Broadway Vampire

CHAPTER SIXTY and EPILOGUE

2011-10-30T20:20:00.000-07:00

SIXTY
Patti squealed with deranged joy when I told
her what she wanted to hear – that I would make her a
vampire.
“When? Tonight? Can we do it tonight?”
“Yes. There’s no point in delaying, my love.”
“You’ll have to train me once you transform
me, right -- train me as a vampire?”
“Of course. But first you’ll have to disappear. I
want you to write a suicide note.”
This brought her up short.
“Suicide note?”

“It’s the only way. Then we’ll go away together
for awhile. There are all sorts of vampire protocols
you’ll have to learn.
“I’ll have eternity to learn them. Eternity by
your side.”
“It will be glorious, Patti. It’s the only way,
of course. You’re so right. So you’ll write the suicide
note?”
“This is eternal love, isn’t it? This is mating
that’s better than marriage.”
“Something like that, yes.”
A few minutes later I had what I needed,
written in her own hand.
“Now, we can’t do it here. Let’s go up to the
roof and if that’s no good we’ll go elsewhere. You must have the open sky above you during your transformation. That way you come out of it filled with the limitless possibilities that being a vampire presents you.”
“The open sky – that’s so romantic, Gus. It’s all coming true like I imagined it would. Thank you. Let me say it now and let me say it every night forever. Thank you. Thank you for making me a vampire. Thank you for giving me eternal life.”
I swept her up in my arms and walked to the bottom of the stairs. One by one I leapt to the top of each of my three staircases in a single bound until we reached the door to the roof. As I carried her across the threshold, so to speak, I looked around to see if anyone else was on their roof nearby. There was no one. Her fate was sealed.
“Do you want to see my fangs?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Please.”
I drew back my lips and heard the tiny click as my fangs appeared in their proper place.
“They’re beautiful,” she whispered.
Then without another word between us, she angled her head to give me full access to her neck. I sank my fangs into her and began to draw sustenance. I saw so much of Patti’s life as it flashed before her mind’s eye. I felt the fear when she realized that her life was ebbing away. She tried to speak but her throat was paralyzed. I kept feeding. I could hear the scream inside her mind as she realized that everything is betrayal. Then she died in my arms.
I had made no plans for this turn of events and knew that her body, drained completely as it now was, would present serious problems on a variety of levels. I lifted her in my arms and leapt skyward toward the east. Higher and higher I flew. I searched my inner self to determine what, if anything, I was experiencing in the way of emotion. There was nothing.
I was more than a thousand miles out over the Atlantic, miles high in the sky, and I dropped her body. I knew the impact with the water would break every bone in several places, probably rip her carcass open. Sea life would feed on her crushed corpse and within days there would be little left. Even if the fish turned up their gills at this fresh flesh offering, I dumped the body so far out to sea that it would bloat and explode from the gasses of rot, and she would sink before any current could carry her close to shore.
I did a slow turn in the sky and headed back toward land. In my apartment, I took her apartment keys from her pocketbook and went and planted the suicide note there. Then I returned home and eliminated any traces that might suggest foul play at my hands. Her pocketbook went into the river with a brick inside. Patti is history.
Norman is right. There is no agenbite of inwit for a vampire.

EPILOGUE
It is now six weeks since Patti’s mother
reported her missing. The suicide note was discovered
in her apartment. She disappeared without a trace.
Her body was never found, and her credit cards and
cell phone were never used again. It was obvious
that she carried out the dire response to the intense
depression that she had, with my urging, outlined
in her note. I was questioned in passing as part of
the investigation, with Matt Dunleavy present, and
displayed appropriate concern and cooperation.
Somehow it came to light that Patti was never
questioned in regard to Danny Limm’s murder. New
York City police detectives are pretty good at putting
things together even if they sometimes lead nowhere,
or to Queens.
The line I’ve done something terrible in
handwriting her mother identified as Patti’s own
was the clincher. Though there was no direct proof,
Danny’s murder was unofficially considered closed.
None of the cops ever told me that this was the
conclusion they reached. I could see it in their eyes,
though.Some media people tried to tie Patti’s
disappearance to the curse but Ben Cody did my
bidding and put a stop to that sort of speculation. Enough is enough already. We are fortunate that a missing person filing leaves enough room for doubt that reporters can be made to back off. A substantial donation to the Police Widows and Orphans Fund was enough to keep the suicide aspect private – for publicity purposes, of course.
I am still haunting the Belasco about once a week on average. That story really caught on and creates great word of mouth about the show. Earlier this week “Pretty Lady and the Curse East of Broadway” appeared as a supplemental insert in Time Out. You would think it was a cure for cancer the way the blogosphere and entertainment reporters have latched onto it.
Ticket sales for Pretty Lady are through the roof and just keep on climbing. I love it. Danny would have been so proud. We had a memorial service for him in the Belasco on a recent Monday night. It was standing room only.
Ukulele, Baby is still running Off Broadway. Ticket sales have picked up again a bit as people realized that both the director and the producer of Pretty Lady were responsible for this show as well. I still find the term Off Broadway off putting but have yet to get anyone else to sign on for changing it, though Jeff Tuttle did write a blog along similar lines recently. Maybe there is hope yet.
Norman is insisting that he be allowed to invest in my next show. I am reading scripts, searching for something that suits the mood of these times. It is difficult. When I do find something that strikes me as right, the process will begin again. I am also looking for a new assistant. This time, though, a young man will better suit my purpose – I hope.
I told Elaine that she should find someone else to head her foundation when the time comes. She was disappointed but took it in stride. At that point, though I did not say so to her, it was still in my mind to make the move to England.
But I will not be relocating to London – not now, not ever. I discovered something that made me confront Norman.
“So, when were you going to tell me that there are seventeen hours of daylight during the summer in London?”
I discovered the grim truth about Great Britain while I was doing research about relocating and on a whim Googled London Daylight Savings Time. I was trying to find out if the Brits employed this savage custom, too. Finding out that the summer days are excruciating in their length was an eye opener. However, the really weird thing is that Great Britain does have Daylight Savings Time. It is called British Summer Time and works the same as DST here.
Go figure, right? Why a place that has seventeen hours of daylight would bother is beyond me. Do people think that they can fool the sun? What is the point? It is almost as strange as someone wanting to be a vampire.
“I thought you knew all that, mate. It’s nothing to get upset about. The opposite is true, too, you know – the sun comes up at nine a.m. and sets at four thirty in the afternoon during the winter. You’ll adjust.”
“No I won’t. I’m not going to London now. Seventeen hours of daylight? That’s terrible. I’ve thought about it though. You’re welcome to stay here. I’ve gotten used to having you around.”
“Thanks for that, mate. I rather like having some one who understands me to converse with as well. And it’s not like I’m right under your heels in Manhattan, now is it? Not to mention that we may have to pool our strengths if this revenant stuff gets any wilder.”
We were sitting atop the Resorts International Casino in Atlantic City. We have established a pattern of meeting up there every Wednesday night and hunting together.
I have to admit that Norman’s company makes the hunting fun. Also, his views on the vampire existence have allowed me to come to grips with my nature in a healthier way. Remorse, guilt, melancholy, and self-flagellation – we vampires do not do any of that well, so why bother trying. As far as hunting certain types of people in order to excuse myself from being who I am – this too is undergoing some serious reconsideration.
There are some things about humans I will never understand. Perhaps that is the way it should be. Perhaps this lack of understanding is part of the natural order of things.
Now I must go feed.

CHAPTER FIFTY NINE

2011-10-25T14:24:00.000-07:00

FIFTY NINE
Patti came to my house this evening for the
final time. Neither of us knew it was the final time
when she arrived. Our meeting began with going
over the weekly wraps for Pretty Lady and Ukulele,
Baby. The cumulative effect of Danny’s murder, the
East of Broadway Curse, my haunting of the show,
and subsequent word of mouth all combined to make
Pretty Lady an unstoppable hit. The show is grossing
a million dollars a week, with no signs of slowing
down.

Even Ukulele, Baby has gotten a healthy bounce
in ticket sales, as word spreads that Danny directed
that show, too. Regardless of successes running on
two New York stages, London was looming large in
my consciousness and I decided to broach the subject
with my assistant.
“Patti, there’s something we need to discuss. It
looks as though I’m going to be moving to London.”
She responded without missing a beat.
“I’ll go with you.”
“That won’t work, Patti. I’m sorry. I intend to
keep an office open here and I’ll be expecting you to
run it for me.”
“But you can’t just leave me behind. You can’t.
This isn’t what’s supposed to happen.”
Her eyes began to sparkle with what can only be described as the gleam of madness.
“Wait.”
She took her iPod out of her handbag, disconnected the ear buds, crossed to my stereo system and, with a short cable from taken from her purse, connected her music device to mine.
“I want you to listen to this. You may have heard it before but please listen and then I’ll explain.”
She thumb-scrolled through her music library until she found what she was looking for. I was unprepared for this response and sat back to see what she was going to do. Soon the first strains of the theme song of a popular television program, Vampire Luck, began to play.
“Oh not this, Patti, please. I despise this song.”
“Gus, just listen please. Just this once, and then I’ll explain everything.”
I sat back in my chair as the words pored out of the speakers:

Let me feel your cold cold kiss
Upon my mortal skin
Sink your fangs deep, my love
Let eternity begin

Infect me with desire
Set my blood on fire
Please be my vampire

By night you prowl crowded streets
In a shroud of magic mist
Taste the city’s heartbeat
While I wait hungry for your kiss
Infect me with desire
Set my blood on fire
Please be my vampire

Take me in ever darker embrace
Make me one of the vampire race
By your side I’ll roam death’s long night
Taste me, tease me, drain me with delight
Should you ever feel alone
And curse your vampire luck
Make me your companion
In the dark eternal suck
Infect me with desire
Set my blood on fire
Please be my vampire

Should you ever feel alone
And curse your vampire luck
Make me your companion
In the dark eternal suck

Infect me with desire
Set my blood on fire
Please be my vampire

By the song’s end, Patti was swaying and singing along with the recording softly in a high pitched voice. She sounded quite mad. As the song wound down, she advanced towards me and for a moment I was afraid she was going to try and give me a lap dance. Then I realized what she was after.
As soon as the song ended I said, “Patti, what is this all about? You’re frightening me.”
She laughed aloud but it was a hollow and strange sound.“I’m frightening you. That’s funny. That’s very funny. Nothing frightens you, Gus. Nothing at all.”
“Will you please tell me what this is all about?”
“I know what you are, Gus. You think I could work with you these last few years and not figure it out. Danny knew it, too. Danny convinced me that I was right about you. He actually brought it up first. All that time we spent together working on casting Pretty Lady, he was always talking about it. Only he was planning to expose you.”
“You’re confusing me. Danny knew what? He was going to expose what?”
“That you’re a vampire. That you are immortal.”
Suddenly my nascent desire to make her my immortal companion dissipated. If only she had refrained from playing that damnable song.
“This is absurd. There’s something wrong with you, Patti. Are you taking drugs? What could possibly make you say these things?”
“Truth makes me say them. You are a vampire, and you don’t know it but I saved your vampire butt. You owe me, Gus, and dammit you’re not going to leave me behind to answer the phones.”
It was becoming clear that Patti might very well be my feeding station for the evening. I began to consider the where and how of that proposition and was only half listening to her blather until her rambling reached a climax of sorts.
“And that’s why I killed him. To stop him from exposing you, and to prove that I am worthy to join you for all eternity.”
This brought me up short in my train of thought.
“You killed who?”
“Danny. Danny Limm. Aren’t you listening to me? I killed him. He told me all about how he walked his land lady’s dog early in the morning. I stayed overnight at my mother’s place in Queens and I used the excuse of an early meeting and I waited for Danny outside his house and I followed him and I killed him, and I got away with it. That should prove to you that I’m worthy.”
“Oh, Patti, no.”
At that moment it was unclear to me which was more disturbing – Patti’s story or the fact that I had not seen this coming at all. I thought again of the young vampire from the other night and shuddered. I was apparently missing all sorts of cues and clues.
“Yes. I stabbed him and I was all prepared. I hid in some bushes in a raincoat and galoshes and rubber gloves, even though it wasn’t raining. I was afraid I was going to throw up after I did it but I knew that would leave DNA evidence and I held it down; and then that nauseous feeling passed by the time I stripped off the gloves and boots and wrapped them up with the raincoat, which I bought for cash at a thrift store.”
“Where are those things now?”
“I got rid of them. They’re long gone to some landfill someplace. It was hard and for a few days I was afraid I was going to lose it. But I can do it. I can kill and that means I can live forever.”
“You killed my director.”
I got up from my chair and began to pace.
“Oh please. It turned out fine. I watched the rehearsals beforehand. It was obvious the show was ready. He would have turned you in, Gus. He said having a vampire for a producer could only be good if it led to publicity. He was going to tell the world what you are.”
“Danny was suffering from delusions, as I’m afraid you are. I hope you made this up. You couldn’t have possibly done anything so insane.”
“I could and I did. I did it for you. And now you say you’re leaving for London? And you’re not going to take me with you? That’s not fair, Gus. I deserve to go with you. I deserve to be like you.”
“You can’t ever be like me, Patti. There’s the rub. There’s nothing I can do to make you like me.”
“You can, Gus. You can. Just do it. Suck my blood. Transform me. Make me one of the vampire race.”
I sat down again and held my head in my hands.
“Please be quiet and let me think.”
Patti stopped talking and began to hum the melody line of the song. My options were limited. That much was clear.
I could turn Patti over to the police for Danny’s murder but she was bound to rave about me being a vampire and who knows where that would lead. Suppose the cops want a DNA sample? That will never do. I do not want any more East of Broadway Curse stories associated with the show, either. There is enough of that sort of thing already. Too much of it could begin to hurt ticket sales, no doubt. I could try and have Patti committed but the law is so sticky regarding that procedure it seems unlikely. I chose the other option.
“All right, Patti. I’ll make you a vampire.”

