The Collection (142 page)

'They sneer at me from
leaning all awry:
 

What! did the Hand then of
the Potter shake?' ”

Mac said, “I don't get it.”

Sir Charles sighed. “Am I all awry, Mac? Seriously, I'm
going to phone and make an important appointment, maybe.

Do I look all right or am I leaning all awry? Oh, Lord, Mac,
I just thought what that would make me. Hamawry.”

“You look all right, Charlie.”

“But, Mac, you missed that horrible pun. Ham awry. Ham on
rye.”

“You mean you want a sandwich?”

Sir Charles smiled gently. He said, “I'll change my mind,
Mac; I'm not hungry after all. But perhaps the exchequer will stand another
drink.”

It stood another drink. Mac went to another customer.

The haze was coming, the gentle haze. The figure in the
back-bar mirror smiled at him as though they had a secret in common. And they
had, but the drinks were helping them to forget it — at least to shove it to
the back of the mind. Now, through the gentle haze that was not really
drunkenness, that figure in the mirror did not say, “You're a fraud and a
failure, Sir Charles, living on black mail,” as it so often and so accusingly
had said. No, now it said, “You're a fine fellow, Sir Charles; a little down on
your luck for these last few — let us not say how many-years. Things are going
to change. You'll walk the boards; you'll hold audiences in the palm of your
hand. You're an
actor,
 man.”

He downed his second shot to that, and then, sipping his
beer slowly, he read again the article in
Stagecraft,
 the actor's
Bible.

GAMBLER ANGELS MELLER

There wasn't much detail, but there was enough. The name of
the melodrama was
The Perfect Crime,
 which didn't matter; the author
was Wayne Campbell, which did matter.

Wayne could try to get him into the cast; Wayne would try.

And not because of threat of blackmail; quite the converse.

And, although this didn't matter either, the play was being
backed by Nick Corianos. Maybe, come to think of it, that did matter. Nick
Corianos was a plunger, a real bigshot.

 
The Perfect Crime
wouldn't lack for funds, not if
Nick was backing it. You've heard of Nick Corianos. Legend has it that he once
dropped half a million dollars in a single forty-hour session of poker, and
laughed about it. Legend says many unpleasant things about him, too, but the
police have never proved them.

Sir Charles smiled at the thought — Nick Corianos getting
away with
The Perfect Crime.
 He wondered if that thought had come to
Corianos, if it was part of his reason for backing this particular play. One of
life's little pleasures, thinking such things. Posing, posturing, knowing you
were ridiculous, knowing you were a cheat and a failure, you lived on the
little pleasures — and the big dreams.

Still smiling gently, he picked up his change and went to
the phone booth at the front of the tavern near the door. He dialed Wayne
Campbell's number. He said, “Wayne? This is Charles Gresham.”

“Yes?”

“May I see you, at your office?”

Now listen, Gresham, if it's more money, no. You've got some
coming in three days and you agreed, definitely agreed, that if I gave you that
amount regularly, you'd—”

“Wayne, it's not money. The opposite, my dear boy. It can
save you money.”

“How?” He was cold, suspicious.

“You'll be casting for your new play. Oh, I know you don't
do the actual casting yourself, but a word from you — a word from you, Wayne,
would get me a part. Even a walk-on, Wayne, anything, and I won't bother you
again.”

“While the play runs, you mean?”

Sir Charles cleared his throat. He said, regretfully, “Of
course, while the play runs. But if it's a play of yours, Wayne, it may run a
long time.”

“You'd get drunk and get fired before it got out of
rehearsal.”

“No. I don't drink when I'm working, Wayne. What have you to
lose? I won't disgrace you. You know I can act. Don't you?”

“Yes.” It was grudging, but it was a yes. “All right —you've
got a point if it'll save me money. And it's a cast of fourteen; I suppose I
could—”

“I'll be right over, Wayne. And thanks, thanks a lot.” He
left the booth and went outside, quickly, into the cool, crisp air, before he'd
be tempted to take another drink to celebrate the fact that he would be on the
boards again.
Might be,
 he corrected himself quickly. Even with help
from Wayne Campbell, it was no certainty.

