Reign (10 page)

No
, he thought as the blood came easily off the floorboards,
the Venetian was a pretty good place to work. All except for the latrines
.

~ * ~

While Abe
Kipp
detested cleaning toilets, Harry
Ruhl
loved it. It gave him a feeling of accomplishment, of seeing a job through to its end. With fabrics and draperies and carpets you couldn't really see where you had cleaned. But you could with tile. You could with porcelain. You could with mirrors and marble and metal. You could wipe them and rub them until they sparkled and shone so brightly you could see your face in them, not blurred and indistinct, but sharp and clear. You grinned and the face in that smooth surface grinned back at you as if to say
good job
, something that Abe hardly ever said, even though Harry knew he
did
do a good job, because if he didn't he wouldn't be working there at the Venetian Theatre.

Harry liked the Venetian Theatre just as much as Abe did, but in a different way. The theatre scared Harry sometimes, especially after the stories Abe told. And now this guy getting his head cut off by the fire curtain . . .

Harry tried to drive the thought out of his mind and think about the
good
times he had at the theatre when he was a kid, when the theatre was showing movies, and his dad took him on a Saturday night. The theatre, even before it had been refurbished, had always been a magic place to Harry, with its marble walls and rails, the mosaics and bas-reliefs all over the lobby ceilings, and especially the sky ceiling inside the theatre itself. Sometimes when the movie was boring he would lean back and look up at the stars and the clouds rolling by, and pretend that he was outside.

It wasn't hard for Harry to pretend. Even though his mind wasn't quick, he had a vivid imagination, as his 11th grade English teacher, Miss Tyson, had put it. Too vivid. Sometimes he wished he was just dull all around so that he could stop thinking about and believing in ghosts and all. Not that he had ever seen any, but doggone it, this theatre could be plain scary, especially at night. That was another reason he didn't mind cleaning the rest rooms. There was nothing scary about rest rooms, as long as they didn't have showers. Showers were scary because of that
Psycho
movie he saw on TV. But just rest rooms with stalls and urinals and sinks, well, they were okay.

Harry made a last swipe with his polishing cloth, and stepped into the men's lounge, where he emptied the ash trays and cleaned the water fountain. Then he took a long drink, and sat in one of the chairs, running his hands across the smooth wood of the arms. The chair was Louie-something, Abe had told him. Harry had never known that furniture had names before he came to work in the Venetian.

The ladies' room was next, so Harry got up, went into the mezzanine lobby, and walked to the ladies' lounge. He paused at the door, knocked on the frame, and called, "Hello?" He had done this ever since 1985, when he had interrupted a woman who was still in a stall. He went through the usual routine of listening for an answer, and, as he expected, received none. But as he listened, he heard something else.

It was music, faint but distinct. For a second he assumed that Abe had brought his radio along and was playing it on the stage, but he quickly realized that it had none of the cramped
tinniness
of Abe's flea market special. It sounded much fuller, as though there was a real orchestra playing on the Venetian Theatre's stage. It was somehow familiar, and Harry frowned, trying to push back the thick curtains that so often obscured his memory. He had heard that music before, he knew he had, but he just couldn't remember what it was. Maybe something from a movie he had seen.

He followed the sound across the mezzanine lobby, up the steps to the entrance to the mezzanine, where it grew louder. But as he stepped through the doors and started up the ramp, the music suddenly stopped, leaving not even an echo behind.

Harry stopped too. It was strange. Sound just didn't work like that in this theatre. It was as if not only whatever had been making the music, but also the air of the theatre itself, had been smothered under cork. He walked up to where he could see the stage.

It was empty. Abe's scrubbing had removed the blood, leaving only a spot shiny with dampness. Harry heard footsteps, and saw Abe come back onto the stage, a bunch of rags in his hand.

"Abe!" Harry called. "Hey, Abe?"

Abe looked up, squinting until he made out
Harry's
form among the shadows above. "What?"

"Were you playing your radio just now?"

"
Naw
. Why?"

"Thought I heard some music."

"Not from me. You're
hearin
' things, Harry." He knelt and began to sponge up the water from his mopping.

"No, I really heard it — it sounded like, like . . .” Frustrated by his inability to describe musical styles, he began to sing in an untrained but surprisingly pure and melodious voice a few bars of the theme he had heard. "What the heck is that?" he asked Abe.

"Aw, you
musta
heard it through the water pipes from the suites upstairs — the boss must be
playin
' his old tunes."

"Huh?"

"
Goddam
it," Abe shouted, as if angry at holding the conversation at such long distance, "that's from that show of his . . . of Hamilton's."

"Show?" It was beginning to come back to Harry now — some king dressed up like a soldier or something.

"You know," Abe called. "That show of his, that, uh . . .
The Private Empire
. . ."

~ * ~

"A" Private Empire. "A," not "The." Stupid fools. The one stupid as an ox, the other stupid as a child. Which dies first?

~ * ~

Dennis awoke. His leg had jerked violently in some dream, although he was unable to remember what the dream had been about. A pill had finally put him to sleep, and now, his breathing still quick and shallow from the activity of the dream he could not recall, he looked at the bedside clock, which read 1:30. Dear God, he had only been sleeping for a half hour.

Careful not to awaken Robin, he slid from between the sheets, stepped into the bathroom, and closed the door before he turned on the light. The sudden flare of brightness made him squeeze his eyes shut, but not before he saw his face in the mirror.

Or was it his face? It seemed, in that split second before the light blinded him, that it was someone different, that the features he knew so well had been remolded into a cruel parody of himself. The feeling terrified him. He blinked in panic, forced open his eyes against the harsh glare, and peered into the glass.

