Rehearsal for Murder (Maggie Ryan) (16 page)

Larry said curtly, “So. Show’s over.” The foam coffee cup he held crumpled in his hand. Nick found his own hands clenched on the crown he was removing from the prop box.

“No!” protested Daphne. “It’s not just her. It’s a production company!”

“She’d want it to go on!” Edith agreed. “Derek, look, it’s impossible! It can’t be true!”

“Right.” Cab underlined her point. “She wouldn’t quit, Derek. Not quit a show. Even if she couldn’t …” He trailed off.

Derek’s eyes fastened on him, as though registering at last what all the clamor was about. “Look, mates,” he said in a terrible, quiet voice. “Ramona is dead. The show is dead. All our bloody little dreams are dead. All of them!” He jumped down from the platform and strode for the door.

Larry caught his arm before he could open it. “Wait a minute! You can’t just turn us out on the streets! You owe us—”

“Bloody hell, you sod! A great, wonderful star dies and all you can think about is money!”

“I’ll mourn her on my own time, Derek. We all will. But we’re legally entitled to two weeks’ performance pay. You know that.”

“I don’t know a bloody thing except that it’s all over! Now let go of my arm!”

“You can’t just run out without making arrangements to pay us!”

“Let go!” Derek shoved at Larry.

Nick dropped the crown and nudged Cab, and the two of them stepped up to calm the combatants. “Let him be, Larry,” said Nick. “He can’t help us now. Derek, can you get that lawyer to meet with us?”

Derek rubbed his arm and remained silent.

“Derek, do you hear me? Ramona’s partner, the lawyer. Ken Martin. He should meet with us.”

“I—right, I’ll do that.” Derek started for the door again.

“This afternoon,” Nick insisted. “Four o’clock. Or leave a note here where we can all check it.”

“Okay. Right.” He made his escape and clattered down the stairs. Larry turned away with a muffled curse.

Nick shouldered his gym bag. “He’s just lost a hell of a lot.”

“Oh? And the rest of us haven’t? So we should smile sweetly and lose our pay too?” snapped Larry, picking up his jacket.

Nick was getting angry too. “Don’t take it out on him!”

“He deserves special consideration?”

Nick followed him into the staircase. “You think you’re the only one who had high hopes for this show? Larry Palmer in lights at last! Producers not giving your agent a moment’s peace! Money rolling in! Film offers! A Hugh Hefner apartment full of Didis and Ramonas!”

Larry had reached the landing already. He laughed sourly. “Yeah, sounds great, all right. You and Derek have nobler dreams, I suppose. Rose-covered cottages, sweet happy little families, college for the kiddies, security, faithful dogs. Of course I don’t understand all that, I’m too shallow.”

Nick found himself off balance. “Look, Larry, anyone who can do Albert and Disraeli the way you do is not shallow. I know that. But why the hell can’t you understand that Derek and I are hurting too? You’ve been trying to pick a fight for days.”

“And you’re ready for one at last?” Larry led the way into the delicious sunshine and turned east, past rusting and refurbished cast-iron facades.

“No need to keep it bottled up anymore, is there?” Nick asked mildly. “Emotion in a box, to be released when Dizzy and the Grand Old Man face off?”

Larry slowed and gave Nick an appraising sidelong look. “You work that way, do you? Yeah, so do I.” After a moment he added, “You mentioned Didi.”

“She’s worried about you.”

“And has some choice things to say about Ramona, no doubt. Like, wow, what a freaking bitch she is. And wow, what a freaking pig Larry is. Yes, Nick, maybe you and I have things to talk about after all.”

“Okay,” said Nick, curious about this handsome, hardworking playboy and wondering if they could get past their bristly working relationship. “Let’s talk first. We can always fight later.”

“You going home now to your sweet little family?” Larry was not quite ready for a truce.

“Pretty soon. Not yet.” Nick decided to try bluntness. “Larry, was Ramona murdered?”

“What do you mean? She was shot, wasn’t she?”

“We’re supposed to think it was a mugger.”

Larry nodded. “Yeah, I know what you’re driving at. I’ve played around with the idea one of us did it, too.”

