must have been the last surviving remnant of his uniform.

“Afternoon, miss.” He removed the cap and passed a comb over his nearly hairless head.

“Good afternoon. Mr. Abner Bean's floor, please.”

“Won't see you, miss. Mr. Bean has an open call for actors on Tuesdays between 12:00 and 2:00 p.m. Today's Thursday. Come back tomorrow. If you like I'd be glad to hand him your picture and resume.”

The old coot winked at me! Oh, dear. It couldn't be. Perhaps it was merely a twitch.

“Thank you very much but Mr. Bean will see me.”

“I doubt it. Only sees actors on Tuesdays.”

“I am not an actor.”

“C'mon. Don't kid a kidder. Sure you are. I saw you on TV. I know I saw you. What was the show?”

“I am not…”

“Wait. Don't tell me. Let me guess. It'll come to me in a minute.”

“Are you going to operate this elevator or do I have to march up those stairs?”

“I'll be glad to take you up, miss, but Mr. Bean won't see you. Doesn't like being disturbed, might throw away your picture.”

“I'm not about to give Mr…Never mind. I'll take my chances. Up, please.”

The elevator operator shrugged, scratched his scalp and replaced the cap—this time he tilted it over one rheumy eye—and closed the elevator door. He sang snatches of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” in an asthmatic tenor as the elevator creaked and grumbled its way to Mr. Bean's floor. When we arrived he doffed the cap, told me his shift ended at five that afternoon and he'd be glad to buy me a cup of coffee and advise me on my career.

I bit my lip, held my temper, thanked the poor soul and informed him I'd had quite enough advice.

Abner Bean's office was at the far end of a long, dimly lit hallway. I could hear the ring of a telephone as I approached his door. Light showed through its heavy, opaque window. A note, taped to the glass, read “Actors will be interviewed between the hours of 12:00 and 2:00 on Tuesdays. No exceptions! Please do not knock.”

I knocked.

There was no reaction.

I rapped on the door again.

“The office is closed. Mail your picture and resume.”

“Mr. Bean? I must see you. I am not an actress.”

The door opened. Mr. Bean looked me over with a practiced eye. In turn, I studied him. I towered over a chubby, dapperly dressed man. A ruffle of red hair—the same shade as his granddaughter's—circled his round, pink head. A button nose separated two pudgy cheeks.

“All right,” Mr. Bean said. “You're not an actress. Who are you?”

“A friend of Kevin Corcoran's. My name is Augusta Weidenmaier. I'm assisting the police with their investigation. Your granddaughter, Patti, informed me you were his agent.”

“You spoke to Patti?” Mr. Bean's eyes twinkled. “Some kid, huh?”

“A charming young lady.”

“Wants to be my partner, someday,” he said and adjusted his red vest. “So? How's it coming? You guys making any progress? Nothing's on the tube. You think Kevin's okay? I didn't get a wink of sleep last night worrying about that boy. I don't know what to say to Patti. He's a nice kid. Not one of those precocious brats who are nine years old and act like forty. Should I ask you for identification or something?”

I sensed my library card would not fool an agent. “The hallway is a touch warm. Shall we go into your office, Mr. Bean? I expect it's a tad cooler and I need to ask you a few questions.”

“The police already asked plenty but why not?” Mr. Bean said. “You might as well come in and park it. Take a seat, I mean.” He pointed to a chair facing his desk. “You know a Lieutenant Brown? He cleaned my mind out. But anything to help Kevin.”

My glance strayed around the room. Photographs of theatrical personalities, a few of them recognizable, cluttered the office. They were tacked to the walls. They sat on the desk; they were stacked in lopsided piles on the top of a metal file cabinet. The photos on the walls and desk were all addressed to “Dear Abner” and signed with “Love,” “Gratitude,” “Affection” or “Kisses.” Abner Bean watched me study the photos. “What can I tell you? I'm a lovable fellow.” He chuckled and I joined in. His laugh was infectious.

“Mr. Bean, how did you become Kevin's agent?”

