The Role Players (15 page)

“Of course,” I said as he opened the door. We shook hands again.

“We'll see you at the opening, I trust?” he said.

“Definitely!”

He smiled and closed the door as I headed for the elevator.

Very interesting,
I thought as I rode down to the street.
And from what I'd learned about Rod Pearce, perhaps Tait's intuition wasn't totally wrong.

CHAPTER 6

It occurred to me as I left Morrison's building that I'd not called a cab to get me back to the apartment. Luckily, I'd walked about two blocks looking for a phone when an empty cab came by. I hailed it, which resolved
that
problem.

All the way back, I thought about my conversation with Morrison. Was he sincere? Or was he playing me? Would his interest in sharing his personal life with me have been the same if I'd told him when we first met that I was a plumber? I've seldom heard anyone sound more sincere, but then I was not a famous writer who could sculpt words to elicit any desired emotion. Did he suspect that Tait had hired me, and was trying to head me off at the pass by being so free with information he knew I would have pieced together from other sources eventually?

Maybe he was sincere and I'm just getting more jaded as life goes along. Possibly, but then why did he not only neglect to mention that he'd come into New York the night before he was supposed to, but specifically said Rod was already dead when he got here? Perhaps he thought that by giving me all this other information, I might not bother with such a small detail.

Wrong, Charlie
.

I suddenly realized that the cab had stopped in front of Chris and Max's apartment, and I quickly reached for my wallet.

It wasn't until I got out of the cab that I saw Jonathan sitting on the top stair of the stoop, grinning at me. “Told you I'd be here when you got back,” he said, getting up as I climbed the stairs to him.

“How long have you been sitting here?” I asked him as he reached into his pocket for the key to open the door.

“Not long,” he said. “Maybe ten minutes. Chris and Max are in the shower.”

“How was your walk?” I asked as we climbed the stairs to the apartment.

“Great!” he said. “I just walked up and down the streets looking at all the buildings and watching the people and listening to them talk. I almost got lost, but I didn't. Then I stopped at the bakery like I said I was going to, and then I came back here.”

He opened the apartment door and we went in. Chris and Max were apparently still getting dressed. “So,” he said, replacing the key on the coffee table, “how did it go with Mr. Morrison?”

“Interesting,” I said truthfully. “Very interesting, but very confusing.”

“How so?”

“I haven't figured that out yet.”

The bedroom door opened and Max and Chris came out.

“Want some coffee and a roll?” Chris asked. “Jonathan bought at least a dozen.”

“I'll pass right now,” I said.

“Everything go all right with Gene?”

“Fine. He's a most interesting guy. He comes across as very sincere, and I hate to question it, but writers make their living orchestrating other people's emotions and Morrison is a pro, so I just don't know whether I was being conned or seriously confided in.”

“Which is why I'm glad I'm not a private investigator,” Max said.

“So,” Chris said, changing the subject abruptly, “what shall we do with our day? It's…” he looked at the clock on the mantle, “…eleven thirty-eight, we've got about four free hours. Any suggestions?”

We all thought a moment. Jonathan shrugged and said, “Whatever the rest of you want is fine with me. I'm easy.”

Chris grinned. “You'd better not let Dick hear you say that!”

Jonathan blushed.

“We could run up to the Guggenheim,” Max said. “Though we wouldn't have all that much time there, or we could go down to the World Trade Center and go to the observation deck—unless you're tired of tall buildings. Or we could go to the U.N., though I think they might be in special session right now and we may not be able to get into the main chamber.”

“How about the World Trade Center?” Jonathan said. So much for neutrality.

So the World Trade Center it was.

*

“Good choice,” I said to Jonathan as we stood on the observation deck. The sky was beginning to fill with low-flying clouds, some so low they appeared to be below our sight line. I assumed it was an illusion until Jonathan cried out, “Dick! Chris! Max! Look!” He was pointing toward the ground, and when we looked down we saw that a cloud was indeed flowing around the building about fifteen floors below us. Jonathan kept taking photo after photo as it passed the towers and moved on out over the city.

“Now that's a photo worth taking!” Max said. “See now why I love this town?”

We did.

We spent nearly an hour on the observation decks, then another hour wandering around the lobbies of both towers, and going down to the concourse beneath them to check out the shops. When we made our way back up to ground level, it was beginning to look like rain.

“I tell you what,” Max said. “Why don't we have a combination late lunch and early dinner? Tait's setting up a little cast party after the performance, and there'll be lots of food there, I'm sure.”

When we all agreed, he suggested a little Italian place not far from where we were. “They have a fantastic lasagna and a chicken Parmesan to die for.”

“Sounds good,” I said, and Jonathan nodded eagerly.

*

It had been a great afternoon, and I enjoyed it thoroughly, but every time I let my mental guard down, I thought of Gene Morrison, and Rod Pearce. I had no idea what my next move should be, or what Morrison's next move might be—if he had, or needed, one.

God, I truly hate not being able to take people at face value. Having to question everyone's motives, automatically reaching for your umbrella when someone says, “It's a lovely day today” is like standing on a trap door that you're constantly aware can send you plunging into total cynicism, and that's a terrible way to live.

Gene Morrison might have been completely sincere; he may well have had nothing whatever to do with Rod Pearce's death. I wanted to believe that. Really, I did.

But…
my mind cautioned.

Damn “Buts”!

*

We made it back to the apartment (no rain) in time to rest a bit, then get ready for the opening. Jonathan insisted on wearing his blazer in honor of the occasion and to show respect to Tait and Gene Morrison, not to mention Chris and Max's contributions to the play. While both Max and Chris said it wasn't necessary, Jonathan said, “Well, I think this show is just as important as
Cats
,” and that was that.

