Thirty-five

Tuck waved over a gangly, denim-clad kid in his late twenties. As soon as I laid eyes on his flattop head, I thought “Howard Johnson” had to be a nickname. His hair was the same orange shade as the roof of that classic hotel and restaurant chain.

“Clare Cosi, I want you to meet Howie Miller, the budding playwright I told you about.”

“Howard Johnson Miller, Ms. Cosi.” His handshake was firm, his wide, crooked grin almost comic in his freckled face.

“Mr. Miller, is that right?” I said. “I’m guessing Howard Johnson is a nickname?”

“No, that’s my given name. One hundred percent authentic,” he replied with a note of zany pride. “My grandfather was born in a booth at a Howard Johnson’s restaurant.”

“You’re serious?”

His orange head bobbed. “My very pregnant great-grandmother had this craving for tender sweet fried clams and orange sherbet, but her timing was a little off.”

“And they named you after the restaurant, too?”

“You have to understand, Ms. Cosi. That was about the most exciting thing to happen to my family in three generations. They’ve been running the same hardware store in the same little town of Hickory Hill for years. So, Howard Johnson Miller named his son Howard Johnson Miller, Junior. Then I came along. I’m officially Howard Johnson Miller the Third, if anyone is counting.”

Tuck spoke up. “I didn’t expect to see you at our Writer’s Block Lounge until tomorrow.”

Howie sighed. “Yeah, well…I was scheduled to work a couple of blocks from here, helping a guy move to a new apartment. Unfortunately for my bank account, that side hustle fell through—”

“Still working the side hustles?” Tuck said. “You already work two jobs as it is.” Tuck turned to me. “Howie works nights as an usher at the Minskoff Theatre. And in the daytime, he works at the Library for the Performing Arts at Lincoln Center—”

“Only two days a week,” Howie corrected. “Thus, the dire need for another side hustle.”

He abruptly peeled off his backpack, pulled a folder from a compartment, and passed it to Tuck.

“That’s the stuff you asked me to research at the library.”

“It’s for Punch,” Tuck told me. “He’s recreating Carol Channing’s Dolly and wants to get the costuming right.” Tuck thanked Howie with a twenty-dollar bill and a pat on the back. “I owe you one.”

Those words sealed the deal on what I was considering. “Howie, what sort of side jobs are you willing to do?”

“Pretty much any—”

“Tell Clare what you did for the Steinway Street Players,” Tuck cut in.

“The Steinway Street Players?” I said. “Sorry, I never heard of that theater group.”

“And you never will,” Howie said with a laugh, “because there was only one—and he really was a player.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“It’s the subject of his current dramatic project,” Tuck informed me, “though I think songs would blast it off. With the right lyricist and composer, it could be another Music Man.”

“I don’t know about that,” Howie said. “But the story is true. When I first landed in the city, I hooked up with this guy who bought an old movie theater in Queens. He announced it would soon be the home of a brand-new drama school and theatrical troupe. He had an impressive résumé, too—worked in Hollywood for major film companies and said he was now a part-time casting director for productions at the Kaufman Astoria Studios, which was less than a mile from his theater. So you can imagine how excited I was when he hired me. I’d applied for a part-time gig, but he offered me a full-time job as the theater manager.”

Howie threw up his palms. “I’d never been a theater manager, but the thousand-dollar-a-week salary was too good to pass up. So I spent two weeks painting the lobby, fixing broken seats, hanging signs, and helping with community outreach. Right on time, I got my paycheck.

“Meanwhile the boss announces open auditions for his first production and launches a website for his acting school with classes like How to Impress a Casting Director and Acing Auditions for Stage and Screen. I help him post notices on college and high school campuses, mostly in affluent areas of Westchester and Long Island.

“During his week of open auditions, he asks all the young actors who show—and there are hundreds of them—to sign up for his classes as a commitment to the troupe’s vision. He collects their tuition in advance, handing every one of them a Steinway Street Players T-shirt to make them feel like they made his team. He was a real charmer and even got donations from local businesses for future ads in his theater programs.

“Two more weeks go by, and I expect my second paycheck. He asks me to defer my salary until his classes officially start. I agree, only there’s never another paycheck because the guy disappears, and the sheriff’s office shows up to padlock the theater.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Don’t tell me…”

“Yeah.” Howie nodded. “He was a total fraud. He didn’t buy the place. He was renting it and paid for only one month. There was no drama school, no theatrical troupe, and all the money he raised for tuition and program ads, more than fifty thousand dollars, was gone with the wind.”

Tucker shook his head. “The guy made the whole thing up, including his background and identity.”

“Did they catch him?” I asked.

“Nope,” Howie said. “Maybe someday they will, and I’ll get the money I’m owed, but I doubt it. The worst part is I can’t show my face in that part of the city. People believed I was involved in the scam, but it was me who went to the authorities and alerted them about the con job. The police thanked me for my help—but some of those people who lost money were really pissed about being taken. A few actually threatened me with bodily harm. It’s a raw deal…”

A flash of all-too-human anger lit his eyes and I sympathized. Cons and con artists thrived in New York City. They could always spot a mark, and young people with big dreams were often the most vulnerable. It was easy to see how a naive kid from Hickory Hill got played.

“It’s terrible what happened,” I said. “And I’m sorry you lost your job today, too. But I think I can help you out.”

His face brightened. “Free coffee?”

“Better than that. How would you like to work here for a few hours?”

Howie hesitated. “I don’t know how to work an espresso machine.”

“I don’t need another barista. I need a dedicated busser. You’ll clean off tables, mop the floor, take out the garbage, and help our baristas with restocking. You’ll get minimum wage, all the free coffee you can drink, and free food on your breaks. We don’t serve tender sweet fried clams or orange sherbet, but I’ll make sure you don’t go hungry.”

Howie’s wide smile stretched across his freckled face. “Where can I find an apron, Ms. Cosi?”

“Tuck will get you one. If you need me, I’ll be downstairs in the roasting room.”