“Hey, Mike, would you look at this?” Mario said, gesturing toward Lenny and me with a malignant smile on his sweaty face. “The lovebirds had a little picnic together. Isn’t that sweet?” (Mario was jealous of my close friendship with Lenny, so he made fun of it at every opportunity.)
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Real sweet.”
“Too bad we busted up their cozy little heart-to-heart,” Mario needled.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Too bad.”
“But now that we’re here, and the lunch hour is officially over,” Mario went on, “don’t you think they ought to stop slobbering all over each other and get back to work?”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Sure do.”
“Because if they don’t,” Mario added, “Mr. Pomeroy will probably find out about their wicked waste of time, and make them work late tonight. And I really would hate to see that happen, wouldn’t you?”
“Yep,” Mike said. “Sure would.” But even he was getting bored with Mario’s stupid little game. Looping his hat and jacket on the coat rack, Mike strode down the aisle past my desk and sat down at his own. He rolled a piece of paper into his typewriter and started pecking out another sure-to-be-shoddy clip story.
Without his accomplice at his side, Mario lost some of his spiteful steam. Hanging up his own hat and jacket, he turned to Lenny and inquired, “Did you finish the cover paste-up yet?”
“No, I’m waiting for some repros from the typesetter,” Lenny replied. “They should be delivered this afternoon.”
“What about the ‘Gun-Happy Harlot from Harlem’ story? Did you finish that layout?”
“Uh, no . . . it’s not due until next week.”
“I don’t care when it’s due!” Mario ranted. “Go back to your desk and get to work on it right now!”
Lenny’s face turned beet red, but he didn’t say anything to Mario. He didn’t dare. Mario was his immediate boss and could have him fired at any time. Without a groan, or even a sigh, of protest, Lenny rose to his feet, plunked the empty Mason jar in his metal lunchpail, and then carried the rattling pail—along with his rattled pride—back to his place at the rear of the workroom.
Deliberately avoiding eye contact with Mario, I crumpled up the greasy sheets of waxed paper and tossed them in my wastebasket. Then I took the stack of unrecorded invoices out of my drawer and began studying the one on top as if it were a new edition of the Kinsey Report. I was so mad at Mario, I was afraid of myself. If Mario said one word to me—or one more word to Lenny—I might tell him where to get off. Or sock him in the nose. Or bonk him on the bean with Pomeroy’s marble ashtray. And then I’d either be fired for insubordination, or arrested and charged with assault, or taken into custody and booked for murder.
So Mario and I were both saved by the office entry bell when Mr. Crockett came back from lunch early. “It’s hot as hell out there,” he said, just in case we hadn’t noticed (or read the morning headlines). He hooked his light blue seersucker jacket on one branch of the coat tree and perched his Panama on another. “Bring me some coffee, Paige,” he grunted, pushing his wide body down the narrow center aisle of the workroom, thereby forcing Mario, who had been standing in the middle of the aisle, to hustle back to his desk. (Lenny and I shared a secret smile over that one.)
After taking Mr. Crockett his coffee (and ignoring Mario’s lewd winks and gestures along the way), I went back to my desk and began studying the invoices for real, putting them in chronological order, tallying the amounts, checking them against my pre-publication records, entering them in the ledger. This tedious job, plus a complete retyping of one of Mike’s more heavily corrected stories, kept me busy for the rest of the afternoon. Pomeroy came back about three, but he merely sat down in his cushy swivel chair, turned his face toward the wall, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and fell into an alcoholic snooze. (His morning martini fast had obviously been reversed.)
At the stroke of five, I walked into Mr. Crockett’s office and closed the door behind me. “Mr. Pomeroy has given me a very important story assignment,” I told him, “which is going to require a lot of after-hours legwork. May I have your permission to leave early tonight? I have to meet an informant all the way across town at six.”
(Okay, so I lied about the time. But just by thirty measely minutes! And a harried, hungry, hard-working girl like myself is entitled to a measely thirty-minute dinner break, wouldn’t you say?)
