“You should be charmed,” said Maudi. “You have the lead, and deservedly so.”
We were back at the Pedestal. The barman served chocolate-honey cocktails to Guy and me while our director sipped her gin and tonic.
“Maudi, I appreciate the role change, but Pedro is one tortured actor at the moment.”
“Pedro’s leading man material, don’t get me wrong, but leading actor material, he isn’t.”
“But he did write the play. It’s his baby.”
“And I don’t know how I’ll survive hearing those inane lines over the next couple of months without slitting my wrists. At least my other actors know how to ham it up. Pedro thinks he’s written a compelling masterpiece.”
The strum of a solo guitar floated through the air. I breathed it in, trying to calm myself. The young musician sat as peaceful as a cherub, strumming her instrument like it had magical healing powers. Nellie stood next to her as poised as a model in her pin-striped suit, crooning into the type of microphone the Andrew Sisters would have used in their era. Its textured metallic surface reflected muted candlelight as the singer cradled it in her hand, dancing with it like an unfamiliar lover.
“Are you usually this neurotic?” asked Maudi. “For goodness sake, child, you have the lead.”
“Look, I’m kind of happy about the role change, but…”
“But?”
“That’s not what’s worrying him,” replied Guy.
Maudi thumbed through the pages of The Stage Door, searching for a particular passage. “Interview with New Playwright by Wilma Reading.” Her finger rested firmly on the page, pointing with as much sarcasm as she displayed in her voice. “As this fine-looking writer cum actor reclined on his aged settee, I asked about his latest work. He told me it was his best play. More drama and intrigue on one page than most plays have in one act.” Maudi sipped her gin before taking a dramatic breath. “I’ve tied shoe laces that have intrigued me more than that play!”
“He thinks he’s written an intriguing drama?” I asked. I skimmed through the article.
“Yes, my dear. Even less of a reason for you to concern yourself with that useless writer.”
“Maudi, that’s not what’s worrying Allan.” Guy was flicking the stem of his cocktail glass. Its sharp pitch could not go unnoticed. “It’s all about Warwick.”
“Warwick?”
Guy proceeded to tell my tale of love on the back burner. The theater dame listened as if she was hearing gossip juicier than anything she might read in her magazine. I tuned out.
Some young girls in vampish black leather rocked gently to Nellie’s soulful voice. One was bulging out of her tight-fitting skirt, while another was so thin she’d have to run around under a shower just to stay wet.
That Korean faded star had returned and was reclining on a velour sofa, bookended by two college boy types. I contemplated her success rate and wondered what was in it for them.
I shut my eyes to muse on these random thoughts, but soon reality knocked on the door. I was drifting in this world while my best friend and confidant was occupied with someone who had little reason to like me. I was being abandoned, dropped from the team because I had little to offer.
Guy tapped me on the shoulder.
“Darling boy,” said Maudi, “it’s about time you stop feigning confidence and actually be confident! Impress Warwick. Ignore Pedro’s childish outbursts. We all know you have talent. Now seize the experience and relish your new role!”
“Pedro’s not the problem,” I replied. “I’ve been in plays before where temperamental actors ruin the tone of rehearsals. It doesn’t bother me. But Pedro’s outbursts are gaining Warwick’s sympathies.”
“And eventually Warwick will see those outbursts for what they are—Pedro’s calls for attention.” Maudi stared right into my eyes with maximum effect. “Pecking orders, petty jealousies, drama queens. My dear, they are all part of life.”
A wicked grin emerged as I reflected on her wisdom. She swallowed the last mouthful of gin and continued.
“Yes, I am speaking from experience. While the men conducted their affairs, the women schemed in secret. That Claire tried to unnerve me many a night by carefully forgetting my cues. I cannot begin to tell you how many times I had to ad-lib after she fell silent. I’d try desperately to maintain the sense of the dialogue. If it weren’t for my quick thinking, the audience would have never been able to follow the plot of the play.”
Soon I’d have to interrupt, before she revisited the scandalous anecdotes of actors and actresses who lived and died a good century before I was born. “Did you ever try to heal the friendship?” I asked.
“What friendship? The battle lines were drawn quite early. Lord Edward Thorne was my beau. Both he and Claire just had to be made aware of that fact.”
“Sabotaging the performance is not going to help me, Maudi.”
“Ah, but it can add the spice you so lack, and the drama Pedro appreciates.”
Game playing was not in my nature, but there was addictive mischief in her words. It was not advice I was going to embrace, but I could at least cherish her vote of confidence.
“Ms. Director,” said Guy, “it’s a heart that needs healing, not a play that needs sabotaging.” Guy flapped his wings thrice in quick succession. “No one has seen Warwick and Pedro since this afternoon. They could be thrusting madly as we speak.”
“Thanks, Guy,” I said. The effects of alcohol had changed the shy angel into a brazen devil. “The images are a bit hard to swallow.” Guy smirked, lifting his drink to his lips. “Besides, Warwick is commitment phobic. This little affair won’t last long.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” replied Maudi. She raised a finger to attract the barman’s attention. “But why is Warwick consoling a man he’s only known a few days, rather than celebrating his best friend’s new leading role?” As the barman responded to Maudi’s request, I asked for another cocktail, with a double shot of comfort.
* * *
Only two weeks passed before we were ready for dress rehearsal, the day before our first performance. Usually a rehearsal period was four weeks, but our mysterious sharpness of memory meant that opening night came sooner than expected.
“About your accent, Allan,” said Pedro as we waited in the wings.
“What about my accent?”
“You do know what a Bronx accent sounds like, don’t you?”
“Yes, I think I’ve done enough drama classes to know what one sounds like.”