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

2011-10-19T06:05:00.000-07:00

FIFTY EIGHT
From the mountain top I soared into the sky
and headed for Atlantic City. I found Norman after a
few moments, in a seedier section of that metropolis.
The lower half of his face was bloody from feeding.

“Follow me, please.”
I flew to the top of a casino and Norman
landed right beside me.
“What’s up, Gus?”
I told him about the attack and my subsequent
actions. “You’re saying you killed him? Are you sure he
was dead?”
“Yes. I’m sure. I think I know dead when I see
it. He was still conscious after I broke all his bones
and sucked him dry. But when I drove the stake
through his heart, he buckled and oozed and after a
few seconds, he was dead. Very dead. Norman, I have
to tell you, the taste of that blood was like nothing
else. It got me high. I could get hooked on that
feeling.”
“Forget about being high. You shouldn’t have
killed him, mate.”
“Why? You mean the rule? It seems to me the
rule was suspended when he tried to kill me.”
“He wasn’t trying to kill you. He wanted some
of your blood. To make himself stronger – I think she teaches them that trick. And you killed him. He was a creature of somebody else’s making and you killed him. You had no right.”
“Somebody – apparently this Berlin vampire -- set him loose in my city.”
“Look, I’m on your side. All this revenant business could get out of control and cause us all problems. I’d like to know why the Berlin vampire is making the little buggers, when they’re not making each other that is.”
“So would I.”
“The world is changing, mate.”
“It sure is.”
I became shook up as what I had done began to sink in. I began to tremble for the first time ever.
“Nothing I can do about it now.”
“You’ve got that right, Gus. You’ve got that right. We should both call it a night. You’ve got somewhere to sleep for the day?”
“I can be back in the city in plenty of time before the sun rises if I leave right now.”
I shook off my brief malaise and launched toward the stars.

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

2011-10-11T15:52:00.000-07:00

FIFTY SEVEN
He came out of nowhere and was on me like
a wild jungle cat, clawing and scratching and trying
to sink his fangs into me. We were in the shadows on
East 89th Street at four a.m. a couple nights after my
eye-opening excursion to the Jersey Shore. I wrapped
my arm around my back, encircling his body, and
squeezed until I heard his vertebrae snap. He flopped
like a broken toy. I retracted my arm and he slid to the
ground, though he was still trying to grab me. He was
strong, very strong – but nowhere near as strong as I.

I kicked him hard in the jaw and that bone
snapped as well. Bones are why we originals will
always win against the revenants. Their bones may
be too strong for human force to break but they will
never be strong enough to withstand the strength
grown over millennia, the strength of an original.
All of which I realized later, and none of which I was
thinking about at that moment.
I reached down and pulled open his mouth
and saw the fangs. I had sensed his vampire energy
as soon as he landed on my back. I knew that he was a
revenant immediately.
I look up and down the block and saw no one.
I scooped him up in my arms and leapt into the night
sky. As I flew I elasticized my arms and wrapped
them around him several times, like a pair of boa
constrictors, and snapped most of the bones in his body.
I landed in a clearing atop a mountain in the Catskills. I wanted to know what he tasted like. I sank my fangs into his throat and sucked him as dry as possible. He tasted strong. It was a new experience, to feed on powerful second-generation vampire blood. It was like a drug high must be for humans.
I was able to penetrate his mind and found out that he was the one who had been invading my computer with warnings and threats. I saw that he was one of several who had been taught to feed off each other to increase their strength. I began to search his mind to discover his maker but he realized what I was doing and threw up a shield against my probing. He was very well trained for one so young.
What will not work on an original vampire will work on a zombie vamp, as I still like to call them; though this one had moved almost with the preternatural speed I associate with true vampires. I laid his broken but still alert body on the ground. I found a fallen tree branch and snapped it off so that a three foot length was left in my hand. It was as thick as my wrist. One end was sharp enough. I held the stake above my head and brought it down with all my fury and might, driving it through his heart. He was dead.
I studied his features. He still retained a youthful cuteness. His hair was black and he had high cheek bones. He might have grown into a handsome man one day. He could have been no more than sixteen years old when he was transformed, which quite likely would not have been that long ago – perhaps even less than a year. It was fascinating and a bit upsetting that he achieved such strength in his short duration as a vampire. I left his corpse there to rot or dissipate or even turn to ash in the sun.

CHAPTER FIFTY SIX

2011-10-05T06:44:00.000-07:00

FIFTY SIX
The interiors of the casinos were gaudy and
geared for one thing and one thing only – separating
people from their money and making them come
back for more of the same. Senior citizens went at the
slot machines with rabid abandon. The table games
were less thronged. It was a Tuesday evening. The air
was rife with anticipation, angst, anguish, anger and
adrenalin.

The hunger of the gambler, I soon realized,
is not the hunger to win. It is the hunger to feel
something in the extreme, to experience emotion as
a sensation again and again – with every turn of the
card, spin of the wheel, roll of the dice. For awhile, we
walked along the boardwalk from casino to casino,
each one offering dining and entertainment – much of
it free – to visitors in this unending burst of light amid
the darkness. Norman set the pace and did most of
the talking.
“Spectacular isn’t it? And America is awash
in casinos, whether they want them or not. Across
the state line, in Pennsylvania, there was a vote to
decide if gambling would be allowed. The citizens
voted four to one against it. So, the governor declared
gambling essential to the economy and legalized it
anyway. Then he gave all the casino licenses to some
of his supporters. First it was only slot machines. Now there are table games, too – craps, roulette, blackjack. Upstate New York, Connecticut – the gaming industry is everywhere in your territory. And the punters keep on coming.”
“It’s not like this in England?”
“Not hardly, mate. Not hardly. Casinos are meant to be a bit more posh there. Of course, the motivation is the same. But there are nowhere near as many casinos there as here.”
A few heads turned to take us in – our sunglasses at night being perhaps anomalous but not in any egregious way. As I took it all in, disquiet filled me. For years, like so many in my world, I have suborned niggling doubt about the future of the theater with a belief that what goes around comes around, that one day people will be overwhelmed by a desire for live entertainment again and the theater will be resurgent and new audiences will come into being. The hay day of the Great White Way will come back. This is what we tell ourselves and others. It is all malarkey. As I walked in Norman’s world, the truth was revealed.
How can theater compete with this? No wonder Norman was eager to come to the eastern seaboard. Gambling has the potential to become the dominant form of live entertainment, if it has not already done so. I am amazed that no one is talking about this in the theater community. All my rants and tirades are off the mark, the result of my insular existence. It is not the current crop of producers. It is not the universities and their ersatz theater education programs. It is gambling.
Casinos are sucking up entertainment dollars like giant cosmic vacuum cleaners. Attendance is down at the theater. It is down at sporting events and musical concerts. Yet, new casinos are opening and business is booming. People are no longer passive. Who wants to be part of Broadway audiences when this kind of excitement is within an hour or two in every direction but out to sea? People are not mushrooms. Who wants to sit quietly in the dark and be fed what is all too often someone else’s bovine excrement?
I put a thousand dollars on red at a roulette wheel and tested my mental powers. The ball jumped into a red slot, whether of its own accord or mine I’m not sure. Norman clapped me on the back and laughed out loud.
He leaned in close and whispered, “Pick up your winnings and let’s go. That’s not how we do it.”
I took the chips to the cashier window and cashed out.
On the boardwalk Norman said, “Don’t ever do that again in my presence.”
“Do what?” I said, with my best imitation of innocence – a state of being I have never actually experienced.
“Stick to producing. You’re not much of an actor, mate. You jumped that ball with mind control. It was blatant and it was obvious. If you plan to cheat like that, may I advise a couple hundred hours practice? With an actual roulette wheel, I might add.”
I laughed.
“It was that obvious, huh?”
“This is not funny, Gus. Gaming is my business, just like theater is your business. There are cameras in every casino recording everyone and every bet. I have to keep up appearances in this arena the same as you do in yours.”
“I promise to keep my money in my pocket for the rest of our visit here.”
“Good idea.”
“I’ll tell you something, though, Norman. This place has got my attention. I’m wondering if maybe this isn’t the business for me.”
I was basking in the light on the boardwalk and the soothing, endless splashing of the waves on the beach and the pilings of the pier.
“You’ll find that things are much more elemental in gaming. Everything is raw and open. People are reduced to their most basic emotions. There’s no art to it. There’s no phony uplifting of the human spirit. It’s all about separating people from their cash. And afterward, for us, with a little finesse, separating people from their blood becomes the real sport.”
“These are regular people, though. Don’t you attempt to find criminals to feed on? I understand that we can’t do that all the time. But don’t you at least try and make an effort to feed on evil-doers?”
“Evil doers? Why would I? You’ve been in the theater too long, Gus old boy. There’s nothing moral or immoral about our choice of blood husks. Don’t try to rationalize. People are all the same. In a place like this, you realize that’s the case. Everything is right out in the open here. There’s no subterfuge. There are no masques or make up to hide behind. It’s all hunger and greed and endless desire. I don’t make excuses for who I am and what I do. Seems to me you’re trying to intellectualize the elemental. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow another one will get sucked dry. And every tomorrow after that will be the same. Surely you’ve figured out that much.”
“Of course I have. But part of me wants to feel like there is worth in what I am, that maybe there’s some value in my existence, some reason why I’m here, or why you’re here. Some function that we fulfill that moves things forward in a positive way.”
“That’s a load of manure for your garden, mate. Rise above it. You’re like them if you think like that. We vampires don’t do the agenbite of inwit.”
“We don’t do what?”
“The agenbite of inwit – remorse born in the conscience. We have neither conscience nor the capability of experiencing remorse. I can’t believe you’ve not figured all this out on your own.”
“I believe we can develop a capacity for moral behavior.”
“Are you mad? There are no morals, not for us. Positive and negative – they’re blood types. That’s it. All the rest is bosh is what that is. Americans delude themselves with all that positive thinking and you’ve gotten sucked in, so to speak. Positive thinking is a form of self hypnosis that allows people to be comfortable and delusional at the same time. Here, though, they wake up to their true natures. Here greed and want are in full bloom. All the positive thinking in the world won’t make the dice tumble in anyone’s favor, not among them anyway.”
“Still, it seems to me there’s got to be more to us than hunting and feeding. We have powers like angels.”
“So you say. But I’m here to tell you there are no guardian angels. For the punters there’s luck, chaos and death. For us, there’s blood and eternity.”

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

2011-09-28T06:37:00.000-07:00

FIFTY FIVE
Atlantic City rises out of absolute darkness
when approached at night. It is an effulgence of
brilliant colored light to rival anything Times Square
can offer. To the East is the dark expanse of the ocean.
To the West are the even darker Pine Barrens and
cranberry bogs of southern New Jersey.
In an era of more wonder and no electronic media, this metropolis
would take on mythical proportions for any human
who saw it. Such is not the contemporary era. Awe is
an emotion in a state of atrophy and decline among
humans.

Flying side by side with Norman, I experienced
a surprising sense of what can only be described as
camaraderie. We felt like a team, this London vampire
and I. While we cannot read each others’ minds, there
was a connection on some basic, perhaps cellular level.
At least it felt that way to me. Without any conscious
communication we flew as one, every turn, ascent,
and the final approach flawless mirroring of each
other.
We landed atop Trump’s Marina Hotel Casino
with a whoosh and found ourselves overlooking the
gleaming strip of casino after casino, with the famous
steel pier a lit appendage extending out into the city’s
namesake ocean. We sat for awhile in silence, taking it
all in.
Norman looked at me.
“Before we decide about my relocating to this wondrous place, there’s something I’ve got to know. Have you been having any problems with the revenants?”
“You mean the zombie vamps? That’s what I like to call them.”
“Sure. Zombie vamps, if you like. Have you had any problems with them?”
“No. Why? Say, have you been placing weird messages on my computer screen?”
“Why would you think that? What kind of messages?”
I told him about the computer intrusions. He thought for awhile before answering, once I finished.
“It could be revenants.”
“What’s with you? The zombie vamps are weak, when anyone is silly enough to make one. They never last long.”
“They’re getting stronger. There’s a vampire from Berlin who’s been traveling widely. She teaches them to feed off one another repeatedly.”
“So. What does that do?”
“It gives them vampire powers beyond what any previous revenants have enjoyed. They’re becoming very powerful. Most of them are young, teenagers and college kids, when she transforms them. They can even make other vampires now.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I wish it was, mate. The European synod met recently and talked about giving them status.”
“You mean true vampire status? That doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t. And it’s all just talk right now.”
“Well, I haven’t heard of anything like that over here.”
“These messages sound like something these revenants are capable of. They were all digital natives before becoming vampires.”
“You don’t make the idea of switching places very attractive with a story like that -- revenants.”
“You can handle it, mate.”
He hunched his shoulders for a moment, then stood.
“Shall we?”
I nodded and as one we leapt from the top of the building to the beach, landing right at the water’s edge, side by side, well beyond the pier and its lights.
“Now my touristic manner of dress fits right in and you look like a ninja,” said Norman. “Except for the sunglasses – they look Italian rather than Japanese.”
“They are Italian. And, as you obviously have not heard, black is the new everything.”
“If you say so, mate. You brought some ready cash, I presume.”
“You presume correctly.”

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

2011-09-20T09:47:00.000-07:00

FIFTY FOUR
I entered the house tonight after feeding and
found Mr. London, as I have come to think of my
British counterpart, sitting in my living room in one
of the wine-red colored wing chairs. He greeted me
with, “Hello, mate. How’s tricks?”
“There are no tricks if you know true magic,” I
replied.