“Yeah. There were a hell of a lot of emotions crackling around that last day. Ramona was doing her best to push us all to the breaking point.”

“Well, she succeeded with me,” said Larry easily. “I was furious when she cut my solo.”

“I still don’t think she meant it.”

Larry shrugged. “Look, we’ve been through all that. Doesn’t make much difference now, does it?”

“Except that Didi said you left her after a few minutes that night. She also said that Ramona was coming on to you.”

Larry sized him up from the corner of his eye. “You’re asking i
f
I
shot her?”

“It’s just that it gives a different slant to things. Until Didi said that, I couldn’t imagine a dedicated actor like you jeopardizing his big chance. Hell, even without the solo, your two roles would be great.”

“You’re right.”

“And Didi said you were one hundred percent for your career.”

“Sweet Didi. I wasn’t sure she understood.”

“She thought maybe what you said about Ramona chasing you was a fiction. A warning to her.”

“Oh, no. Not entirely. Ramona really was on the prowl last week. Couple of rolls in the hay with Derek, she said. And rather obviously looking Cab over. Yours truly, her dear Prince Albert, didn’t escape her roving eye.”

“But you, of course, defended your virtue?”

Larry’s dark eyes were opaque and cold. “I never screw anyone I’m working with at the moment. Matter of principle. It’s bad for the show. Though of course I would have done the necessary to get my solo back, as clever little Ramona knew.”

“And to hell with principle.”

“Same principle, don’t you think? My solo was good for the show.”

“Yes, of course.”

Larry looked at Nick shrewdly. “I can’t believe she didn’t proposition you, the way she laughed at your jokes. She did, didn’t she?”

“Nothing happened,” said Nick.

“Fidelity to your statistician?”

“Call it what you want. But I also happen to agree with your principle. Don’t mess with the show.”

Larry nodded. “Too bad Ramona didn’t subscribe to our old-fashioned morality. She made it tough those last few days. But you can see that I wouldn’t risk the high point of my career. I can’t afford to let personal feelings get in the way. Either way.”

“Okay, I’m not accusing you. But I was curious.”

“Curious. Fine. My turn now. How about you? Did you shoot Ramona?”

“No. You’re thinking that I was one of the last people to see her alive?”

“Right. Opportunity. We know you were nearby. And she’d been needling you too.” Larry had stopped, his back to a graffiti-adorned doorway. They had left the cast-iron district and were in the middle of a dingy block in the Bowery.

“Didn’t cut my solo,” Nick reminded him.

“She would have if you’d had one, woolly mammoth. And there’s another thing. You have a wife. A cute little baby. And Ramona was coming on to you too. A lot more awkward for you than for a fancy-free bachelor like me.”

The words were cutting; but there was a strangely bitter note in Larry’s voice. Nick admitted, “Well, that version hangs together.”

“Better than your story about me!”

“Depends on how much you care about Didi, right? She thinks your actions told a different story from your disclaimers.”

“Damn Didi!” Larry jerked a thumb angrily at the building behind him. “I don’t invite people to my place. But I can see there’s no getting rid of the jealous, tied-down family man till he can ogle my famous Hugh Hefner pad.” Without waiting to hear Nick’s protests he unlocked the door and bounded up the stairs. Nick, half ashamed, followed. Peeping Tom O’Connor.

It was on the fourth floor of a dingy building, a walk-up with questionable neighbors and ancient plumbing. The hallways hadn’t been painted for years, except with graffiti. So when Larry unlocked his own apartment door, it was a striking contrast. Small, yes; but painfully neat, no pictures on the plain white walls, simple furniture, a chaste gray carpet. In the narrow corner that the landlord probably billed as the kitchen, an ancient refrigerator and sink and tiny stove gleamed white. Above, on an oak shelf, white mugs and plates were symmetrically arranged. A murderer’s obsessive neatness? Nick pushed the thought away. An oak table and chairs and a trim bed with a tailored gray twill spread stood against the wall. The only note of extravagance was the collection on the simple oak nightstand: an ornate Victorian lamp with stained-glass shade, a photograph in a gold frame, an enameled Italian box, a stack of books.