I averted my eyes to the stage where Guy’s character was hiding stolen money. I wasn’t going to let Pedro get under my skin. Besides, he might have not liked my accent, but he had a lot to learn about keeping in character.
The lights faded as I walked onto the stage, before coming up again for the next scene.
“Mr. Death, I presume,” recited Pedro, inviting himself to my headquarters, upstairs from the illegal casino.
I, as Mr. Death, counted money as my henchman, Guy, stood beside me.
“Who’s asking?” I replied, self-conscious about my Bronx accent.
“Let’s just say I’m Mr.…” Pedro paused as his attempt at a character searched thin air for a suitable pseudonym to keep his anonymity. “Mr. Money.”
“I like it that way,” I replied. “That way I can never tell the coppers who you are, or who you were.”
“Trust me, Mr. Death, unlike many in this city, I don’t see you as my enemy.”
If only that were true.
“Good to hear. Only the ignorant invent their enemies.”
There was a pause as my henchman and I shared a sinister glance. In my own head, I was thinking of ways to rub out this unfortunate actor. Take him out of the picture for good. I liked to take my method acting seriously.
In the play, our silence forced Mr. Money to speak.
“I’m here to offer you business. No doubt you’ve heard of Parke’s Diner.”
“Ah yes. Dear old Charlie. Never could pay the bills. The cops still don’t know where he is.”
“Well, I’m taking over, but I need a few supplies of the drinking kind to help kick-start the business. I believe you’re the man to see.”
“Who told you to see me?” I asked. Mr. Death is concerned that Mr. Money could be a detective.
“I have my sources.”
“I think you heard wrong.”
Mr. Money knows at this stage that there is no point debating the credibility of this information. If Mr. Death wants a piece of the action, he’ll take interest sooner or later.
“Then I guess I’ll see you for a bite at the diner,” utters Mr. Money as he stands up to leave.
“Sure. And if I find someone who can help you, I’ll send them over,” Mr. Death replies. “Bullet, show Mr.—err, Cash was it?”
“Cash, Money, Profit. Whatever,” Pedro’s character replies, implying missed opportunity. Or at least he was supposed to. He sounded like he was reciting a shopping list.
“Show the nice gentleman out,” my character responds, a little miffed. “He has a lot of work to do.”
Guy, alias Bullet, escorts Pedro downstairs as I continue counting cash. The lights fade.
A few scenes later, Pedro and I found ourselves alone in the dressing room while the others were on stage. He was ignoring me, reading the article on himself in The Stage Door.
“So what’s a nice guy like you doin’ in a place like this?” I asked theatrically in my best Bronx accent.
“You still can’t get it right.” He peered over the magazine.
“I think it’s a pretty good attempt.”
“The operative word being ‘attempt.’”
I wanted to scratch his eyes out. Whatever did Warwick see in him?
“But Pedro, what about character?”
“Character?” he asked. He was now eyeing his own picture in the journal like a centerfold.
“Yes, character. What do you think Mr. Money is all about?”
“He has to court Mr. Death into a deal.”
“Right. That’s what he wants to do in this play. But what’s he all about?”
He ended his love affair with his own image and glared at me.
“Allan, I’ve written the piece. No one knows it like me. Instead of giving advice, why not ask for some. Do you understand Mr. Death?”
“His vice is status. He doesn’t need the money, but it’s the only thing that gives him power. In the meantime, there’s a woman who loves him, and that’s all he really needs to feel complete.” The playwright didn’t respond. “Am I right, Pedro?”
“I think you’re overcomplicating it, Allan.”
“I don’t think I am.”
“Humph.”
Guy frantically ran through the door.
“You’re both supposed to be on stage. Didn’t you hear your cue?”
I bolted upstairs, but as I was halfway up, I heard Pedro say to our angel, “Sorry, we were caught up in polite conversation.”
“I don’t think I even play second best in your estimation, at controlling this town,” Pedro said as Mr. Money.
“You’re being paranoid,” I replied as Mr. Death. “Why, you’re my number one protégée.”
Pedro tried to give me a filthy look, but I’d swear his pursed lips and clenched brow wouldn’t frighten a baby.
“Money, this conversation is over. Come back when you’ve had a good lie-down with a girl or two.”
Pedro pulled out his gun. I did the same.
“Are you immune to requests?” I asked.
“Don’t you believe in loyalty?” Pedro said this through clenched teeth, sounding like an amateur ventriloquist.
“Don’t you believe in respect?”
“Only on my own terms.”
“Then we have a mutual agreement.”
I pulled the trigger on my prop gun. Before Pedro could fire his, an ear-splitting crash made the stage shake. There was nothing masculine about my yelp as I hit the floor, trembling.
The anxious murmurs of our director and the other cast members filled the air. I looked up to see Pedro shaking like a jackhammer still clutching the gun, before passing out with a thud.
I stood up. Warwick was pointing to the wall behind us, so I turned, noticing shards of glass covering the floor like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle thrown in frustration. A large stage light had fallen from the ceiling, and its dented body was now part of the set. My friend jumped up on stage and clutched me like a long lost relative while I shivered in his arms.
As we eventually pulled away from each other, I noticed Pedro had come to. The others were huddled around him, questioning how this happened. As we stepped toward them, Guy turned and walked to us. He extended his arms and his wings, wrapping both around me. I felt as safe as a small boy hugged by his mother.
“What could have happened to us?” I asked under my breath. “I mean, if it hit one of us. We can’t die if we’re already…” I couldn’t say that word.
“No, you can’t, but just like in life, you could’ve been hurt.”
“But what’s the point of being hurt in the Afterlife?”
Guy didn’t answer. He just held me a little tighter.