“I hope you don’t mind me letting myself in?”
“Would it matter if I did?”
“Of course it would matter. I’m trying to work a
deal with you. I want you happy.”
“Whatever.”
I took a seat facing him from across the room.
He looks the same – narrow shouldered, thin angular
face, dark brown hair slicked straight back from his
brow, and dark glasses. He was wearing black jeans
and a Hawaiian shirt with red and blue macaws on a
black background.
“No offense, but you look like a tourist.”
“No offense taken. I am a tourist. I’ve been
taking in the sights and sounds.”
“And?”
“And I like Atlantic City better than here. New
York is not what I expected. It’s like a shiny knife with
a dull blade, seems to me.”
“On what do you base this assessment, if I may be so bold as to inquire?”
“Just a general sense of the energy here -- seems kind of flat to me, if you know what I mean. Not a lot of anticipation in the air. Plenty of greed, plenty of raw wanting, but not much sense of promise.”
“Does this mean you’re rescinding your offer to swap territories?”
“No. I’m ready to swap tonight. As I said, there’s Atlantic City. I could see myself spending a lot of time in Atlantic City. Hunt there much, do you?”
“Not really. Not ever, to tell the truth.”
“Not ever? You’re joking, right?”
“Truth is – I’ve never been there. I know it’s close but . . . “
“Never been there? As in ‘never, not at all’?”
“Yes. Never as in not at all. I just never went.”
“”But it’s like an orchard full of ripe fruit. Body disposal is not a problem. The ocean is right there. Everyone is transient and despair is rampant. If you paid attention you could feed off the prospective suicides almost exclusively, just help them along.”
“I thought you like a sense of possibility. Isn’t that what you just said?”
“I do, mate. There’s no shortage of optimism where ever there’s a casino. It’s just that the optimism is short lived more often than not. There’s quite a line up of casinos there. I can’t believe you’ve never been.”
“I guess show biz is enough of a gamble for me.”
“Yeah. Well, I haven’t a clue how you can stand it. It must be maddening.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You go out and suck some bloke’s blood, and then settle in for an evening of make believe and overly sweet song and dance routines. That’s strange.”
“Are you a theater critic or a gambler?”
“I’m what the blood sacks call a vampire. And so are you. Best not to forget that.”
“What makes you think I would forget that, if I could?
“There’s something about your whole set up. You layer deception on top of deception, all so you can spend time among humans, so you can gain their trust and admiration. They’re sustenance, the blood source. You shouldn’t play with your food.”
“People can be excellent company. Don’t you ever get lonely?”
“If I did, I’d get a dog.”
“Sorry. I simply don’t see the point of being contemptuous.”
“Now I’ve gone and insulted you and that was not my intent at all. I should be encouraging you in your theatrical ways. I should be selling you on the virtues and opportunities that dear old Albion represents. I admit it – conversation is not my strong suit. I’m a gambler, not a tout.”
I said nothing in response. There was nothing to say.
“Now don’t get all sullen on me, mate.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“What’s the difference? I plan to change it to something American if I relocate here. You certainly would not recognize my name, if that’s what you’re after. I don’t maintain a flashy public profile.”
“But you do have a name.”
“Of course I have a name. I’ve got to exist in society, too. Not to the degree that you strive for, but I’m not a hermit.”
“It would be nice to have some way to address you.”
“Call me Norman then.”
“All right, Norman. Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
“I’m a gambler, too, you know, Norman.”
“Of course you are. Everyone is to some degree or another.”
“I just made a ten million dollar bet on my show Pretty Lady. And by all appearances, it was a good bet. It’s going to pay me some serious returns for years to come.”
“Ten million dollars? That is impressive. I’m glad for you. Of course, you know the tariff isn’t quite so dear in your line of work where I come from?”
“Theater production in London is not cheap. It’s less expensive, but it’s not a bargain by any means.”
“No. I suppose it’s not.”
Again, I lapsed into silence. This was a long time to spend with another of my kind, one on one. I was unsure what to make of him.
“I’m not getting a read here, mate. Have I blown the deal?”
“I’m still considering. I understand the advantages for me – a much more theater-friendly population and all that. What I don’t get is why you want to come here?”
“Why do I want to come here? It’s paradise that’s why. Have you got time for a quick flit?
“Where to?”
“Where you’ve never been. Come on. It will be a lark.”

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

2011-09-13T21:50:00.000-07:00

FIFTY THREE
I changed into ninja garb and flew out to
Morristown, New Jersey and fed on a Wall Street
banker to celebrate the haunting. The banker was just
another fat cat heart attack victim who died in his
sleep, by all appearances.
The story of the reappearance of David
Belasco’s ghost made Page Six today.
That was very
speedy placement. Patti brought me copies this
evening and I derived an inordinate amount of
pleasure from reading the item half a dozen times.
Ben is carrying out his tasks as publicist with
admirable efficiency. His grieving at the unfortunate
and untimely death of his parents did not affect his
job performance, once he got back from the funeral. I
am glad for that.
“”You know,” said Patti. “This is our first
Broadway hit. How does it feel?”
This statement took me aback for some reason.
To me, of course, Pretty Lady is one of a series of
productions. It is actually the second time this same
show is achieving the status of a bona fide hit with me
as producer. I took a moment before answering.
“It feels good. It feels very good.”
“I’m sure your father and grandfather would be
very proud.”
For an instant, I thought there was a hint of sarcasm in her voice but it most likely was hypersensitivity on my part.
“Yes. They would, I’m sure.”
“Even your great grandfather would be proud I’ll bet. The three of them together are probably someplace looking down at you and applauding.”
I was not sure if she was being serious.
“I never thought of it that way, but if you say so.”
We were seated in my living room and she got up from her chair and crossed to me and leaned down and kissed me on the lips.
“I do say so.”
How I wanted her at that moment. She lingered bent over me and I could hear her heart throbbing. Her neck was so close. I knew her blood would be beautiful, as beautiful as she appeared to me in the low light of my living room. Again, I thought of making her mine forever. Despite everything I know about that process, it still seemed an attractive proposition in the moment. Resisting the urge was becoming almost impossible.

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

2011-09-06T16:10:00.000-07:00

FIFTY TWO

David Belasco’s ghost is back. Now that the
reviews have been out for a few days and were
positive if not glowing on every front, it makes
perfect sense to revive the haunting and that is what
I did during the second act of last night’s show. I
chose Tim Grainger, who plays the young male
romantic lead Doug. I know Tim is a solid actor as
well as a wonderful singer. He handled my surprise
appearance well, though he did do a triple take when
he first saw me.

I did my make up and costume upstairs
in David’s old apartment. I used a wig with gray
curly hair and powdered my face even whiter than
normal. Earlier at home, I practiced changing my
jaw line and cheeks by puffing them out with some
cotton wadding. It works well and I can maintain the
illusion for as long as I like. I dressed in black with an
Anglican priest’s collar.
The apartment is now in a state of abject
disrepair. There is a broken window and pigeons have
gotten in and made their usual mess. I could hear
them cooing and burbling somewhere above me in the
dark.
The confessional is still there. Belasco used to
sit in the priest’s center booth dressed in clerical garb
while scantily clad ingénues played the penitents in
his crazy sex games. The older he got, by all reports, the kinkier his games became. Being Belasco’s paramour, for however extended or brief a period, was the key to a career for dozens if not hundreds of young aspiring actresses.
The theater is a different world today. I cannot imagine that someone of David Belasco’s appetites would feel welcome. I know for certain that his antics would not be acceptable. Sexual harassment lawsuits would make him a pariah and probably put him out of business.
As Gus III, I once tried to buy the Belasco Theatre from the Shubert Organization. Jerry Schoenfeld was all for selling me the place. His partner Bernie Jacobs put the kibosh on the deal without giving a reason, or at least without giving me a reason. It is just as well. Looking back, I am not sure what motivated me.
The apartment at that time was in reasonable shape. It was still an elegant if kooky place, though quite musty even then. My plan was to renovate the triplex apartment and move there. Now it is so moldering and mildewed that a gut renovation would have to be undertaken, and I am no longer interested.
I used David’s hidden entrance from the apartment into the theater and moved with preternatural speed to get backstage unseen. I leapt to a perch amidst the scenery machinery and waited for my cue. During the previews I chose my moment while sitting in the audience. Now, as I was about to make my first ghostly appearance, I felt something akin to butterflies in the stomach. Though my act was for an audience of one, it would be on a Broadway stage with a full house out front. Maybe I would have been better off as an actor. Who can ever say for sure?
I listened from above as the character of Doug sings the penultimate number of the show. Upon singing the last notes, he turns and looks away from his once and future girlfriend. His gaze is not fixed on anything in particular and is directed toward the spot where I “appear” by dropping from above and landing. Any slight noise I may make is lost in the sound of rising applause. There is a flat there that blocks anyone but the actor from seeing me – no one in the audience, no one else in the cast or the crew.
Tim looked right at me but did not react at first. He looked away and then looked back. Whether he did this in character as Doug or as himself is something only he knows. He looked once again and I disappeared from his vantage point while he momentarily was transfixed by me, using for my exit a quick leap back up into the beams and cables above the stage. To him, I evaporated before his eyes.
I spied on him after the show and he was electrified with excitement when he realized that he and he alone had seen David Belasco’s ghost. Word moved quickly among the cast and chorus. One of the dancers told a stage hand. He told her that another one of the crew had been touched by the ghost during tech week. Soon everyone backstage was talking about the ghost. There was near-hysterical, nervous giggling on the part of some of the chorus members.
Tim was given Ben Cody’s cell phone number by someone. Ben was back at work after the funeral of his parents. As it happened, he was meeting with a writer from the NY Post at the bar across the street from the theater. I stopped eavesdropping at that point and let nature, so to speak, take its course.
I realized that there was no water to help remove my make up and decided to leave from the roof. Back home I performed my ablutions.
I felt good about the haunting, as well I should.

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

2011-08-30T19:07:00.000-07:00

FIFTY ONE
Patti made her entrance into Elaine’s several
steps ahead of me. Once she was inside, I stepped
into the golden light of the saloon and people started
applauding, a few at first but soon the entire joint
turned in my direction and brought their mortal
hands together. I gave a slight bow. The place was
packed. Somebody shouted out, “Speech. Speech.”
I raised my open hands to quiet the room.

“Thank you, everyone. If your response is any
indication, Pretty Lady is a hit.”
There was more applause at this, but it faded
quickly as people wanted to hear what I was saying.
“However, there’s only one way I’ll know
for certain that this production is everything that it
should be.”
“Screw the critics,” someone called out from
further back in the dining room.
“And bless the bloggers,” I added, which
elicited a collective laugh from the crowd. These
people were in a good mood.
“But it is neither the critics nor the bloggers that
are the indicators by which I will judge my success.
No. The only true barometer tonight will be the size of
my bar bill tomorrow. So eat, drink and be merry!”
A few huzzahs were heard and more applause,
then most people resumed their conversations while back and wish me and the show well. There were tons of compliments. Patti brought me a full champagne flute and for a moment I felt quite as bubbly as the elixir of privilege and success. I pretended to take a sip.
I found my path blocked by Joe Franklin.
“I just wanted to thank you for the car.”
“It was my pleasure, Joe. Thank you for coming.”
“There aren’t a lot of people left who know how to do things right, but you’re one of them, Gus.”
“Well, thank you, Joe. Coming from you that really means something.”
“You know, I had your father on my TV show many years ago.”
A man hovering on shifting feet behind Joe’s shoulder spoke.
“That’s right. We did. We couldn’t get Andy Warhol at the time.”
Joe turned to him and spoke sharply.
“Spats, what kind of thing is that to say to the man?”
“It was a joke, Joe.”
Spats offered his hand and I took it and shook it.
“I’m Spats White. I was Joe’s producer for many years. You must have gotten the Andy Warhol comparison before – what with the sunglasses, the hair.”
“I have indeed, but not as often as my father did. He always said he never knew how to respond. I’m always flattered by the comparison. Though I think my hair is more blonde than white and it’s not a wig.”
“You’re right. It is blond. Just ignore Spats,” said Joe. “Anyway, I loved the show. I didn’t think anyone had it in them anymore to make a show shine like yours did tonight. If I had a hat I’d tip it in your direction.”
I could tell Joe was still embarrassed by the Andy Warhol comment. I wanted him to feel comfortable.
“Thanks so much, Joe. . . Spats White? You’re a ukulele player, right?”
“Yes I am.”
“I hope you’ve seen Ukulele, Baby.”
“Twice.”
There was no hurry. The entire evening was in front of me and I took a further moment with Joe Franklin, the man once known as the King of Nostalgia, who had the longest running talk show ever on TV, rather than plunging right into the crowd.
“Joe, I hope you’re going to give Pretty Lady a plug on your radio show.”
“You know I am. I want you to come on the show and talk about it.”
He reached into the breast pocket of his sports jacket and then handed me his business card.
“Call me this week, please. Call me Wednesday at two p.m. and we’ll set something up.”
I pocketed the card.
“I’ll do that.”
A circle of onlookers was forming around this meeting of the minds, and Joe was enjoying his moment with me.
“You know, your father was a very good looking man. You look a lot like him.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re taller than he was. He’d have been proud of you. I know that.”
“Thank you, Joe. I’m sure he’s up there watching over me, and smiling.”
“Well, you’ve got his genes and his eye for a hit, and that’s what counts.
“Joe, you’re the best.”
I clapped him on the arm.
“I don’t want to keep you from the rest of your guests. Remember. Call me. Wednesday. Two p.m.”
“I will call you, Joe.”
I moved further into the crowd and peered over their heads toward the back. My table was empty and beckoning, a waiter stationed to shoo away interlopers who might think to sit there. Patti was right at my elbow.
“Let’s see if we can find a seat. It looks like my table is open.”
She giggled at that.
Everyone was a well wisher tonight. The enthusiasm was genuine and the nagging tension that plagued me for the last two months was ebbing, draining from my body. We got through the crowd and settled in at the table.
Jeff Tuttle came over as soon as our order was placed with the waiter. He pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Great job, Gus. I have to tell you, Pretty Lady seemed a little obscure to me. But you proved me wrong. Welcome to the winners’ circle, young man.”
He offered his hand and I smiled and shook it.
“Thank you, Jeff. You’re very gracious.”
In my mind, I refer to Jeff Tuttle as the Energizer Bunny of Broadway. He blogs. He also organized a league of theatrical bloggers. He hosts seminars. He tweets, he posts messages about his blogs and tweets on Face Book. These messages come from all over the world, as he travels to check on productions of his shows in South Korea, Japan, Argentina, London and beyond. He hosts a lively winter holiday party for his on line followers. He also invented the TKTS app for iPhones. His energy seems boundless. He seems to welcome my presence on the scene, as it provides him an opportunity to impart worldly-wise wisdom to someone he thinks of as younger.
“Gus, I just want you to know that it would be a pleasure to partner with you on a production. I know you have my office phone number and email. Let’s get together one of these days soon.”
“That sounds like a plan.”
“And if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m here for you. Having a hit can present its own set of problems – welcome problems, no doubt; sometimes an experienced hand can show you some short cuts, save you some time.”
“Thanks, Jeff. That’s very kind of you. Have you got a drink? Did you have some food yet?”
“I had a glass of champagne, and I’m sure I’ll have another. I’ll get to the food, too. And thank you for inviting the competition, so to speak.”
“Thank you for coming. I’m glad you liked the show.”
“Like It? I love it.”
He rose from his seat.
“You’ve got a great future ahead of you. We need more young people with your kind of vision, and guts.”
I laughed.
“Not to mention money, right?”
Jeff smiled.
“If it was about the money, we’d both be doing something else. You know that.”
“Very true, my friend.”
Jeff shook both Patti’s and my hands and turned to work the crowd.
Matt Dunleavy was next to offer his congratulations. He approached the table with a gorgeous young woman on his arm.
“Gus, great show. I loved every minute.”
“Thanks, Matt. Glad you could make it.”
“I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine,” he said, indicating the young lady. I did not ask where his wife was. Some things never change.
As our food was served, the lead actors and actresses from the show arrived. They came in en masse and their entrance led to another round applause, which Patti and I joined in on.
I ordered the dead flesh entrée and pushed it around on my plate with knife and fork. For a change I sat with my back to the wall, so I could see who was approaching the table. The actors eventually found me and there were warm hugs all around. After them, chorus girls from the entourage Page Six chronicled a few weeks ago arrived and swarmed Patti and I.
Jacob Macklin was all smiles when he came by with good wishes. He loves to see a show succeed, especially his clients’. Tony Crakow came by the table, all smiles.
A playwright has got to do what a playwright has got to do. Mac Watson was there. He was sort of a crasher. Patti and I realized we had forgotten to invite him. I was glad to see him. I was glad to see everybody who came.
The show is a smash and the party was a success. How could I ever have doubted myself?