No, it was him all right, only him, Dennis Hamilton, looking into his own eyes, seeing his own face there in the mirror. Despite his fancies, he knew he was all alone in his aching, weary soul.

He splashed his face with water and thought about Tommy
Werton
again. Then he turned out the light, left the bathroom, slipped on a robe, and went into the library, where he poured himself a glass of sherry and sat in a leather chair. He was still there when morning came.

The following Tuesday one hundred and fifty-three people attended Tommy
Werton's
funeral in Bridgeport, Connecticut, the majority of them from the New York theatre crowd. The fact that the drive from Manhattan was less than an hour increased the attendance, as did the fact that the funeral was held on a Tuesday afternoon. Had it been held on the day of a matinee, the crowd would have been halved.

There was no viewing, the condition of the body having proven an insurmountable obstacle to The Johnson Funeral Home's finest craftsmen. The service was held in the sanctuary of the First United Presbyterian Church. The casket was closed, and a picture of a smiling Tommy
Werton
sat on top of the lid. It had been taken ten years before. The gaze was directed upward and to the right, and the Tommy of the picture wore a brown suit coat and a subtly hued tie. As they filed past the casket, those guests who supposed it was a college graduation picture were correct.

Ten minutes before the service was about to begin, two men stood outside the rear of the church waiting for Dennis and Robin Hamilton. The older of the pair, Quentin Margolis, was tall and graying sedately at the temples, a human counterpart to the church itself. He wore an elegantly cut car coat and a fedora against the chill October drizzle that had caused the other man, Dexter
Colangelo
, to open his black Totes umbrella. Dexter, or Dex, as everyone called him who had known him for longer than two minutes, seemed as nervous as Quentin seemed calm, which seemed only fair, as the two men were the yin and yang of a large number of productions that had graced the stages of the country, including the now vanished
Morosco
, which had seen the revival of
A Private Empire
. Quentin had directed and choreographed, and Dex had been the musical director.

The original show in 1966 had been very much a product of its time in terms of production. The orchestrations had been a trendy cross between
Man of La Mancha
and British rock in an attempt to be all things to all people, while the choreography was rather uncharitably described by one critic as "Hullabaloo out of Agnes de Mille," a strange and anachronistic pedigree indeed for a
Ruritanian
romance. Still, the strategy had worked. That, and the tremendous presence of Dennis Hamilton as the young emperor. Not since Barbra Streisand had starred in that other less-than-perfect musical,
Funny Girl
, had a single personality had such a powerful effect on the box office. Still, it was not until 1981 that
A Private Empire
was seen as its creators, Charles Ensley and Robert Davis, had intended, due in large part to that other team, Margolis and
Colangelo
.

Dex had completely
reorchestrated
the score, restoring the style to that of the grand musicals of the fifties while retaining a contemporary sound through the careful use of synthesizers, while Quentin had completely removed the
Hullabaloo
origins of the original choreography, and come up with a terpsichorean style that blended nineteenth century European court dance with the acrobatic athleticism of the eighties to create something altogether new.

The music and the dancing, along with Michael Klein's epic set designs and
Marvella
Johnson's flamboyant costumes, provided the perfect embellishments for Dennis Hamilton's extraordinary portrayal that made him the first performer in Broadway history to win two Tony Awards for the same performance, albeit sixteen years apart. It made him not merely a star, but a superstar. The success had rapidly accelerated Quentin's and
Dex's
already burgeoning careers as well, and, in their gratitude, they remained with the revival when it ended its first Broadway run and went on national tour. Dex actually accompanied it as conductor, and Quentin flew to every new city, every new stage, to make sure the cast and show was as razor sharp as Dennis demanded.

"Every single person in that audience has got to believe that they're seeing opening night on Broadway," Dennis had told Quentin over and over again. "That's how crisp, how clean, how
fresh
this has to be."

And it was. Not a single critic, either in New York or in any of the major cities
A Private Empire
toured, accused Dennis or the show of flatness or predictability. At least not until the last year, when a few of the more perceptive reviewers suggested that earlier tours had been somewhat more exciting.

Dex stepped off the curb and looked down the alley behind the church once more. "Not yet," he murmured, stepping back. "Jesus, they better get here soon or they'll miss it."

"They'll be here," Quentin said. "I just hope they'll make it before those brilliant investigative reporters realize that this church has a back door."

There had been five reporters out front when they arrived, one local, three others from the New York City papers, and a fifth from WINS-TV. They were told immediately that no one would have any comments to make, but they stayed nonetheless.

The sound of a car engine induced Dex to step out again. "They're coming," he said. Quentin leaned out and looked. A black BMW sedan was moving slowly down the narrow alley, John Steinberg behind the wheel, Donna Franklin at his side. The two shadowy figures in the back seat, Quentin knew, had to be Dennis and Robin. Steinberg pulled the car to the side just enough so that any others could pass, and parked. When Dennis climbed out, Quentin was astonished at how bad he looked.

AIDS. Even though he knew Dennis was neither gay nor a drug user, it was the first thing to go through Quentin's mind. Dennis's skin was sallow, his cheeks were sunken, he looked as though he had lost weight since Quentin had last seen him. AIDS had claimed a dozen of Quentin's friends since the plague began, and three times as many acquaintances. The most recent had been a dancer with whom Quentin had had a brief affair four years earlier. Though Quentin's AIDS tests continued to come back negative, he still lived in fear.

Dex kissed Robin and hugged Dennis, then did the same to Steinberg and Donna Franklin. Quentin advanced slowly and reached out a hand to Dennis, which was grasped weakly, without fire. "How are you, Dennis?" Quentin asked.