The phone rang, and Abner Bean picked it up on the first ring. “Abner T. Bean Agency,” he said. “Come by Tuesday between 12:00 and 2:00. Mr. Bean only sees actors on Tuesday between 12:00 and 2:00. No, you can't. Mr. Bean only talks to actors on Tuesdays between 12:00 and 2:00. Take it or leave it.”

Mr. Bean listened for a moment. “Same to you, fella.”

He replaced the receiver. “Actors,” he complained. “They never stop. Now, where were we? You wanted to know how I became Kevin's agent. Through Patti, they're in the same class. Naturally I had to go and see my one and only grandchild in the school play. A charmer, my granddaughter, but to be honest, as an actress she'd starve to death. But Kevin, the kid's a natural.

“Cowboy Bob's was looking for family types for a commercial. A wide range of actors—fathers, mothers, grandparents, sisters, brothers, I submitted all different types. I signed Kevin to a contract and got him an audition. Sure enough he got the job…the only one of my clients who did. Nothing wrong with their readings, the sponsor changed his concept, decided to use cartoon characters instead of live actors. Kevin's the only flesh-and-blood actor. They loved Kevin, at least I thought they did until Robert Barton started auditioning again. Cowboy Bob's is his company. The publicity that guy's getting. No heart. The guy has no heart. Dollar bills where his heart should be. Tough business, this, somebody always looks to brush you aside. Take your spot. He's auditioning youngsters like he thinks the police won't find Kevin. If they don't he'll probably have an open call Kids will be lined up for a block and the tabloids will give him more publicity.”

Mr. Bean shuffled a stack of children's photos. “I don't think I can do it,” he said. “I submit other kids, it's like giving up on Kevin. How could I face Patti?”

Kevin had only been missing for two days when Bertram Barton began auditioning children; was he really doing it for publicity, or did he know something? I moved Bertram to the top of my list of suspects.

The phone again interrupted our conversation. Another actor looking for an agent. Mr. Bean repeated his speech about Tuesdays then turned toward me.

“Maybe you'd like to give up police work and become my secretary? The pay's lousy, the hours are long, the aggravation's constant and my last girl is in a lot of trouble. Yesterday she eloped with an actor. A bad one at that. You look like you'd know the difference.”

The phone was insistent. Mr. Bean closed his eyes and massaged his forehead.

“Abner T. Bean's Theatrical Agency.” I answered the call this time. “No. Mr. Bean will see actors on Tuesdays between 12:00 and 2:00 p.m. He is not available at any other time. Thank you for calling.” My tone of voice convinced the actor who returned my thanks, told me to “Have a good day,” and hung up. There was a glint of admiration in Mr. Bean's eyes.

“Did many children audition for the commercial, Mr. Bean?”

“Sure. I submitted three children myself. Another boy. Too old for the part. Thirteen. Awkward age. Hard to get him work for the next couple of years. And Willow Leigh. She used to be my client.”

“Willow Leigh? Should I be familiar with her work?”

“Beautiful. Sixteen now, been doing commercials since she was in diapers. Willow had quite a few callbacks, in fact I thought she'd be a shoo-in for the commercial, but Kevin got the job. Willow's mother threw a fit, she used to be a pretty big model herself, made the cover of
Vogue,
earned big bucks. Now she's getting a little long in the tooth. Couldn't stand the thought of an unknown beating out her daughter. Guess she's reliving her days of glory through Willow.”

“She was upset with you, Mr. Bean?”

“Upset isn't the word. Haven't heard that kind of language off-stage in a long time. Told her I just set up the auditions, I don't do the picking. Maybe Willow had been seen on too many commercials. Maybe they thought a boy would sell more burgers. Who knows? There could be a million and one reasons. Some sponsors just prefer a man to a woman as a spokesperson. Maybe Barton was tired of seeing Lorna and wanted to move on. Dates them and drops them. Could be his way of giving her the heave-ho.”

“Lorna?”