CHAPTER FIFTY

2011-08-24T08:14:00.000-07:00

FIFTY
I love the excitement of opening nights – my
own and those of others – even if does take place
after a month or more of preview performances. I
wanted this one to be especially fun, as it could be my
last New York premier. More and more the London
vampire’s offer is sounding attractive. Pretty Lady may
be my swan song on Broadway. So I took every step
possible to make the evening a success, something for
New York to remember Gus Windham by.

Patti solicited all the usual suspects from the
entertainment community, and where her calls failed I
telephoned people myself. Elaine and I came to terms
for me to have the entire restaurant kept private from
ten o’clock on opening night until the party ended.
There will be a menu including salad or
appetizer, choice of three entrées and tiramisu as
dessert. Every table is to have a bottle of red and white
wines on it when the guests arrive.
The bar will be open for the entire party.
Of course, there will be unlimited Veuve Clicquot.
That is the Gus Windham style, and it will not be
soon forgotten. It is a Thursday night and it is not
an inexpensive proposition. But then again, it is
only money, and what is money when you have a
Broadway hit and you are going to live forever?
I decided not to watch any part of the opening night performance of the show. Instead, I arrived well after intermission ended and waited outside the theater, just as Julian Marsh would have. The mainstream press and prime time TV news critics all saw the show in the last two previews these last two nights leading up to the opening. I paced. I stood under the marquis and looked up at the incandescent light bulbs spelling out Pretty Lady.
I fed before arriving at the theater so as not to look wan. Every couple of years I allow myself a freebie, and tonight was a freebie night. I snatched a woman jogger in Riverside Park above the boat basin. I drained her every drop and thrilled at the death rattle as she faded in my arms. Then I slashed her throat with a knife which I dropped in the river afterward, tore her clothes, and rolled the body in the soil under some bushes. Following all this, I leapt into a huge oak tree and perched the corpse among the branches there.
With complete exsanguinations, I like to make it look as though the murder occurred elsewhere and the body was moved. This throws off investigators and helps cover my tracks, as it were. It is only a game, of course, but I enjoy playing it well.
Everyone else can celebrate with the best champagne but I prefer those last precious drops of blood and the unmistakable presence of the tenacious life force as I suck it dry.
The entire process of feeding and arranging the body took less than ten minutes. I leaped skyward from the tree, cleaned the blood traces off my face at home, changed quickly from my all black ninja look to black tie, and took a cab to the Belasco. The taxi ride from the Upper East Side to the theater district was the longest part of the process.
Pretty Lady is a sweet tale of love in a bygone era of New York. Surrounded as it now is by stories of murder and curses, the response of the opening night crowd of tastemakers and trend setters is important. At some point the charm of the story and the endearing quality of the melodies have to be what people talk about or else this show will be nothing but an oddity, and likely a short-lived one.
Ten minutes before the final curtain a fleet of automobiles began to arrive and soon West Forty Fourth Street was clogged with Town Cars and stretch limousines. Ten of the Town Cars were being charged to my account. Some of these were to surprise people who mean something to me or to New York – the playwright Edward Albee, and others who do not get the grand treatment as often as they should, like the original media icon Joe Franklin -- while cars also were being supplied to older women of star power, like Elaine Stritch, who would otherwise not have attended the party, and told Patti as much when she extended the invitation on my behalf.
The drivers in my employ each got out of their car a few minutes beforehand with a cardboard sign with the passenger’s name. I walked along and checked the signs to make sure that all the names were spelled correctly and that everyone on my list was represented in the line. When I came to my driver, I introduced myself and told him to be patient; I would be the last to leave in this first wave.
The absence of investors creates something of a vacuum when assembling an opening night crowd on Broadway. Of course, I knew this when taking on the production eight months ago. The flip side of this is that there are more seats available for paying customers.
The crowd began to exit the theater. I watched while leaning against the dark polished granite corner of the building next to the theater. There’s a pine tree there that blocks the view of the marquis from Sixth Avenue and I mused upon showing up with a chain saw and carrying out a tree massacre. Then again, this show already has enough weird publicity surrounding it.
I listened to the comments from the crowd. Everything being said was positive to a degree that exceeded my expectations. Not one cringe-inducing slam or sarcasm was uttered. One could even say that the people leaving the theater were bubbling with joy. If the critics are in agreement with the opening night crowd, this show may be the megahit that I crave.
Of course, the crowd was nothing like the first opening night crowd for this show. Back then, going to the theater meant dressing up – not only for opening night but for any night. Now at least half the men in the crowd did not even bother to don a blazer. At least the classic little black dress was in plenty of evidence among the women, even most of those on the arms of sartorially slipshod males. There were enough sequined star turns by my claque of invited grand dames to provoke camera flashes and crowd murmurs. Not one top hat or white tie to be seen, though.
Patti spotted me and waved, then walked quickly towards me.
“The crowd seems enthusiastic,” I said.
“Enthusiastic is putting it mildly – four curtain calls to a standing ovation. Gus, it’s a hit.”
“Four curtain calls? Really?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t watch.”
“The truth is, I overslept a little and then decided not to hurry. I’ve seen the show so many times already . ..”
“Well, you missed it. They loved the show. I mean, they really loved it. You should have been there for the curtain, Gus. You should have gone up on stage. The crowd would have gone wild.”
“Bows are for actors. Producers make sure that there’s toilet paper in the rest rooms.”
“It’s your opening night. Like, it’s the one night you can forget about the rest rooms and totally revel in your brilliant work.”
“Thank you, Patti. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Can I ride with you to the party?”
“Of course you can. Do you have a date?”
“Tonight? Of course not. I’m going to be your escort.”
“How kind of you.” I linked arms with Patti and drew her close.

CHAPTER FORTY NINE

2011-08-17T06:19:00.000-07:00

FORTY NINE
In one of those fluke occurrences that are
bound to happen in an existence like mine, tragedy
struck the show again; though this time it was less
direct. Ben Cody’s parents were found robbed and
murdered in their Winnebago, parked outside the Wal
Mart in East Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. Yes. Those
two, I’m afraid. Of course, Ben had to take time off to
deal with his family tragedy.

Word spread that the show was cursed, which
sold even more tickets. The theatrical blogosphere
went crazy nitpicking the history of the east of
Broadway curse. There was a lot of back and forth
about the curse being limited to failing shows and
whether or not these murders could be added or
attributed to the legend. Oh, the absurdity of it all.
David Belasco’s ghost was brought up in several
different contexts.
In the end, no definitive answer was arrived
at. One could say the same thing about bloggers that
George Bernard Shaw said about economists: lay them
all end to end and they will not reach a conclusion.
Patti followed all this for me and gave me
reports over champagne and midnight oysters at
Elaine’s. Yahoo ran a story about the show and the
curse, and it went viral on the internet, and before
opening night, before any of the mainstream reviews were in print or aired, the show was sold out for six months in advance, all in a matter half a week.
The night of the last press preview I got another call from Terri Coyle. I was fifteen minutes into my wakefulness when the call came in.
“Gus, do we want to go ahead with this ad supplement about the curse? Everything is ready to go. I’m just concerned you might find it tacky, so soon after what’s happened to Ben’s parents.”
“You didn’t put their deaths into the supplement, did you?”
“Of course not. Please, don’t even suggest such a thing. It’s insulting, Gus.”
“My apologies. Look, what happened with Ben’s parents was a tragic occurrence that had nothing to do with our show. It didn’t even happen in New York. It’s a tragic coincidence is all. So my answer is yes I do want to proceed with the supplement. However, there’s so much free coverage right now that we might want to consider delaying its release.”
“You have to let me know right away. Time Out is awaiting word from us.”
I made a snap decision.
“Hold off on the supplement for six weeks. All this should have quieted down by then. Right now we don’t need it. It almost seems redundant. Everybody’s talking about the east of Broadway curse already.”
“It will seem less tacky then, too.”
“Does it seem tacky now?”
“Gus, the supplement is tasteful and a brilliant piece of advertising promotion, if I do say myself. However, you know as well as I do that timing is everything in this business, and doubly so with something like this.”
“Redundant and less tacky – then holding off is a no-brainer.”
“You’re the boss, but yes, waiting does seem like a no brainer.”
“Remind me again before you send it to Time Out, would you please?”
“Will do. That’s it from this end then. Anything else you want to tell me?”
“Hopefully we’ll have some good press quotes. That would help.”
“Gus, you’ve got a hit on your hands. Relax.”
“I feel terrible for Ben Cody,” I said.

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

2011-08-10T06:24:00.000-07:00

FORTY EIGHT
Soon after our meeting I was airborne, headed
toward the Hudson. A few minutes later I saw the
bright lights of a Wal Mart in East Stroudsburg,
Pennsylvania and landed in the parking lot.
I spotted a large Winnebago in the far corner.
Its engine was idling and it was parked so that the
middle door was on the opposite side of the vehicle
from the store. Perfect. Anybody who stays overnight
in a Wal Mart parking lot in an RV is fair game in my
book.