Mr. Crockett barely looked up from his copy of the
Saturday Evening Post
. “Okay,” he said, switching his soggy cigar stub from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Go on. Scoot.”
Chapter 26
I LEARNED FROM THE PHONE BOOK that the Actors Studio was located at 432 West 44th Street, between Ninth and Tenth, so I took the 42nd Street shuttle to Times Square. Then I pushed my way through the dizzying rush-hour crowd to the nearest exit. (I don’t have to tell you how hot it was, because you know that already, right? I mean, descriptive detail is good up to a point, after which it can turn rancid. Especially in the heat.)
I had a hot dog with mustard and relish at Nedick’s, and a frosty tall one at a nearby A&W Root Beer stand. And then—despite the amused gawks my gaudy multicolored outfit kept attracting—I proudly proceeded to 44th Street, turned left, and began the two-and-a-half-block trek westward. I was walking on air. I was working on an important story assignment! So what if I looked like a parrot? A legitimate professional journalist on assignment could wear anything she darn well pleased.
The theater district was crowded as always. A lot of excited people were standing under the maroon awning and green neon sign of Sardi’s restaurant, trying to peer through the windows. I figured some famous Broadway star had just swept inside for a pre-show snack or highball. Passing by the Majestic Theatre, where
Fanny
was playing, and the St. James, where
The Pajama Game
was in its second year, I had to push my way through long, disorderly lines of last-minute ticket buyers. After I crossed over Eighth Avenue, though, and headed for Ninth, the street became a whole lot quieter.
And creepier. . . .
All of a sudden I was walking on eggs instead of air.
What if somebody’s following me?
I whimpered to myself.
What if Aunt Doobie’s on my trail, carrying another hunk of concrete under his well-muscled arm? What if Blackie’s crouching like a panther in the shadows, waiting to jump out and claw me to pieces? Maybe Baldy’s pulling up behind me in his limousine right now, scheming to snatch me off the street and whisk me down to the docks for a final (i.e., fatal) beating.
Okay, okay! So my fantasies were probably working overtime. (At least I hoped they were!) It hadn’t gotten dark yet, and as many times as I whipped my head around, searching for suspicious characters, I didn’t spot a single one. I still felt very nervous, though, and I crossed Ninth Avenue with a sense of dread in my racing heart.
Halfway down the block I reached it—the small, low, red-brick building that housed the Actors Studio. It looked like an old church or theater or some kind of meeting hall. A flight of about ten stone steps led up to the wide, white double-door entrance, but the entire face of the property, including the entryway and the tiny, heavily shrubbed front yard, was closed off by a wrought iron fence. The gate was securely locked.
How’s anybody supposed to get in?
I wondered, standing anxiously by the iron barricade, looking up and down the nearly deserted street for Binky (or, rather, any young man I thought might be Binky). I couldn’t go inside without him. Where
was
he? He was coming, wasn’t he? What if he didn’t show up? I looked at my watch. It was 6:32. He was late! (Okay, so he wasn’t really
that
late. But when you’re convinced you’re being stalked by a homicidal maniac, two minutes can seem like two months.)
There was a loud creaking noise behind me. I jerked around to see who was there or what was happening, but detected no movement at all. Then, from out of nowhere, a male voice called out, “Hey, Phoebe? Over here!”
Straining my eyes toward the source of the voice, I finally saw him. Well, his head, anyway. It was a fairly large head with lots of curly light brown hair, and it was sticking out from a street-level door on the far side of the building.
“Binky?” I called back. “Is that you?”
“Yeah.” He stepped all the way through the creaky door and walked across a small cement courtyard to the edge of the fence. “Come down here,” he said, gesturing for me to come closer. “This is the best way in.”
Baring my teeth in a huge Bucky Beaver smile, I walked down to where Binky was standing. “Hi!” I said, extending my hand over the fence for a shake. “It’s nice to meet you, finally. I really appreciate what you’re doing for me.” He was a tall, lean, good-looking guy. Not heart-stoppingly gorgeous, like Gray, but quite attractive in a tense, Van Heflin kind of way.