He shivered a little, walking to the subway. He'd have to
buy himself a coat out of his next — allowance. It was turning colder; he
shivered more as he walked from the subway to Wayne's office. But Wayne's
office was warm, if Wayne wasn't. Wayne sat there staring at him.

Finally he said, “You don't look the part, Gresham.

Damn it all, you don't look it. And that's funny.”

Sir Charles said, “I don't know why it's funny, Wayne.

But looking the part means nothing. There is such a thing as
make-up, such a thing as acting. A true actor can look any part.”

Surprisingly, Wayne was chuckling with amusement.

He said, “You don't know it's funny, Gresham, but it is.

I've got two possibilities you can try for. One of them is
practically a walk-on; you'd get three short speeches. The other—”

“Yes?”

“It is funny, Gresham. There's a blackmailer in my play.

And damn it all, you are one; you've been living off me for
five years now.”

Sir Charles said, “Very reasonably, Wayne. You must admit my
demands are modest, and that I've never increased them.”

“You are a very paragon of blackmailers, Gresham. I assure
you it's a pleasure — practically. But the cream of the jest would be letting
you play the blackmailer in my play so that for the duration of it I wouldn't
be paying you blackmail.

And it's a fairly strong supporting role; it'd pay you a lot
more than you ask from me. But—”

“But what?”

“Damned if you look it. I don't think you'd be convincing,
as a blackmailer. You're always so apologetic and ashamed about it — and yes, I
know, you wouldn't be doing it if you could earn your eats — and drinks — any
other way.

But the blackmailer in my play is a fairly hard-boiled mug.

Has to be. People wouldn't believe in anybody like you,
Gresham.”

“Give me a chance at it, Wayne. Let me read the part.”

“I think we'd better settle for the smaller role. You said
you'd settle for a walk-on, and this other part is a little better than that.
You wouldn't be convincing in the fat role. You're just not a heavy, Gresham.”

“Let me read it. At least let me read it.”

Wayne Campbell shrugged. He pointed to a bound manuscript on
a corner of his desk, nearer to Sir Charles than to him. He said, “Okay, the
role is Richter. Your biggest scene, your longest and most dramatic speech is
about two pages back of the first-act curtain. Go ahead and read it to me.”

Sir Charles's fingers trembled just slightly with eagerness
as he found the first-act curtain and thumbed back. He said, “Let me read it to
myself first, Wayne, to get the sense of it.”

It was a longish speech, but he read it rapidly twice and he
had it; memorizing had always been easy for him. He put down the manuscript and
thought an instant to put himself in the mood.

His face grow cold and hard. Iris eyes hooded. He stood up
and leaned his hands on the desk, caught Wayne's eyes with his own, and poured
on the speech, his voice cold and precise and deadly.

And it was a balm to his actor's soul that Wayne's eyes
widened as he listened to it. He said, “I'll be damned. You
can
act.
Okay, I'll try to get you the role. I didn't think you had it in you, but you
have. Only if you cross me up by drinking—”

“I won't.” Sir Charles sat down; he'd been calm and cold
during the speech. Now he was trembling a little again and he didn't want it to
show. Wayne might think it was drink or poor health, and not know that it was
eagerness and excitement.

This might be the start of it, the comeback he'd hoped for
—he hated to think how long it had been that he'd been hoping.

But one good supporting role, and in a Wayne Campbell play
that might have a long run, and he'd be on his way. Producers would notice him
and there'd be another and slightly better role when this play folded, and a
better one after that.

He knew he was kidding himself, but the excitement, the
hope
was there. It went to his head like stronger drink than any tavern served.

Maybe he'd even have a chance to play again in a Shakespeare
revival, and there are always Shakespeare revivals. He knew most of every major
Shakesperean role, although he'd played only minor ones. Macbeth, that great
speech of Macbeth's—He said, “I wish you were Shakespeare, Wayne. I wish you
were just writing
Macbeth.
 Beautiful stuff in there, Wayne. Listen:
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps
in this petty pace from day to day,
 To the last syllable of recorded
time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
 The way to dusty
death. Out, out—”

“Brief candle, et cetera. Sure, it's beautiful and I wish,
too, that I were Shakespeare, Gresham. But I haven't got all day to listen.”

