Kenneth stayed in the bathroom longer than he intended, sitting on the lowered toilet lid with the tape recorder pressed to his ear, listening to what he had and trying to come up with one last good question for Henry Lewse. He’d hoped to beat Bick by turning his punitive assignment into a nice little article, but circumstance and Lewse himself worked together to reduce the night to a wild Lewse goose chase. The show uptown had been a nice surprise, but Kenneth needed to focus now. He would try one more question—Is there a single actor or actress you hope to work with before you die?—and then he could go home.
He came out of the bathroom and looked for Lewse. A swell party, he thought. He wondered whose party. A swell apartment too. He and Gretchen could never afford such a place.
He found the assistant out on the terrace, but she hadn’t seen Lewse and did not seem terribly interested in finding him. He went back inside and checked the kitchen, then an office full of the strangest assortment of books: artist biographies and books about math. He tried the bedroom next, lightly knocking on the door, which was already open, so he pushed it. A fan of light spread over a bed with an old lady stretched out on the covers.
“Excuse me! Sorry!” he exclaimed and pulled the door shut.
He hurried back out to the living room. He asked the bartender if he’d seen Henry Lewse depart.
“Henry Lewse? The actor? He’s here? Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I arrived with him.”
The bartender excitedly looked around the room. “Wow. Hey, I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
Kenneth went back out to the terrace.
“No luck?” said the assistant.
He shook his head and hurried past her, wondering if she were hoaxing him. Were they all hoaxing him? They would soon claim that Lewse was never here and Kenneth must be crazy. It would be their revenge for all the awful things the Times had done to actors.
Kenneth headed toward the far corner of the terrace, which was darker. All he could see were the silhouettes of guests standing in front of the orange-tinted cityscape.
“Henry?” he said. “Henry? Has anyone here seen Henry?”
“Not me,” said a young man. “Unless your name is Henry?” he asked his companion.
“No. Is your name Henry?”
“I don’t think so,” the first man replied. “My brother used to call me Thomasina. But it’s not the same thing, is it?” He turned back to Kenneth. “Sorry. No Henrys here.”
Kenneth came up beside the pair of the silhouettes. They were two skinny young men in jeans and black T-shirts leaning against the parapet. He sensed that they were gay, maybe even a couple.
“Hen-reeee! Henry Aldrich!” cried out the first man. Or maybe it was the second. They were like an East Village Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
“Hey,” said his friend, closing one eye and studying Kenneth with the other. He was slightly drunk. “You’re Kenneth Prager.”
This often happened at public gatherings. There was nothing to do but accept it. “Guilty,” he joked. “Glad to meet you.” He held out his hand, which was all most people needed.
But neither of them took his hand.
“I wouldn’t stand too close to the edge if I were you,” said the second man. “Not while you’re talking to us.”
And Kenneth laughed, as if it were a joke, although he suspected it wasn’t. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
“No. You don’t know us at all,” said the first man.
“You might think you know our alter egos,” said the second. “But you don’t know them either.”
“Does the name Leopold ring a bell?” said the first man.
“Does the name Lois?” said the other.
“Oh?” said Kenneth, squinting, trying to see two shabby nightclub performers in the scrubbed blandness of these two boys, even as he took a healthy step back from the parapet.
“Murderers?” said the first man.
“More in need of therapy than a review?” said the second.
Actors took their notices much too seriously. Directors and writers could be grown-ups about criticism, but actors were children. A bad review was like telling them there was no Santa Claus.
Kenneth drew himself up to his full height. “Sorry. I call them as I see them. Your audience seemed to enjoy you well enough.”
“And that’s why you hated us, old man?” said the first one.
“Damn but you’re old,” said the other. “Couldn’t they have sent someone our age? Someone who was alive enough to get it!”
Being called “old” didn’t hurt. Of course these brats would see him as old. But their desire to hurt him? That hurt.
“You’re upset,” he told them. “Which is natural. But you did your job, and I did mine—”
“Our job is to make art and yours is to destroy it?”
“I’m sorry we can’t be more mature about this. But it was nice meeting you. Good night.” He nodded to each, then turned and walked away, very calmly, he thought, very adultly.
His heart was pounding like a drum. He remained in control of his body even as it braced itself for a blow to the back of the head or kick in the seat of his pants. But nothing happened. Leopold and Lois didn’t even shout a last insult.
He went straight to the bartender inside. “Gin and tonic.” That’s all he needed, a quick drink before he took a last look for Lewse, and then he’d go home. He wouldn’t be fleeing. It was late. “Thank you,” he told the bartender and gripped the cold glass. The first sip brought him back to himself. He decided to take his time with the drink and enjoy it.
Glancing around the room, he saw a middle-aged lady perched alone on a sofa. She sat with a purse in her lap, drinking something clear, looking faintly lost. With a suburban hairdo and old-fashioned lipstick and earrings, she did not look like a theater person, but like somebody’s mother: safe and sane. Kenneth wanted to sit down anyway, and she looked like good, grown-up company.