Larry stowed his things in the closet and turned back to Nick with a mocking bow. “Well, what’s the verdict? Would Hugh Hefner be proud of me?”

“Hardly. Gandhi might be.”

“Yes. I too have simplified.”

Nick thought of his own house. If murderers were neat, he was off the hook, with the chaos of half-stripped wallpaper, mounds of laundry that despite their strenuous efforts continued to accumulate, a kitchen encrusted with spilled baby food, a stepladder waiting for someone to find a minute to finish scraping the ceiling, piles of diapers and baby seats and mobiles and toys, days that were brimful with a demanding baby and an active dog and a rantipoling wife. “Wish I could simplify,” he said wistfully.

Larry motioned him to one of the chairs and sat on the edge of the gray bed himself. “Really? I thought you wanted the prototypical Don Juan.”

“And instead I find the prototypical Thoreau,” Nick admitted. He wondered suddenly, who was the prototypical dad? Who was the Don Juan of diaper changes, the Thoreau with drool on his shoulder? The Lone Ranger who walked the baby instead of sleeping with his wife? Where were the heroes he needed now?

“If you’re wondering how Didi and the others fit in,” Larry continued, “they don’t.”

“A man of compartments,” said Nick. “Sex over there, home over here, work somewhere else. All separate. But suppose she likes your soul as well as your body?”

“Her problem. Look, you needn’t be so protective, Mr. Family Man. Didi agreed to the ground rules. Just a fling, no commitment. She understood. I made her recite it back to me.”

“Okay, okay. She recited it back to me too.”

“Well, it’s not my fault if she decides later she wants to change the rules. Play a different game that I won’t play.”

“Crawl out of her compartment?”

“Yes, exactly!” Larry flung himself back on the bed. “I suppose you find it blissful to have a woman in all of your compartments?”

“‘Blissful’ is too peaceable a word for chaos,” Nick told him. “But—‘joyful’ maybe. Sometimes.”

“Lucky you,” mocked Larry.

Nick said gently, “You might find it joyful too, Larry.” With his forefinger he nudged the photo on the nightstand: Larry, youthful and tuxedoed, with a pretty brunette in a pink prom gown.

Larry glanced at the picture, said, “Hell,” and lay back, his forearm across his eyes. After a moment he said, “Yes, I thought she was all I needed in any compartment. But I couldn’t fill all of hers. She had this great gaping compartment labeled ‘Security.’ Liked my acting but couldn’t stand my unemployment. What would you do, Nick? If it was your work or your family, what would you choose?”

Nick rubbed his bald head. “Love versus duty?”

“Yeah. What would you choose?”

“God, I don’t even know which is which anymore. If I ever had to choose—well, whatever my choice, I’d end up with compartments, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Larry moved his forearm from his eyes and squinted at Nick. “I tried to pretend it was just a delay, that I’d get a break in a year or two, make enough money for Beth to live on, live happily ever after. Doesn’t work that way.”

“You’re working pretty regularly,” said Nick.

“Doesn’t count. You know that, Nick. This aborted show that we just finished could be the last job either one of us will ever land. I hope not, but it’s possible.”

“True. And you’re afraid Beth won’t wait?”

Larry laughed grimly. “Not Beth. Two years ago she married our hometown Westinghouse dealer. Secure as all get-out now. Baby on the way.”

“I’m sorry,” said Nick awkwardly. Stumblebum O’Connor, roughshod over people’s emotions again.

“She wanted me to go into real estate sales. Act as a hobby.” He rolled onto his side, back to Nick. “But sometimes … you know, I wonder if she might have come round after a while. If I’d done things her way …”

“I don’t know. I do know that marriage is hard work even when you both approve of this ridiculous profession.”

“Yeah.” Larry waved an arm at his chaste room. “But you have to give up the world, you see. Or at least taste it in compartments.”

Nick’s life was not in neat compartments. Far from it. More a tangled mess. But perhaps the alternatives were no better. He said to Larry, “That’s probably your best answer, for now anyway.”