Sir Charles sighed and stood up. Macbeth had stood him in
good stead; he wasn't trembling any more. He said, “Nobody ever has time to
listen. Well, Wayne, thanks tremendously.”

“Wait a minute. You sound as though I'm doing the casting
and have already signed you. I'm only the first hurdle.

We're going to let the director do the actual casting, with
Corianos's and my advice and consent, but we haven't hired a director yet. I
think it's going to be Dixon, but it isn't a hundred per cent sure yet.”

“Shall I go talk to him? I know him slightly.”

“Ummm — not till it's definite. If I send you to him, he'll
be sure we are hiring him, and maybe he'll want more money.

Not that it won't take plenty to get him anyway. But you can
talk to Nick; he's putting up the money and he'll have a say in the casting.”

“Sure, I'll do that, Wayne.”

Wayne reached for his wallet. “Here's twenty bucks,” he
said. “Straighten out a little; get a shave and a haircut and a clean shirt.
Your suit's all right. Maybe you should have it pressed. And listen—”

“Yes?”

“That twenty's no gift. It comes out of your next.”

“More than fair. How shall I handle Corianos? Sell him on
the idea that I can handle the part, as I did you?”

Wayne Campbell grinned, lie said,
“Speak the speech, I
pray you, as you haw, pronounced it to me, trippingly on the
tongue;
but if you month it, as many of your players do, I had
as lief the
towncrier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air
—

I can recite Shakespeare, too.”

“We'll not mention how.” Sir Charles smiled. “Thanks a
million, Wayne. Good-by.”

He got the haircut, which he needed, and the shave, which he
didn't really need — he'd shaved this morning. He bought a new white shirt and
had his shoes shined and his suit pressed. He had his soul lifted with three
Manhattans in a respectable bar — three, sipped slowly, and no more. And he ate
— the three cherries from the Manhattans.

The back-bar mirror wasn't smeary. It was blue glass,
though, and it made him look sinister. He smiled a sinister smile at his
reflection. He thought,
Blackmailer. The role;
play it to the hilt,
throw yourself into it. And someday you'll
play Macbeth.

Should he try it on the bartender? No. He'd tried it on
bartenders before.

The blue reflection in the back-bar mirror smiled at him.

He looked from it to the front windows and the front
windows, too, were faintly blue with dusk. And that meant it was time. Corianos
might be in his office above his club by now.

He went out into the blue dusk. He took a cab. Not for
practical reasons; it was only ten blocks and he could easily have walked. But,
psychologically, a cab was important. As important as was an oversize tip to
the driver.

The Blue Flamingo, Nick Corianos's current club, was still
closed, of course, but the service entrance was open. Sir Charles went in. One
waiter was working, putting cloths on tables. Sir Charles asked, “Will you
direct me to Mr. Corianos's office, please?”

“Third floor. There's a self-service elevator over there.”

He pointed, and, looking again at Sir Charles, he added,
“Sir.”

“Thank you,” said Sir Charles.

He took the elevator to the third floor. It let him off in a
dimly lighted corridor, from which opened several doors.

Only one door had a light behind it showing through the
ground glass. It was marked “Private.” He tapped on it gently; a voice called
out, “Come in.” He went in. Two big men were playing gin rummy across a desk.

One of them asked him, “Yeah?”

“Is either of you Mr. Corianos?”

“What do you want to see him about?”

“My card, sir.” Sir Charles handed it to the one who had
spoken; he felt sure by looking at them that neither one of them was Nick
Corianos. “Will you tell Mr. Corianos that I wish to speak to him about a
matter in connection with the play he is backing?”

The man who had spoken looked at the card. He said,

“Okay,” and put down his hand of cards; he walked to the
door of an inner office and through it. After a moment he appeared at the door
again; he said, “Okay.” Sir Charles went in.

Nick Corianos looked up from the card lying on the ornate
mahogany desk before him. He asked, “Is it a gag?”

“Is what a gag?”

“Sit down. Is it a gag, or are you really Sir Charles
Hanover Gresham? I mean, are you really a — that would be a knight, wouldn't
it? Are you really a knight?”