“Mrs. Leigh, Willow's mother. Listen. Forget I said that. Only a rumor, who knows if Lorna and Barton were really making it? Show business is a small business, sort of like six degrees of separation, and rumors run wild. Anyway Lorna blamed me. Figures. Knowing Lorna, she had to blame somebody.” Mr. Bean looked at his phone as if expecting it to ring again.

“Ungrateful woman,” he continued, sounding aggrieved. “I got Willow top dollar on the picture she's acting in right now. Kid's gonna make a fortune and now her mother's fighting me on the commission. Wants to walk out on her contract with me. No appreciation. Believe me, it's not the money, it's the principle of the thing. Though my landlord doesn't care about principles, he cares about the rent.” Mr. Bean popped a licorice drop in his mouth, then offered me the bowl of candy. “Good for the digestion.”

“I could tell you stories,” he continued. “Actors beg me to be their agent. They're unknown. I start them off. Get them auditions. A part in this, a part in that. They start getting hot, what do they do? Drop me for one of those big agencies with all the initials. That's what Willow Leigh did. I got Willow a sweet deal. She doesn't even have to go on location, they're filming right here in Central Park. Still, she leaves me for another agency.

“Actors.” Mr. Bean passed his hand over his eyes. “I should take 'em to court but the lawyers would make the money.”

“Would Willow's mother be capable of kidnapping Kevin?” I asked.

“A stage mother is capable of anything and everything. She couldn't stand Kevin, though, I told you before, most people love the kid. But not Lorna and not Larry Dunn. He's the actor that read with Kevin at the audition. Submitted him for the part of Cowboy Bob. Kevin got it. Originally, Kevin auditioned for Cowboy Bob's grandson.”

“What does he look like, Mr. Bean?”

“Larry? Larry is a nice-looking, older man. Still thinks he should be playing leads. How do you tell an actor he's too old? Especially when he doesn't have a name and can't afford plastic surgery? Believe me, never tell an actor he's too old. Anyway, Larry doesn't get the job and he blames it on Kevin. Is it Kevin's fault the sponsor prefers cartoons? Animated cartoon characters. With a computer they can make French fries dance and sing, fish sticks play instruments and you name it, Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Burger can do it. The sponsor prefers cartoon characters to live actors. There are days I think he's right. Anyway, Larry blamed Kevin and me because he didn't get the job playing Cowboy Bob. Said the kid did everything he could to upstage him. I set Dunn up with other auditions. You know, typical American grandpa, commercials for cereal, anti-acid, diapers, life insurance and aspirin. He ended up with a bit on a Cousin Cora's Chicken Crisps commercial. A buy-out, no residuals. One payment. Screen Actor's Guild minimum. Still, it was a job.”

“What is he doing now, Mr. Bean?”

“Now? Now he's busy setting up his own theatre. Don't know where he got the money. Off-Off Broadway, I guess. Shakespeare. Gonna be a one-man show. Produce. Direct. Act. Doing everything himself. Designing. Carpentry. Lights. Built that bookcase for me. The guy should do that for a living. Could make a bundle building things. But he's an actor. Not a good actor but an actor. He'll lose his shirt.”

I asked for Willow Leigh's phone number as well as Lawrence Dunn's. While I was jotting them down the phone rang again. This time the call was from an assistant director on a film.

“How many extras?” Mr. Bean asked, then scribbled a number on a scrap of paper as he listened. “Sure. When's the call?”

Mr. Bean looked a bit thrown. “That's really short notice,” he said. “No. No. You don't have to call anyone else. I've got 'em.” There was a short pause while Mr. Bean took notes. “All right,” he said, reading them back, “you want a teenage couple in love, a homely housewife with a baby, a man with a dog—preferably a schnauzer, two cop types—one big and beefy, one skinny, and a lady over sixty—society type. Ten assorted men, ages twenty to thirty. And eight women—same mix. You want them to report to the Wollman Rink in Central Park at 6:30 a.m. tomorrow. You got it.”

Mr. Bean took a white linen display handkerchief from his vest pocket and mopped his brow while staring at a large-faced clock on the wall directly opposite his desk.