There was another gate at this end of the fence and Binky opened it for me. “So you really
are
an actress,” he said, smirking, eyeing my colorful clothes. “I had my doubts before, but now I see from your way-out wardrobe you’re just like all the other actresses I know. You want to be the center of attention.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” I said, just to keep him guessing. (Sometimes, when you’re trying to solve a mystery, it helps to be mysterious yourself.) I stepped through the gate and walked into the courtyard. “For instance,” I added, blatantly scrutinizing the way
he
was dressed, “one glance at your tightly buttoned collar and long-sleeved shirt tells me you’re either priggish or feeling chilly. But neither of those hasty conclusions can be true, now, can they? A bartender at the Latin Quarter couldn’t possibly be a prig, and
nobody
could be feeling chilly in this unbearable heat.”
He gave me a chilly smile. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss my clothes, my job, or the weather. And the auditions will be starting soon. Let’s go inside.” He led the way to the side door and opened it wide.
“Thanks, Binky,” I said, as he ushered me into the building.
“Don’t call me that!” he snapped. “Especially when we get upstairs.” He followed me into the dim hallway, then paused at the bottom of the steps. “Just call me Barnabas, please,” he said, re-collecting himself. “The Studio bigwigs know me by my real name—Barnabas Kapinsky—and I want to keep it that way. Binky’s too rinky-dink. It’s fit for a performing poodle, not a serious actor.”
It was time for
me
to do some serious acting. “You’re so right, Barnabas,” I simmered, doing my best Susan Hayward (she really knows how to emote). “An important director like Elia Kazan would surely laugh at a name like Binky. And isn’t that who you’re auditioning for this evening? Elia Kazan?”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes darting from my face, to the floor, to the well-lit landing at the top of the stairs. “Mr. Kazan’s one of the founders of the Actors Studio, and whenever he needs a new face for one of his movies or plays, he looks here first. If he likes my work tonight, my career will be made in the shade.”
“Gosh!” I cried, flapping my lashes like a starstruck fool (I felt my role called for a little more pep and hooey). “Aren’t you nervous? How can you be so cool? I would be having a heart attack!”
“Yeah, I’m nervous,” he said. “But I’ve been practicing my audition scene for so long, I know it like the back of my hand. I’m going to be a smash tonight. I can feel it.”
“I’m so excited!” I fluttered. “Thanks for letting me come!”
“No problem. I work best in front of a big audience—the bigger the better. And the head honchos like to have extra spectators on audition nights so they can get their reaction to the performances. Come on,” he said, turning and leading the way up the stairs. “Everybody’s here already. You better get yourself a seat.”
BEYOND THE UPSTAIRS ENTRANCE HALL, with its many framed photos of Studio luminaries and workshops-in-progress, was a small theater. The six-or-so rows of wooden seats were arranged in elevated tiers, in a wide semicircle around the stage, which was really no stage at all, just the bare wood boards of the floor. Other than the small table and chair set smack in the center of the floor (or stage, or whatever), there was no scenery. An odd clutter of ladders, brooms, stools, folding chairs, and other pieces of battered equipment served as the only backdrop.
“I’ve got to go in the back and get ready,” Binky told me. “You can sit wherever you like, except for those two empty seats in the front, and the two empty seats in the middle of the fourth row. All the others are up for grabs, and you better grab one before they’re gone.”
He was right. Most of the chairs were already taken, by a chatty, eclectic assortment of men and women, in many different age brackets, in many various styles of dress, primarily business and casual, but also kooky and bohemian. (I seemed to fit in all four categories at once.) I spotted an empty seat in the middle of the next-to-the-last row and quickly worked my way up the tiers, and past a long line of knobby knees, to claim it.
The second I sat down, I started studying the people in the audience, paying special attention to those who were 1) around Gray’s age, and 2) dressed like acting students—i.e., blue jeans, T-shirts, and loafers for the guys; tight skirts, blouses, and ballet flats for the gals. I hoped to zero in on a couple of Gray’s closest peers and try to talk to them when the auditions were over. Spying a handsome young man with a dirty blond ducktail in the second row, and wondering if his name was Randy, I craned my neck forward for a better look.