I suggested that, it being opening night, we should stay as much out of the way as possible. So rather than going in with Chris and Max, we'd wait until the rest of the audience was let in. I didn't expect any objection from either Chris or Max, who weren't very successful in hiding their growing opening night jitters, and they in fact seemed a little relieved.

They left for the theater a few minutes earlier than usual, leaving Jonathan and me with an hour or so to kill. We took full advantage of having the apartment to ourselves to play a quick new game Jonathan had thought of while riding down from the top of the World Trade Center: “The two horny strangers trapped in a stalled elevator.”

Afterwards, we took our time getting ready—yes, I got all dressed up too, more for Jonathan's sake than my own—and we left the apartment a little before seven. While I was still pretty full from our late lunch/early dinner, I sensed—rightly—that Jonathan could use something to tide him over until the cast party. A quick stop at a corner deli took care of Jonathan's seemingly endless hunger.

We made it to the theater with plenty of time to spare, and while the crowd hardly matched the one waiting to get into
Cats,
it appeared that there would definitely be a full house. We were standing beside a tall man in a very expensive suit, who would have been considerably more attractive, in my opinion, had he not considered it necessary to pluck his eyebrows, lacquer his nails to the point of reflecting light, and opted for just a tad less makeup.

Next to him was a short, heavyset man with a full Monty Woolley beard, wearing a brown tweed jacket with suede elbow patches and a bright yellow ascot. We couldn't help but overhear their conversation.

“Why do you insist upon coming to these things?” the tall one asked.

The other responded with a shocked look. “What? And miss a Tait Duncan extravaganza? Dear me, no! And I understand this one is about the sinking of the
Titanic
. How utterly appropriate!”

“Well,” the tall one said, “he was lucky enough to have Gene Morrison choose him to produce his first new play in years.”

The heavyset man responded with a derisive laugh. “Exactly. His first new play in years. Tait has an absolute penchant for taking on lost causes—hiring ex-criminals, supporting burnt-out playwrights and their B-grade pretty boy actors—in a leading role, yet!” Suddenly he touched his spread fingertips dramatically to his chest and assumed a wide-eyed look of mock distress. “Oh, but the poor boy's dead now, isn't he? Pity.”

His face instantly reverted to his normal semi-bored expression as he continued. “What more could he possibly do to guarantee a disaster? I admit there was a time when Gene did have a certain flair for the theater, but that was before he went off to whore for the movies. Obviously one of the reasons he did not bring the play to me first was that he recognized that some of us still have standards. Of course, I do feel sorry for him. And to have his…protégée…murdered, well….”

Ex-criminals?
My mind asked, being several sentences slow on the uptake.
And just what might an “ex-criminal” be?

At this point the doors opened, and everyone began to move through the lobby and into the auditorium. We went to the box office to pick up our tickets—we didn't recognize the woman working the booth, nor the young man taking tickets and handing out programs. As we made our way into the auditorium, Jonathan noticed the tall man and his heavyset friend several people ahead of us. He indicated them with a nod, then leaned to me and said, “I wonder what that was all about?”

“Me, too,” I said as we excused ourselves past several seated people to two vacant seats in the next-to-last row. “I'd guess,” I added as we sat down, “they're not exactly members of the Tait Duncan/Gene Morrison fan club.”

Something made me wonder if there might be more behind that conversation than just catty innuendo, and if there was, I would be very curious to find out what it might be.

*

Another standing ovation at curtain call, though I noted that the heavyset bearded man and his friend, several rows ahead of us and to our left, remained seated. Once again Gene came out for a few short words, though he did not mention Rod Pearce.

The audience filed out leaving only those who were apparently invited to the cast party standing around talking. I was more than a little surprised to see the bearded one and his friend were among them.

Tait and Gene moved their way from group to group of well-wishers, making it a point to exchange a few words with everyone present. The conversations muffled the sounds of activity going on onstage behind the closed curtain, as the caterers set up shop.

Jonathan and I moved toward the stage, where most of the people were congregating, joined by a few of the cast members who were beginning to come out from backstage. I urged Jonathan closer to the two whose activities we'd been watching. As Tait and Gene came closer, the bearded one moved quickly toward them, arms extended.

“Tait! Gene!” he exclaimed jovially, as though he were greeting his two long-lost best friends. “Another triumph! It was everything I expected, and more!”

“Thank you, Gavin,” Tait said pleasantly. “Meeting your expectations is always one of my highest goals.”

Gavin turned to his tall friend. “And you remember my assistant Armand, of course?”

“Of course,” Tait said, extending his hand.

“And where is
your
assistant—Kyle, is it?”

“Keith,” Tait corrected. “He's backstage helping to get things ready.”

“Ah, yes, Keith. Of course. A very talented and versatile young man. Of course he'd have to be to work under you.”

I certainly wouldn't want Gavin around my upholstered furniture,
I thought.

Gene had said nothing all this time, and Gavin looked at him, his expression instantly changing to one of deep concern. “And Gene,” he said unctuously, “please accept my sincere condolences on the death of your handsome young protégée. I understand you were…very close. What a pity that the good die young.”

“Thank you,” Gene said simply and without expression.

The conversation was mercifully cut short when the curtains opened revealing small bars at either side of the stage; lots of folding chairs set up in small groups; and two long tables of hors d'oeuvres, breads, rolls, cheeses, assorted sliced meats, and a variety of deserts. Everyone made their way to the stairs on either side of the stage.

Eager as he was to get to the food, Jonathan paused to look around for Chris and Max. We saw Chris walking up to the sound booth and knocking on the door. He stood there for a moment until the door opened and Max and Joe came out. Chris pointed in our direction, and all three came to join Jonathan and me, climbing the stairs to the stage.