A yellow light was blinking atop the security
guard’s car as it slowly cruised in front of the store,
some two hundred yards away. I scanned the light
poles for CCTV cameras. Only the front half of the
parking lot was under surveillance. I was at the door
of the RV in an instant. I looked around as I grabbed
the door handle. No one else was nearby and no cars
were parked near the Winnebago.
Across America, retired people have taken
to the roads in these “land yachts”. They travel the
country seeing the sights and have become their own
subculture. Couples run into each other again and
again, often agreeing to rendezvous here or there on
such and such a date. Their rolling homes are well stocked
and outfitted for maximum personalized comfort.
Wal Mart parking lots provide excellent and free of charge overnight accommodations for these elderly wayfarers of the interstate highway system on those nights when they are between destinations. They forego their showers and wash up in the restrooms of the store. On cool evenings such as tonight was, they leave their engines idling and keep the windows open until such time as they decide to turn in for the evening. This allows them to watch a DVD or television, if there’s a small satellite TV dish atop the vehicle, as there was on this one, without running down the battery. The Wal Mart security guards might check on them once during the evening, knocking on the door and finding the Winnebago’s occupants in possession of a store receipt. Some nights there may be as many as three or four of these camper vehicles parked until morning. Here, this night, there was only one.
With my hand on the door, I listened. Inside a man and a woman were watching a sit com. It was a classic set up. I gave the handle a yank downward and broke the lock, opened the door and entered. The TV was loud enough to cover the noise of my entrance but the man sensed something.
“Hello,” I said as he turned my way.
I closed the door behind me.
“Who the hell are you?”
I gave him time to go for his gun – they all have pistols with them. His wife turned and gasped. Charlie Sheen was on screen in the background, with a laugh track to help viewers get into the spirit of the show.
“Turn off the television, please,” I said.
“Ben, do something.”
Ben was opening a wood veneer drawer.It was right next to his seat and he did not even need to rise to reach it. Convenient. As he came out with the pistol, a Smith and Wesson .38 police special, I stretched my arm the ten or so feet between us, grabbed his hand and snapped his wrist, catching the revolver as it fell from his grip. His hand dangled uselessly. His eyes went wide in shock. He groaned. I cuffed him across the jaw before he could start to scream from pain. Then I moved the rest of my body to catch up to my hand.
Meanwhile, the wife was opening a drawer on her side of the vehicle. She came out with a shiny silver .25 automatic – an honest to goodness Saturday night special. I shoved the .38 in her ear.
“I don’t think so, lady.”
“What are you? Who are you?”
I relieved her of her pistol and shoved it in my waistband.
“Just tell me where you hide the cash and nobody gets hurt.”
I elasticized my free arm again and reached around the Winnebago, drawing the yellow curtains over the windows, turning off the lights and then the still-squawking television. The privacy curtain between the two front seats and everything else was already across the width of the vehicle. I brought my arm back to its normal proportion and position.
“We don’t have much,” she said.
“Oh please. Do you think I’m stupid? The cash and the gold coins. Get them now or I’ll blow your brains out and rip this place apart to find it.”
“Ben’s got a money belt. That’s all there is.”
I grabbed hold of her by the hair, pulled her head back and sank my fangs into her carotid artery and fed until she was three fourths empty. I did the same with her husband. I healed the fang marks on both their throats with a little spittle.
I removed the money belt from around the man’s waist. It had ten gold Rand and a thousand in Franklins within the leather folds. I was certain there was more somewhere in the vehicle. Using a cushion from one of the built in seats to muffle the report of the .25 automatic, I popped a cap in the woman’s forehead, then another in the man’s ear. As I expected, the low caliber bullets bounced around inside their skulls without producing an exit wound and making mush of both their brains in the process. I like the way people make things easy for me sometimes. And now I had the .38 -- another clean gun -- to use elsewhere on another night time blood raid.
I proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes tearing apart the interior, avoiding stepping in the small pools of blood from their wounds as I maneuvered around the bodies. I wanted this to look like a robbery.
Lo and behold, I found another stash of gold and hundred dollar bills. There were thirty five coins in a white plastic tube and forty more of the bank notes. It was under a crude false bottom in the canned foods cupboard.
I cleaned out the cash from the wallet in her purse and stripped the rings off both their fingers. I looked for his wallet and after a few minutes found his driver’s license slipped under an elastic belt on the backside of the visor over the steering wheel. His credit cards were in a leather holder in the glove box, along with the registration and the Triple A gold card. I quickly shoved all the identification and plastic into her purse.
I realized he did not use a wallet. This was a wise decision, as the bulging presence of a rear pocket billfold has been known to cause back problems. I put the plastic that comprised their identity all together in the woman’s purse without bothering to read it. It all took me less than ten minutes from feeding to finish.
I turned off the engine. With my pockets bulging with loot, the .38 in hand, and the woman’s purse tucked under my elbow, I opened the door to see the store security car approaching at about five miles per hour, yellow light flashing atop the vehicle. I made a snap decision and was beside the driver side door in a preternatural instant. I dragged the security guard halfway out of the car and ripped his throat open. The car kept rolling slowly forward. I sucked hard on both the jugular vein and the carotid artery. Why let good blood go to waste?
I pumped three bullets into the guy’s throat and shoved him back behind the wheel. He was going to bleed out what little was left and die before the car ran into something. I dropped the pistol as I launched myself skyward. I can always get another gun without much trouble. This is America, after all.
I swooped low as I passed over the Delaware River on my way home and dumped the purse with all the credit cards and other IDs into the gently flowing waters.

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

2011-08-03T07:18:00.000-07:00

FORTY SEVEN
Patti arrives tonight bearing the dummy for
the ad supplement. Being a Monday evening, there is
no show, so she arrives later than usual. The cover is
a burgundy colored stage curtain with gold brocade
trim, parted at the middle. This I like.
The title of this pamphlet is now “Pretty Lady and the Curse East of
Broadway”. It also had a subtitle – “Ghosts, Murder and
Mayhem” – which I nix the instant Patti hands me the
print out.

“Murder? That’s terrible. Is Terri insane? We
cannot appear to be making hay off of Danny’s death.
We’ll be destroyed by the press. It’s too ghoulish.
Pretty Lady is a light comedy. No no no. This was not
my intent at all. It’s not my intent or my style and it’s
got to go.”
“Got it. I was thinking the same thing.”
She was taking notes on her laptop Mac.
“Okay. That’s the cover – get rid of the subtitle.
We don’t need a subtitle.”
“Moving right along,” said Patti.
The next page is an interesting write up of all
the lore regarding the curse in general – its origins,
shows believed to have suffered from the curse, and
so forth.
“This stuff on the curse looks okay.”
Following that is a full page biography of David Belasco which includes the information that his ghost may still haunt the theater. I read it quickly.
“This Belasco piece is nothing. It won’t do at all. It’s innocuous. And David Belasco was anything but innocuous, my dear.”
“I didn’t write it.”
She types something into her laptop.
“I know you didn’t. But make a note please.”
“I already did.”
“Tell Terri I want a lot more color about Belasco. The man invented the casting couch, one of the most salacious factoids in theater history, and there’s not a word about that. This is no time to be Victorian about these sorts of details. Killing and screwing are the national obsessions. We’ve got more than enough killing attached to this show. It’s time to add some screwing.”
Patti was chuckling as she tapped extensive notes on the computer keyboard.
The memorial page devoted to Danny Limm is tasteful and acceptable.
“My only addition is that we add a line at the bottom which states that there is a one hundred thousand dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Danny Limm’s murderer.”
“Do you really want to put that in there, Gus?”
“Yes. I do. The police are up against a dead end in the investigation.”
“But they could catch someone, and then you would have to reprint the entire supplement.”
“Catching the killer would mean more headlines, and more headlines would mean more ticket sales, not to mention getting this murderer off the streets and putting Danny’s memory properly to rest. So what if we have to reprint. I welcome the need to reprint. It’s a negligible cost in the scheme of things. Negligible and welcome. Have them put in the reward announcement, please.”
Patti grimaces and taps at the computer. “Okay.”
Patti is intent on making her notes. I flip through the rest of the pages in quick succession, reading every word with preternatural speed while pretending to skim.
“These all look good.”
“You hardly looked at them.”
“I’m a producer, not a proof reader. Make sure everyone’s name is spelled correctly and so forth and let’s get this thing moving.”
Patti gives a quick affirmative shake of her head.
“Yes, sir.”
She writes some final notes and looks at me.
“Is that it? Anything else?”
“Are you hurrying off? I was hoping you would join me at Elaine’s.”
“Oh Gus, not tonight. I’m sorry.”
“Big date?”
“Not really. Not a date at all. I just want to get plenty of beauty sleep this week. I haven’t been sleeping well and I’ve been running all day, unlike you. The worst would be going to opening night this week with circles under my eyes.”
“Oh, is opening night this week?”
Patti throws her head back and laughs. Her neck looks so inviting, so lovely, pale and smooth and pulsing and flowing with blood. She is beautiful in every sense of the word. For a brief instant I think of making her my companion for all time. But I know it would turn out badly and reject the idea.
“Gus, people say you’re so serious. They don’t know you like I do.”
“Is that what people say? That I’m serious? I think that’s a good thing, don’t you? And it’s true. I am serious.”
“You’re a gem with facets, Mr. Windham. Let’s just say I’m honored that you let me observe them all.”
“Do you think you’ve seen all there is to see of me? I hope there’s still something of a mystery about me.”
“To others, yes.”
“But not to you?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that, Gus.”
“Good. That means something about me is still a mystery.”
Patti smiles an inscrutable grin.
“Maybe.”

CHAPTER FORTY SIX

2011-07-27T06:51:00.000-07:00

FORTY SIX
Daylight Savings Time began last night, or
this morning to be accurate. I hunted down a watch
repairman and fed on him at exactly 2 a.m. to mark
the change. This guy was in Connecticut. Every year,
somewhere in America, someone connected to the
manufacture or repair of timepieces dies to mark the
beginning of this inauspicious period of the year.
Believe me. It happens. You can set your watch by it,
as the saying goes.

This year, as every year, I whisper the name
George Vernon Hudson into the ear of my sacrificial
victim. Hudson was the New Zealander who came
up with the idea to discombobulate time every
year. Why? He was a factory worker and his hobby
was collecting bugs. The entire world was changed
due to the desires of some factory worker intent on
enhancing his collection of insects. Is that insane or
what?
If I ever go to New Zealand – an unlikely
journey – I shall wreak havoc, hunting down and
feeding on every person with the surname Hudson. It
would be my pleasure and delight to wipe any vestige
of that family name from the island nation. Truth be
told, on more than one occasion I have singled out
this name when choosing my meals here in North
America. George Vernon Hudson published his idea for Daylight Savings Time in a New Zealand newspaper as a letter to the editor in 1895. It first took hold here in 1918; the second decade of the last century being the period when this abominable practice began taking hold worldwide.
Here is an interesting tidbit: as a result of Daylight Savings Time, the city of Indianapolis, Indiana has been spared the ravages of vampires feeding there. For almost a century this heartland city at the westernmost edge of the Eastern Time zone resisted the custom of setting the clocks ahead in the spring and turning the time back an hour in the autumn. In 1920, on one of those rare occasions when all vampires who dwell in North America come together, we all agreed to refrain from feeding in Indianapolis.
In 2005 the city yielded to the pressure to conform and adopted Daylight Savings Time. The vampire synod has yet to meet since this change, so the pact still holds. However, I suspect that Indianapolis is a de facto hunting spot again, when the opportunity arises.
The worst of it for me is that this means I am faced with a choice: attend my opening night with my powers in abeyance, or skip the first act and have my reputation as an eccentric enhanced with everyone in the theater world. As if I don’t have enough decisions to make already, as producer.

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

2011-07-20T08:00:00.000-07:00

FORTY FIVE

Detective Swiecki sends me an email asking
me to give him a call. It takes a bit of playing phone
tag but we manage to connect when he calls back the
second time.
“Mr. Windham, Detective Swiecki here.”
We briefly exchange politeness and he thanks
me again for the evening at the theater. I protest.

“But you paid for your own tickets, Detective.”
“That may be, but you took time to talk to my
wife. She’s still talking about the show and you and
the ghost. She says she wants you to have a hit so the
ghost comes back.”
I could hear in his voice a note of disconcert at
what he perceived as his wife’s gullibility.
“She’s probably sold a hundred tickets for you.”
A hundred tickets is less than ten per cent of
a full house for one night in the Belasco but I did not
say so. If all those people Mrs. Swiecki tells come
to see the show and like it, and then tell someone
else who sees the show, and those people like it and
tell someone else, and so on – that is classic word of
mouth, which is the best advertising there is.
It would be wonderful if native New Yorkers
started coming back to the theater in droves as
a result of my new show, but I am not expecting
anything of that sort to take place. Aside from all that, however, the man is a homicide detective and my position in society requires a modicum of respect for such individuals -- that is my unknown position as a vampire, not my public persona.
“So tell me, please, Detective, how goes the investigation into Danny’s murder?”
“I wish there was better news. That’s why I’m calling, actually. To ask if by chance you’ve thought of anything else, any little thing at all, that we might have overlooked.”
“I wish I could be more helpful but the answer to that question, unfortunately, is no. The reward hasn’t helped at all? What if I up the amount?”
“If you up the amount it will just bring out more kooks and maggots. I hate to be negative but money’s not the answer. I wish it was. But if the reward was going to produce any useful information, it would have come to light already.”
“Do you mean the killer is going to get away with it?”
“The killer is probably already locked up on some unrelated charge. That happens more often than people know. Once he’s off the streets, the trail dries up unless our man is a braggart. Sometimes we get info weeks or even months after the fact, usually from a cell mate or like that.”
So my initial take on the detective was correct – he will not catch Danny’s murderer. On the one hand that is disappointing. On the other hand, it is clear that I will have to start feeding more often in Queens.
“I was hoping you or someone else with the show would have thought of something. Otherwise, we’ve run into the proverbial brick wall at the end of an alley. We’re at a dead end.”
“You’re going to continue to investigate, right Detective? I mean, you’re not telling me you’re giving up on catching the killer?”
“Not giving up – no. The case is still open, and if any leads come in, we’ll follow up. It may be that we catch this guy while we’re on another case. More and more, it looks like this was some junkie who thought your director was an easy mark, then panicked when he killed him and fled without grabbing his wallet. It happens.”
There is resignation in Swiecki’s voice as he imparts this theory to me. I wonder if he believes it. I wonder if I do.
“I’ll have my company manager make an announcement to the cast at tonight’s preview. Maybe somebody will think of something.”
“An announcement might help. It sure can’t hurt. Things just pop into people’s minds sometimes.”
“I hate to think that Danny’s killer is getting away with it,” I say.
“I don’t think he’s getting away, Mr. Windham. Like I said, he’s probably already in the system. The case is open. We’ll get him eventually.”
“I’m sure you will, Detective, and I’ll be glad when you do. Right now, though, if there’s nothing else, I’m going to make sure that announcement gets made to the cast and crew as soon as possible.”
Upon hanging up I fire off an email to the company manager, with instructions that everyone on the show is to examine their memories for anything that might be relevant to Danny’s murder. I include Detective Swiecki’s name and cell phone number as the contact.
As soon as I tap the ‘send’ button I know that it is a fruitless endeavor, and could create a sense of unease among the company, something we definitely do NOT need this close to opening night. I send an immediate follow up email to Jack asking him to distribute the announcement in writing, after the opening night performance.
This appears to be the path least likely to stir up the pot. Detective Swiecki is on to other cases, that much is clear. Joe Eason will not take the case. That leaves me to catch Danny’s killer. I may not be a detective, but I share something with the murderer that might help me in my task – I am a killer, too, and it just might take one to catch one.

Chapter Forty Four

2011-07-13T07:29:00.000-07:00

FORTY FOUR

The previews for Pretty Lady are doing
spectacular business. The show tightened up almost
on its own. David, who is now being credited as
associate director, and I compared notes a couple of
times and were in agreement, so I let him handle
the cast. Tony Crakow and I consulted by phone and
decided to open as planned. There would be no need
to shift the date.

Word of mouth for the show was great and the
press was getting to be just as good. Ben Cody, the
publicist, invited a bunch of entertainment reporters
from print media to see the show but only for the
purposes of writing feature articles. The writers had
to agree to an embargo on review coverage until
after opening night. The result was half a dozen
articles that spoke in glowing general terms about the
entertainment value while also talking about Danny,
his background and the murder investigation.
Ben also invited several of the more important
theatrical bloggers to see the show, and encouraged
them to review the show. To a person they gave the
production very positive on line coverage.
I got a call from Terri Coyle at the end of
business on the Friday before the most cursed night
on the planet.
“Okay. Listen, we added a page to the ‘Curse' supplement. It’s very tasteful. It’s an ‘in memoriam’ sort of thing. We don’t want it to be tacky but by the same token we have to mention Danny. Take a look and let me know if you want any changes. The whole thing can be read online tonight, if you like.”
“You put it on line? Why?”
“It’s a hidden page on the agency’s web site. You have to know the URL or you can’t see it. One of the kids here set it up.”
“Send me the URL right now and I’ll look at it and get right back to you by email with my thoughts.”
We wished each other good night. I dropped the cell phone into my jacket pocket. I turned on my laptop a few minutes later and checked my email account to see if Terri’s missive was there. It was. But first I read the new email from the London vampire.
Hello old chum,
Not having heard back I’m hoping you’re either one of those who doesn’t check the email account too often, or even better, you’re mulling over my proposition. It makes perfect sense for both of us. We’re both aware of the limitations we face in fulfilling our dietary requirements. It’s the old “This town isn’t big enough for the two of us” syndrome. An email is not the place to get into the specifics of why, especially with your government browsing all international communications with its Carnivore program, a particularly apt nomenclature in our case.
I hear you’ve got yourself a bona fide Broadway hit on your hands. All the best with that. I suspect you’ve developed a passion for the theatrical art form in much the same way that I am fascinated by the gaming industry.
Now, there’s the rub. England has a much stronger theater scene and the U.S. has one of the planet’s most active casino environments. Also, the cost ratio for theater is much more reasonable here. That’s to your advantage. The potential represented by a switch is enormous for both of us.
I do hope you will give my proposal serious consideration. While I realize it may take you awhile to decide, please do extend me the courtesy of acknowledging receipt of this email.
Yours in London, etc.
I typed a short but polite and amiable reply:
It’s always good to hear from an old acquaintance. As you note, I have quite a bit on my plate at the moment, including a hit musical. However, I am intrigued by your proposal. Perhaps we should meet? This time you would have to come here, whenever your schedule allows.
All best,
Gus Windham
Next I opened the email from Terri Coyle. Her note said “Hope you like it. Let me know when you’ve gone over it.”
A URL appeared beneath the text. I clicked on the hyperlink. It took me to a “404 Not Found” message. I forwarded it all to Patti with a note telling her to please contact Terri, get the right electronic address, and print out a copy of the dummy supplement for me.

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

2011-07-06T06:16:00.000-07:00

FORTY THREE

“Gus Windham?”
The voice was familiar though I was not sure
why, and that made me wince. She was walking at my
elbow and I stopped and looked at her. Her features
struck a faint chord in my memory but there was no
ensuing melody of recognition and recollection.
“You don’t know me,” she said.
I was sure that I did know her but uncertain as
to why or from where.

“I’m sorry to bother you on the street like this.
I walked past you going the other way and I saw
you and just had to turn around and say something.
I worked for your father for five years. My name’s
Pam Gryffyn, with two ‘y’s – why and why not your
father used to say. He said he hired me so that he
would always be reminded to look at both sides of any
question.”
Everything came flooding back to me. This
woman was my personal assistant in the late 1960s
and early 1970s, working in a diminished capacity
compared to what Patti does now.
“Hello, Pam. So very nice to meet you.”
Back then I switched assistants more often.
Things were a lot more wide open than they are
since the events of September 2001. This city used
to be much more freewheeling. There were bankers who wanted my business enough to transact it in the evenings, outside the walls of their institutions. I did not need to purchase the trust of an assistant in order to have her execute large transactions and handle sums of cash. Now everyone but investment bankers and hedge fund managers is on alert for the least digression from government approved methods.
“I’ve been following your career since you arrived in the city. I’ve seen Ukulele, Baby, and I saw Café Lysistrata twice.”
This statement baffled me. So many people tell me they loved that show. I still do not understand why it never caught on with audiences enough to sustain a successful run. Fortunately it was Off Broadway, too, and only set me back a couple of hundred thousand dollars.
“I’ve already got tickets for Pretty Lady,” continued she of the two whys. “I feel so lucky to have gotten orchestra seats for opening night. It’s going to be just like the old days for me. I don’t go see much on Broadway anymore.”
“You should have called my office for tickets. Next time do that, please, and mention my father.”
“Oh I don’t mind. It is so sad about your director, though. His first Broadway show and this happens. I was so sorry for you when I heard about that. It must have been touch and go there for awhile.”
“Well, if you worked with Dad, you know show people.”
“I guess so. Show people are so great. I loved that era of my life.”
Then she said, “You’ve got it, too, I see.”
“Excuse me?”
“The eye condition -- Some people used to joke that your father was trying to be the Andy Warhol of theater. If they said that to me, I set them straight.”
“That was very good of you. People get such crazy ideas sometimes.”
“Don’t they? Well, you were on your way somewhere and my Joe is wondering where I am, I’m sure.”
I was not going to inquire about Joe. Dog, cat, or man – I was in no mood for further chatter from this dim reflection of my past. She meant little to me then and even less now.
“You know, I have to say, the resemblance is uncanny. You look so much like your father, talking to you almost made me feel younger.”
She laughed.
“Almost only counts in horseshoes, though, right?”
And shotgun blasts, I thought but did not say.
“Pam, it’s been so nice to meet you. I’ve got friends waiting, though, and have to be on my way.”
“I was talking to Joe about you just the other day. Imagine just running into you on the street. I saw you and I just had to say hello.”
“I’m glad you did. Bye.”
I started walking north again. Pam would be allowed to live. She believed the generational story.
“I’ll see you opening night,” she called after me.
Without turning, I raised a hand in acknowledgement that I had heard her and kept walking. Joe was in for an earful tonight, whatever his species.

Chapter Forty Two

2011-06-29T15:01:00.000-07:00

FORTY TWO
Mac Watson and I watched the show together,
then went to Gandhi Café on Bleecker Street, an
inexpensive Indian restaurant near the theater that he,
a vegetarian, favors.
When Danny directed this show he and the
playwright clashed endlessly during the transition
after I picked it up and moved it from a ninety-nine
seat showcase at Theater for the New City in the East
Village to its current home. In the end, though, the
two artists each developed a great deal of respect
for the other’s talent. It was the first time Mac and I
spoke since Danny’s murder.
Mac was interviewed
by the police but his alibi was rock solid. That
morning he awoke in Washington D.C. to address
a theater conference. He is moving up in the world.
Long-running musicals do that for a playwright’s
reputation.
We spent some time over his hors d’oeuvres
– spicy is an excellent excuse for me to decline food
-- discussing the lack of progress on the case. Mac
wished aloud that he and Danny had had one more
chance to work together. We each told a story worthy
of a memorial service. Whether the topic of Danny’s
demise was exhausted or Mac was chomping at the
Broadway bit is hard to say. But Broadway was next on
the agenda.
These days the buzz in the biz is that it is impossible to make money as a producer Off Broadway. That may be true. Sometimes a show deserves to be done regardless.
There is, to my mind, a problem inherent in the term “Off Broadway”. Rightly or wrongly, the word ‘off’ carries with it a negative connotation. If you are off your game, it means that you are playing badly. Sour milk is sometimes said to be ‘off’. If you turn off a light, it is time to go to sleep, in the human mind anyway.
It seems to me Off Broadway should be renamed. I think Intimate Theater would be much better. It sounds sexy. So far there are no takers for my idea. And since there is so little financial incentive, it is doubtful that any change in nomenclature is forthcoming soon.
This evening it fell to me to explain the facts of life to Mac.
“Listen, my friend,” I said. “You’re making a nice weekly paycheck right now. The cast album is another revenue stream for you. It’s not a lot right now but cast albums sell. Over the years, this should mean a minimum of a quarter million dollars for you. That could all change if you put this show on Broadway. Selling a thousand tickets a night is a lot different than selling two hundred fifty. I counted 37 empty seats tonight. Let’s be generous and say twelve of those were no shows who got charged for the tickets anyway. That means 25 seats went unsold. That’s ten per cent of the house empty. It’s Wednesday night and it’s not terrible. But it’s not sold out either. This also raises the question of whether Ukulele, Baby can sell a thousand seats a night, night after night. Right now, the small theater is a charming and intimate setting for this wonderful musical that you wrote. It’s art that’s framed perfectly. Take it to Broadway and you could close in a month.”
“I didn’t think of it that way.”
“Then there’s the cast. We’ve got some very talented people who are age appropriate to the roles, thanks to Danny’s meticulous approach, and to our adhering to that model when casting replacements. These people you’re talking to are going to want to recast the show to fit with their idea of what it takes to make a hit. Will they be right? Who knows?”
“Won’t you be the lead producer, Gus? Won’t you stay with the show?”
“I don’t think this show is right for Broadway. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Mac. Look, I’ve more than made back my investment. If you want out of the contract, we’ll get Jacob to work it out. I’m not going to rake you over the coals. But let me tell you right now, you’re making a mistake. You’ve got a winner with legs that can carry you for years. Soon this show will catch on with high schools. That will be more money for you. Regional theaters are already starting to do it. Someday there will be a movie sale. Under our agreement, you get sixty per cent of that money. Take it to Broadway and they’re going to try and negotiate a lot of that away from you. It’s up to you. But . . .”
“I’m not doing it. You’re right. If ever there was an example of a bird in the hand, this is it. Ukulele, Baby stays put. It was born downtown and it stays downtown. What the hell was I thinking?”
“Now you’re talking.”
Another potential crisis averted. What are producers for, after all?
After we said good night to each other, I decided to stroll uptown while figuring out an answer to my own dining requirements for the evening.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

2011-06-22T07:04:00.000-07:00

FORTY ONE
Ukulele, Baby is a charming little contemporary
musical, full of original sweet songs that move
forward a comic story of a dystopian future. It got rave
reviews when the author and composer, Mac Watson,
mounted it in early 2008. Danny Limm directed it,
which is also how we first came to know each other. I
am the producer.

Despite the wonderful notices Ukulele, Baby
received, none of the commercial producers in New
York, other than me, deemed it worthy of as much
as bothering to go to see it. A couple people sent
their office rats – twenty-somethings empowered by
degrees from institutions of higher education to pass
judgment on new work, as long as they judge “no” –
but most of the powers that be did not even bother to
do that.
Fifty years ago the sort of press Ukulele, Baby
got would have guaranteed a Broadway run. That was
before the corporate plutocracy and elitist educational
meritocracy combined forces to create the current
culture of philosophic and artistic pabulum in the
theater.
It happens that the playwright and I share the
same theatrical attorney. As I said, Jacob is one of
the brightest bulbs on Broadway these days, so it is
no surprise to me that he is able to spot talent when others are only capable of seeing it in the mirror. Jacob convinced me to go see Ukulele, Baby. Even though it has not made me a ton of money, I am glad he did.
Mac Watson was happy to have any deal that moved the production to the next level. Jacob made sure our agreement was fair and I was happy to put my name on a production that was fresh and vibrant and was written by someone who has original ideas that challenge the current corporate power structure. If you have not figured it out yet, there is an anarchist lurking somewhere near the core of my being. And why not? Chaos lends itself to unfettered feeding.
Ukulele, Baby is the story of three young outlaw musicians at the end of the Twenty First Century. All of society is controlled by the One World Pharmaceutical Corporation.
This complete take over happened after total economic and environmental collapse at mid-century led to the Great Emergency, a twenty-five year period of society breaking down while malevolent corporate consolidation took place. As it says in the show, this collapse was the result of a long period of human history dominated by a gruesome and greedy business creed which can be summed up as “Burn it and we will profit.”
Of course, that is not far from the truth. Whether the “it” that gets burned is coal or oil or electricity or entire countries, it always leads to corporate growth. Someone once said that growth for the sake of growth is what drives a cancer cell. Corporations certainly seem like a form of cancer to me.
In the future where Ukulele, Baby is set, much of what we now consider normal behavior is considered abnormal and subject to treatment with pharmaceuticals. Drug evasion is illegal in this future. So is making live music, unless one is a member of the corporate Top Ten. Top Ten musicians are allowed to do whatever they want, and are the only people permitted to wear the coveted Golden Jumpsuit.
The three musicians who are the main characters – two gals and a guy – meet in secret to play their own music on ukuleles, an instrument that is small and easy to conceal. One of their music sessions in an abandoned warehouse is interrupted by an “edger”-- more or less a homeless person.
This edger, named Pete, may or may not be more than he seems. During the course of the action, he reveals himself, first to Corporate Security, then to the trio, as a golden jumpsuit-wearing former Top Ten musician.
The edger eventually manages to cajole the trio of ukulele players into escaping corporate society by promising to take them to Ukulele Land. This place turns out to be an abandoned farmstead where he drops them off to practice and then disappears.
After dealing with the bafflement of living in an archaic manner – much of which is quite familiar to the audience as part of contemporary life, leading to some good laughs – the edger reappears with the news that he has arranged to get the trio into the Top Ten. And so the first act ends.
During every intermission we have a door prize drawing, based on seat numbers, and the winner gets a ukulele just like one of those played by the characters in the show. During the Great Depression, door prizes were common. It seemed to me that it was time to revive the custom, and I was right. People love that drawing. It was my big contribution to the show.
Pete delivers on his promise in the second act and the trio is launched into the corporate-controlled Top Ten. Meanwhile, the guy and one of the young women in the band find themselves in love while Pete and the other gal fall for each other.
Then Pete gets arrested for not being who he claims he is. It turns out he found the golden jumpsuit in a dumpster behind a crematorium. He used the status and power conferred by the golden jumpsuit to get the trio into the Top Ten. He is thrown into jail for drug evasion and impersonating a Top Ten member. The young musicians, now legitimately clad in golden jumpsuits themselves, realize that Pete risked everything for them.
In their first world wide simulcast concert, in front of a stadium full of people, they refuse to play their corporate hit I Wanna Be A Drug and instead treat the audience to the song Ukulele, Baby, a song that Pete taught them in the first act. It is a song full of sweetness and optimism.
The audience of the future goes wild for this song. People everywhere are touched by the music and they rise up and riot in the streets – which is a great dance number. Corporate control collapses. All the drug evaders, including Pete, are set free. He finds the trio playing music in the streets, amidst the chaos of revolution. There is a double marriage.
The show ends with cast and chorus onstage strumming ukuleles and singing. Peace, music and love return to the planet forever.
Audiences love the show. It plays in a sweet little two hundred fifty seat theater and Ukulele, Baby gives every indication of running until the end of the century.
Ukulele, Baby has already paid me back my investment. I do not make anything on the production. It is in such a small house that there is almost no profit margin; but I am not losing anything either. It gives me pleasure to have a show on the boards down in Greenwich Village. It is almost the same as it was a hundred years ago. I love to walk along the shadowy tree-lined street where the theater is located. As long as the show continues to break even, I will keep it running.
Now, of course, there are all sorts of people nosing around and suggesting that we should move the show to Broadway. The playwright was going for these pitches from those same producers who, despite his having come up with this delightful entertainment, first shunned him based on his lack of proper credentials.
Mac Watson is a high school drop out, war veteran and a jailbird, due to his having been caught by the police with three hundred pounds of marijuana in the late 1970s. He is now in his sixties. I love all these things about him and part of my motivation in keeping the show open is to flaunt his presence, to tweak the collective nose, as it were, of the hoity toity, youth-obsessed Ivy Leaguers and other elite who are taken aback by Mac’s gritty curriculum vitae. Mac is also the person who introduced “my father” to the forger who provided his passport for the ill-fated London trip, though he has not mentioned that fact to me in my current incarnation. He did mention knowing my “dad” but did not go into detail and I never asked. He has not offered to get me some weed.

CHAPTER FORTY

2011-06-15T06:42:00.000-07:00

FORTY
London’s vampire, who shall remain nameless,
presented himself at my hotel room door. I opened it
and he pushed past me into the room.
“No need for dramatics or violence,” he said. “I
know you’re in the theater and that violence runs deep
in the American vein, but try and control yourself.
You’re in my town now.”
His dark hair was slicked straight back and
his face was pasty and pale and he was narrow shouldered.
He wore a gray pinstripe suit without
the vest but with a tie. I instantly knew that he was
another vampire and I was taken aback, to understate
the facts. I decided to try subterfuge.

“Excuse me. Do I know you? I’m Gus
Windham. Maybe you have the wrong room?”
“Stow it. You’re a vampire, and you’re whoever
you say you are, makes no difference. How long are
you staying here?”
He had an accent that I have since learned is
from London’s East End. He looked at me closely.
“You’re an original, aren’t you?”
I was not sure what he meant about being an
original and remained silent, which was easy, as this
vampire was intent on doing the talking.
“Let me get right down to it. You can’t come
here on holiday and leave a bunch of bloody corpses lying around, mate. I’ve got a certain way of doing things here. Don’t want to get the coppers all stirred up, now do we? How long do you plan to be here anyway?””
“I’ve done everything possible to keep a low profile.”
“You call feeding on a drunk in Soho and leaving his corpse in the gutter ‘low profile’? Are you mad? And what do you call bleedin’ high profile then?”
He was talking about my 3 a.m. meal almost eighteen hours earlier. “It should have looked like liver failure, if anyone bothered to check.”
“You drained him of every drop. How’s that going to look, I ask you?”
“Who’s going to care? He was a bum.”
“He was a bloke on a bender. Look you want to leave bodies lying around, hop over to Ulster, would you please? And put a bullet in the corpse when you’re done, for form’s sake. You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Which question? About being an original? I didn’t quite catch your drift. What . . .”
“Nah. You’re an original. It would be obvious if you were a revenant, though that behavior in Soho is on the level of a revenant.”
“Revenant?”
“Are you dense or what? A revenant – a human made into one of us.”
“Oh. I see. No, I’m an original.”
“I said I can see that for myself.”
“Do you have a lot of revenants here?”
“Not really.”
“What question exactly did you want me to answer?”
I was tiring of his tone and approach.
“When are you taking your vampire cowboy bleedin’ self back to America where you belong? I’ve got a good thing going here and I don’t need you making things difficult.”
I agreed to leave as soon as I could arrange a jet charter.
“A jet charter? Are you bleedin’ mad? Why on earth would you do that? You can fly, right? You do know that you can fly?”
“No need to be insulting. I’ve never gone that far in one hop is all.”
“You don’t do it in one bleedin’ hop, all right? Did you bother to look at a map?”
I shook my head ‘no’.
“Unbelievable. If Brother Brendan and his lot of monks made it across the Atlantic in leather covered coracles, you’d think a vampire could make it flying. Only I guess you wouldn’t think so or you’d have done it. So, I’m going to tell you how to get back without a hired bleedin’ aircraft but you better be on your way tonight, and you better not make a return trip without clearing it with me first, and like as not, I won’t clear it. Am I making myself clear, so to speak?”
“Perfectly.”
“All right then. You fly over to Ireland. It’s several minutes west of here. Try to land on the northwest coast. From there you launch with your body at about a sixty degree angle. You should be headed northwest. You understand the points of the compass and all, right?”
I nodded an affirmative.
“Okay then. Point yourself northwest. Fly as high as you can without leaving the earth’s gravity. Are you following what I’m saying here, guv?”
I nodded for again him to continue. He was trying my patience but there was nothing I could do about that.
“Head back down at more or less the same angle. You should see a huge land mass. That’s Greenland. There are not a lot of lights there. There is an airbase for your U.S. Air Force. I’d avoid that and go farther north. To my knowledge there is none of our kind on Greenland. There are some Laplander clans roaming about up there, living off reindeer balls and moss, looks like. You can snatch a blood sack from among those types if you’re hungry. If you do or you don’t feed, Canada is south southwest from Greenland. You can’t miss it, and from there you can surely find your way home.”
“Thank you. That will be my route.”
“If you do grab a blood sack among the Lapps, drop the body in a crevasse on the glacier there. Or not. It’s not my bailiwick now is it? It’s just that we tend to tidy up after ourselves on this side of the Atlantic, if you catch my drift.”
“I try to do the same at home.”
“Then why would you come here and leave an exsanguinated corpse lying in a gutter in Soho? I can’t figure you Yanks.”
“Let me offer my apologies for any inconvenience, if it will help.”
“All right. All right. Won’t help but there you go. Luckily I spotted him first and recognized his condition for what it was, right? I dumped the body in the Channel with some rope round his waist and a concrete block tied to either end .”
“Thank you for taking care of that. I will be on my way tonight.”
“That’s a load off, it is. . . You’re the Broadway producer, right? I’ve heard of you through some of the high rollers who come in the casino. Knew you were a vampire right off. Don’t know how you stand it – two vampires in the same city.”
“Two? What are you talking about?”
“That artist. What’s he call himself? Andy Warhol. That’s it. Paints soup cans.”
“Andy’s not a vampire. I’ve met him. He wants to be a vampire but he’s just another human being.”
“Oh please. I’ve seen photos. That creature is a vampire as sure as I am.”
“He’s not. He calls himself Drella – which is supposed to be part Dracula and part Cinderella – but it’s an act. No. It’s more than an act. He would love to be a vampire, or to be his concept of a vampire anyway. It’s some kind of obsession.”
“What’s it all coming to? A human being who wants to be one of us, who wants to kill and feed on his own kind. How did we ever become role models? The world is changing, Gus. The world is becoming stranger and stranger.”
“That it is. And by the looks of things, it’s going to keep on that way.”
He grunted and I said, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t give it, Gus. I’ll tell you what, if I’m ever coming to New York, I’ll get in touch first and tell you then. Meantime, when you launch, find your way to someplace secluded or where you won’t be so obvious. Out toward Luton might be sensible. Just don’t be launching yourself from the middle of Piccadilly Square as the theater lets out, leaping into the sky like Superman or some other nonsense.”
I chuckled and said, “I won’t.”
That was my one previous contact with the individual who is now proposing that we swap cities. I have to say the idea appeals to me on more than one level. First, there’s the state of the theater here versus there. When the cost of presenting shows is as high as it is now in New York, and those who invest are driven by vanity more than by a desire to make money, when Hollywood, television and comic books become primary source material for musicals, when originality is scorned on behalf of mediocrity, there has got to be some kind of major shake up soon. It is in the air.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

2011-06-08T07:59:00.000-07:00

THIRTY NINE
In 1968, hippie musicals were the rage. Or
rather, one hippie musical was the rage and everyone
who missed out on it tried to find an imitation
substitute. Hair was a huge sensation in its original
incarnation. It was revived of late but believe me when
I tell you that it was not the same thing at all. How
can you have a show about hippies, titled Hair, when
everyone in the cast – male and female – appears
nude on the stage and it is a blatant fact that every one
of them has had a full body waxing, the procedure
known in the contemporary vernacular as a Brazilian?

Anyway, I missed the boat on the original
production. Bertrand Castelli, a Frenchman who I
found delightful and counted among my human
friends in those days, was the executive producer of
the original production of Hair, and the person who
introduced nudity to the show, which made it the
sensation it became. He implored me to take a piece
of Hair, so to speak. However, when I met his partner,
Michael Butler, the scion of the polo-playing set of
Oak Ridge, Illinois, there was no chemistry between
us at all. So I passed. That happens sometimes in this
business.
In any case, I somehow fell prey to the copycat
syndrome that so often affects us showbiz types. Even
my existence as a vampire was not enough to save me from such foible. As a result, in 1969 I made my one trip across the Atlantic in all my thousands of years of existence. Getting a passport was the most difficult part. For my current and previous two incarnations, I have established a Social Security number for each of my selves and made appropriate contributions when filing tax returns, with the help of my accountants. I have often wished that a vampire would establish him or herself as an accountant and handle these matters for the rest of us. So far, no such luck. As Gus III, I did establish a not-for-profit foundation to avoid paying estate taxes yet again.
Granted, over the decades since the income tax began, I have been able to make a fair amount of money disappear off the books by charging off various items and expenses that would make sense for a human being – expensive daily business lunches that I did not have and so forth. Likewise, the few flops I produced allowed me to hide money. But I digress.
A Social Security number is not a birth certificate, and that’s what was required to get a passport. However, this is America and with enough money you can get anything done. Why would I need a passport? And why not fly over there by my own power?
It was a longer distance than I had ever flown before and the daunting logistics of making the journey, and possibly having to land on the deck of a ship in the middle of the Atlantic and re-launch myself, then arriving in London without luggage and the appropriate clothing and so forth was more than I cared to face. I went to London on a chartered jet.
I got a passport by expending some money with a forger I found through a marijuana dealer among my acquaintances. In those days everyone knew someone who dealt drugs; and drug dealers know all sorts of people, not surprisingly. I flew on a Boeing 727 alone but for the crew, who were given strict orders to let me sleep the entire journey undisturbed, and to keep the shades pulled over all the windows.
All of this effort was so that I could go to London and see a musical called Carnaby Street in anticipation of bringing it to Broadway. It was supposed to be the next Hair but with clothes. It wasn’t. Hair with clothes was a silly fashion show with singing and dancing. I passed on getting involved. Nonetheless, I was there and decided to spend a few nights and take in some West End shows.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

2011-06-01T06:42:00.000-07:00

THIRTY EIGHT
Our little supper broke up a short while later
with the detectives promising to be in touch soon.
It was now obvious to me that these guys were not
going to catch Danny’s murderer. Maybe no one ever
would.
As the culprit in more unsolved murders than
I could ever count, the urgency that first gripped me
when Danny died was fading. At the risk of sounding
unfeeling, Danny was selling more tickets dead than
his name would have alive.
The two couples went
west toward Times Square and the subways and I
made my way home by catching a cab.
When I got here an email from a vampire in
London was awaiting me. He was proposing that
we switch territories, and he embellished the idea
with facts and figures and some internet links that,
all taken together, presented the case that England
could be a lot better environment for me to pursue my
passion for the stage.
While I mulled over all that I flew out to
Brighton Beach and found a young Russian wise guy
to feast on. All it took was sitting on a bench on the
boardwalk. The young thug was post-vodka for the
evening and started harassing me just to harass me.
Okay. Truth be told, he harassed me because I
was sitting there naked.
“What are you doing here like this? Are you some kind of crazy man?”
His speech was accented but quite understandable. He looked at my crotch.
“What are you? What kind of sickness is this?”
Perhaps now is the time to mention that we vampires have no genitalia. I wasn’t wearing sunglasses either and looked directly at him and he saw my eyes.
I grabbed him by the throat so he could not make a sound. Then I manipulated his consciousness with a deep stare. I dragged him over the rail onto the beach and down to the water. I love moonless nights for spending some time on the beach. At the water’s edge I sat down and held him in my arms while I drained him. Then I ripped his arms and legs from his torso, finding a .25 caliber automatic in an ankle holster during the process. That size pistol is a bit small for my needs. I thought of doing something obscene with it, but decided otherwise and replaced it and snapped the holster strap over the pistol grip before giving the limb a toss.
I threw all the young thug’s body parts a few yards out into the sea and then dove in myself to wash away the sand and any blood that might have splattered during feeding. I knew that it depended on who found the body parts whether my meal’s death would make the papers. If it was the cops, or some sanitation department or parks department beach patrol, there would be lurid tabloid coverage. If it was someone with ties to the Russian mafia who found him, the entire thing might be kept quiet as the mob tried to deal with the matter without the aid of the legal system. If a shark found him and fed, he would be a missing person, permanently.
Once my bath was complete, I leapt into the air and in less than three minutes landed back on the roof of my brownstone. All sorts of questions about London kept popping into my head, as they had off and on throughout the evening. But at least I was not hungry.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

2011-05-25T06:39:00.000-07:00

THIRTY SEVEN
I arrived at Café Un Deux Trois a moment
before the detectives and their wives. As I took my
seat I spotted them coming in the door and they saw
me at the same time. Both wives waved. For a second
I had been worried that they would not show up; why
I would worry about that is beyond me. In any case, it
was apparent that any fear of departmental scrutiny
was trumped by marital peace and solicitude.
They crossed to me, pausing to speak briefly to
the hostess when she blocked their way. She turned
her head and looked at me. I gave her a nod and stood
to receive my guests.

Everyone’s orders were placed, including a
bottle of Veuve Clicquot, the idea of which – “real
French champagne” -- thrilled the ladies. I did not
want to press the detectives right away, not that either
of them would have been able to get in a word for the
first ten minutes anyway, as Meg and Jill gushed with
enthusiasm for the show, each recounting her favorite
numbers and comparing notes and praising me all the
while. It really began to feel as though I might have a
genuine hit.
The food arrived, the women having ordered
mussels in white wine with pommes frites, to share.
Other than soup, the mussels are one of the least
expensive items on the menu and I wondered if the husbands had laid down the law, so to speak, during the few steps between the theater and the café.
In answer to my unspoken question, Gallagher said, “We appreciate the invitation but we’ll pay for our wives’ food. No offense, sir.”
“The mussels are delicious, hon,” said Meg.
“Yeah, try some,” added Jill, offering Swiecki a mussel on a tiny fork, which he gulped.
“Well, as anyone can tell you, the only drink I ever order is Veuve Clicquot champagne. So I refuse to allow you to share the cost of that.”
I already noticed that neither of the men had touched their glasses.
“That’s up to you, Mr. Windham,” said Swiecki.
“Fine. I notice you two aren’t drinking. Am I to assume you’re on duty?”
“Kind of hard not to be, talking to you and being as the show is linked to our investigation.”
“Should I call my attorney and have him join us then? If he’s in the middle of a hot date it’s going to cost me.”

“Nah. It’s not like that. You’re not a suspect. We could have a drink, I suppose. What do you think, Jack? I mean, it is our night off.”
“We could keep it unofficial, yeah.”
They both reached for the stems of their glasses at the same time.
“Unofficially then -- how is the investigation going, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Sure it’s all right you ask,” said Swiecki. “I wish we had something to tell you. Right now we’ve reached a dead end. Despite all the talk on the street and your offer of a reward, nobody’s come forward with a reliable tip. We’re starting to think it was some lone junkie who panicked after he stabbed the vic and fled. I’m sorry. I should have said stabbed your director.”
“Perfectly understandable.”
I waved away any idea that offense might have been taken.
“For all we know the guy could be in custody for some chump change offense, now that a few days have elapsed. Whatever it is, nobody’s got anything for us, and usually the temptation of ten thousand gets us some kind of lead. I figured with a hundred thousand, we would have informants lining up. That didn’t happen. If it was a junkie did it, for that kind of money he might turn himself in if he comes up short and gets squirrely for dope.”
Gallagher grunted at that assessment. Swiecki continued.
“I wish we had more to tell you, Mr. Windham. Believe me, seeing the show tonight brought it home to me that Mr. Limm was a real artist. We do our best on any case, but bringing wholesome entertainment like your show into a world full of crap, it makes me want to catch the killer all the more.”
The women were now silent.
“Yeah. Me too,” said Gallagher.
“It makes it feel personal even though we never met the man. He obviously had something to offer the world. We’ll do everything we can, of course, but right now it’s feeling like we need some serious luck,” said Swiecki.
I realized the statement was a form of apology.
“You have to understand, Mr. Windham, here in Manhattan there’s not a lot of random violence like there used to be. Out where we are, it’s a different story. With the economy like it is, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
A pall was settling on the table.
“Look, detectives, I’m sure you’re doing your best, and that’s all anyone can expect. It’s all anyone can do, right? Danny did his best directing this show and I can tell you with absolute certainty that he would not want us sitting around with long faces right after seeing his masterwork. So let’s talk about something else, shall we?”
“Okay,” said Swiecki.
“All right by me,” said Gallagher.
They both sounded relieved to be let off the hook and I realized that they had been put on the spot in front of their wives, in addition to any other weight bearing angles that came into play as a result of my presence.
“I have to thank you again for the show. It was so wonderful,” said Jill.
“But you paid for your tickets,” I said.
“That’s not what I mean. It’s real artistry to put something like that together, all the elements – music, dance, singing, the lights and the sets . . .”
“The Times Square set is amazing,” said Meg.
“Yeah. Really. It’s like you’re some kind of magician.”
“Thank you, ladies. It’s very kind of you to say so. Theater producers don’t often get recognized for their efforts anymore. In my case, it runs in the family. I’m a fourth generation producer. My great grandfather was David Belasco’s silent partner in the 1890s and early 1900s.”
“You mean the Belasco Theater Belasco? Is that who it was named after? Your great grandfather’s partner?” asked Megan.
“That’s right. And my grandfather was the original producer of Pretty Baby in the 1930s. How’s that for a connection?”
“No wonder you did such a fabulous job. Showbiz is really in your blood,” said Jill. “Wow. My girlfriends won’t believe this. French champagne and French fries in a French restaurant with the producer of a Broadway hit.”
“We hope it’s a hit,” I said.
“It will be,” said Meg Gallagher. “This is the kind of show makes you proud to be a native New Yorker.”
She turned to Jill for confirmation.
“Right? There’s just something about it.”
“Absolutely. It’s special.”
“Well, we’ll know if it’s a real hit if it resurrects David Belasco’s ghost,” I said.
“Ghost?” both women repeated.
“The theater is haunted, though no one has seen any evidence of it in a long time. Some say it’s due to the ghost being bored by the shows, though I can’t imagine he was bored by Passing Strange.”
“Was that recent?” asked Jill.
“It had a short run a couple years ago. It was a big hit downtown but never found its audience up here. Too bad. It was a very high energy work, very cutting edge.”
“Tell us more about the ghost,” said Meg.
“Yes. Please,” said Jill, sounding like a child wanting a story at bed time.
Over the next ten minutes I enthralled the women with stories of the haunting I did over the years, without revealing of course that I am the ghost of David Belasco. The detectives were skeptical, if I am any judge of body language, smirks and grunts. The women, I knew, would be spreading the word in the outer boroughs. I made a mental note to check in with my ad agency on the progress of our “East of Broadway Curse” advertising supplement. I hoped that no one had scuttled it of their own volition.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

2011-05-18T23:47:00.000-07:00

THIRTY SIX
Last night was the dress rehearsal. While it was
not quite a disaster, the cumulative total of missed
cues, scene change glitches, sour notes from the
musicians, lights that stayed dark when they should
have been lit and lit when they should have faded and
so forth, were enough to make me feel comfortable
about the show’s prospects.
Yes. I am one of those old timers who

subscribes to the notion that a dress rehearsal that is
riddled with stumbles presages a smooth opening.
Of course, the actual opening night is still a month
in the future. Tonight, though, the first preview was
a hit with the audience. It was a full house, even if
half the house was papered – which is to say that
complimentary tickets were given away at senior
centers and elsewhere throughout the five boroughs.
The truth is I am surprised at how many
people are buying preview tickets. Half the house
paying for the first preview is almost unheard of.
There always is, always was, and as long as there is
Broadway theater, always will be a core group who
see everything in early previews. These days many
of the members of this cohort have blogs or log onto
internet bulletin boards in order to be first with an
opinion.
Tonight the number of audience members was enhanced by morbid gawkers who are more interested in the lurid background story – Danny’s murder – than in the theatrical endeavor on the stage. Still, they are paying customers.
Those expecting a bloody spectacle were of course disappointed. Pretty Lady is at heart a slight story of boy meets girl, girl loses boy, and they find each other again, with some great songs and dances set against the backdrop of New York suffering under Prohibition. It is a lovely bit of romantic musical comedy fluff, a pure and innocent entertainment meant to transport audiences beyond day-to-day reality. A hit in the Great Depression when I produced it under the direction of the late great Julian Marsh, it seems its time has come around again. I have made a ten million dollar bet that that is the case. We shall see.
Detectives Swiecki and Gallagher showed up at the preview tonight, with their wives. I ran into them at intermission and my first thought was to find the company manager and fire her. Cops getting comps as part of a murder investigation is the sort of thing the producer is supposed to be informed about. After introducing me to the women, and their bubbling about how wonderful the show is, Jill Swiecki cleared up my ire, without even being aware that I was suffering it.
“We all took the subway and got the tickets at the TKTS Booth. One of my girl friends said there’s never a line at six, and she was right. She also has the iPhone TKTS app that tells you what tickets are available. So we knew we could get seats before we came. We waited less than five minutes. I’ve never been to a first night before. And now to meet the producer, it’s like a dream.”
“She’ll be talking about tonight for six months, at least,” said Swiecki.
The company manger was safe. These people bought tickets. I was surprised, though maybe I should not have been.
“Do you get to see a lot of shows?”
“Not as many as I’d like to see,” said Mrs. Swiecki. “Now that I know the secret to getting good seats cheap, without having to stand in line for two hours, I’ll be seeing lots more, even if this guy won’t come with me.”
She gave the detective a classic spousal nudge in the ribs with her elbow. Swiecki gave me a sheepish grin and shrugged his shoulders, unsure what the proper response was to it being revealed that he is not a theater buff.
I asked, “How’s the investigation going?”
I was sorry as soon as the words came out of my mouth. A dozen people standing nearby craned their heads towards us.
“Or maybe you’d rather not talk shop right now; since you paid for your tickets. You know, I’d have been happy to comp you.”
Gallagher said, “Since the investigation is ongoing, it’s best we pay our own way. These days everybody’s out to nail anyone in the department for the least appearance of a conflict of interest. Especially with Bernie Kerik getting locked up. Makes us all suspect.”
“He’s constantly checking his nose in the mirror to make sure it’s clean,” said Meg, his wife, with a bright laugh.
“Well, you ladies aren’t cops. How would you like to join me after the show for a late supper next door? Your husbands can watch you eat and drink. Or they can get separate checks. I’ve got to do something to make up for you paying for your tickets. Would dinner with the producer do the trick?”
“Oh wow,” said Jill.
“It will be my pleasure. And we’ll be able to chat in private, gentlemen. If you’re in the mood to chat, that is.”
“That sounds wonderful,” said Meg Gallagher before either of the men could answer.
“Meet me next door at the Café Un Deux Trois. Tell the hostess you’re with me and you’ll get seated right away even if there’s a line.”
Over their shoulders and inside the theater beyond the open double doors I saw Patti waving. She made a pointing gesture up the stairs to the mezzanine, where we were sitting, and I nodded.
I excused myself from the policemen and their wives, reiterating our date next door after the show. Several people offered me their congratulations and I thanked them and said, “I hope you feel that way after the second act.”
Then the house lights flashed on and off, the signal that the show was about to resume, and I joined Patti upstairs in the front row of the mezzanine.
“Who was that you were talking to for so long?” she asked.
“The detectives handling Danny’s case,” I said sotto voce and checking over each shoulder for inquiring ears.
“Didn’t you recognize them?”
“I never met them. I spoke to them over the phone.”
“Oh right,” I said, remembering her melt down.
“Listen, I’m meeting them next door after the show. Might be best if you didn’t come. The wives don’t look like they have much to say to each other but another woman might set either or both of them off. I’d like to find out what there is to find out about the investigation and keep it as short as possible. Do you mind?”
As I whispered I was scanning the audience to see who I could see and saw Mrs. Swiecki looking every which way. They were in about the fifteenth row, center right. At least they got good seats was my thought. Then she looked up and spotted me and waved.
“Not at all. Are you happy with the way the show is going?”
I waved back and she was bouncing in her seat as she said something to her husband. He did not bother to turn around and look. Then the lights began to dim as music filled the air.
“I think so. What do you think?”
“So far it’s gorgeous. From the chatter I heard in the Ladies Room, and if the second act holds, I’d say you have a hit on your hands.”
“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
Everything in the second act did go as it should. I felt that Tim Grainger, playing the young romantic lead, could punch up his energy level a notch or two. But it was only the first preview, after all. All the scenery in the big Times Square number functioned without any glitch. The final curtain was followed by a standing ovation.
I said to Patti, “Remind me to start checking the wraps on a daily basis, would you please?”
“Sure thing, boss,” she said, just like a dame out of the show.
She was smiling ear to ear, which was a relief to see.
“You take the car and driver home. I’ll find a taxi after my meeting.”
“Thanks, Gus. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She went to the Ladies Room again and I left the theater to a lot of congratulations and quick shakes of the hand. Everyone wants to know me again, it seems.
Everything is pointing to a hit, maybe even a megahit.
And here I was thinking I should have been an actor. I am a producer.