Stage Fright

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1“I’d like to hire you.”

So far the meeting was off to a good start. Being hired meant being paid.

Jimmy McSwain nodded encouragingly. “Tell me more.”

“I’ve known you a long time, Jimmy. Watched you grow up.”

“This your way of asking for a cut rate?”

The older man with the comb-over of wispy gray hair on an otherwise bald scalp laughed. He sat opposite Jimmy, his expression serious. “Money is no object. I’m sure your regular hourly rate will be perfectly fine. And there is no cap on your hours. Completion of the job comes first. Protection is tantamount, followed by discretion. Which I know can cost additional.”

Usually it was Jimmy who had to bring up the subject of a retainer to prospective clients. Instead, the man slyly slid a white envelope across the Formica table, stopping it right next to his untouched cup of coffee. Not that Jimmy didn’t trust the esteemed T. Wellington Calloway (he never knew what the T stood for), but given that Jimmy was a private detective and suspicious by nature, he flipped through the envelope’s contents anyway. A check for five thousand dollars, made out to him, courtesy of The Calloway Foundation. Plus cash in ten one hundred dollar bills.

He kept himself from whistling. He was on the clock, already being discreet. “Must be some case,” Jimmy said.

“I don’t like that word, case. Makes it seem…”

“Unsavory?”

“Official.”

As if a check with several zeroes hadn’t already said that.

Welly Calloway, as he was called by friends and enemies alike, looked sideways at the regular denizens of the Cosmic Diner on Eighth Avenue and 53nd Street. The place was a classic New York diner, where you could order any meal at any time of day from the voluminous menu, and today the tables around them were taken up by locals in search of a hearty meal at a good price. This was the kind of joint that was becoming a rarity in New York. Jimmy was glad to be here rather than a faceless Starbucks. No one here was on a laptop or tablet. Neither man wanted food, but that was fine with the establishment; the old-school waitress with a pile of aging blonde hair supported by a pencil through the middle of her bun was agreeable in giving them a corner booth just for the sake of sipping good honest coffee. Not to mention private conversation. They had been there for five minutes when Welly got around to business.

“There are a lot of unsavory types around Broadway,” he said.

Jimmy could only agree. Life in the theatre wasn’t all bright lights big city. On this town, the Bronx might be up, the Battery down, but when millions of dollars were at stake, characters darker than those found in the songs of Sweeney Todd slinked out from under the Klieg lights of Midtown. Sometimes the only thing a producer enjoyed more than having his own marquee lit was having that of a rival producer’s dark. And Welly Calloway was more than a producer, he was a theatre owner, a relic on the Main Stem, one of the last of the independents in an otherwise corporate grab for valuable real estate and the public’s entertainment dollars. Indeed, Jimmy had known Welly nearly his entire life. Jimmy’s mother was the head usher at the Calloway, which was still owned and operated by the original family which had built the famed playhouse.

The month had turned to September, the date the 12th. The mourning wail of another 9/11 had passed, taking with it the humidity of summer. The air was still warm, but finally dry. Jimmy was grateful for the blast of air conditioning blowing down on them from the exposed vents. He was dressed in jeans and button-down shirt, untucked, and a navy blazer, his attempt at looking professional. This was a business matter, after all, confirmed when Welly Calloway walked into the diner in his blue and white seersucker suit and stern expression.

After passing the envelope Jimmy’s way, he tapped his fingernails on the tabletop. It had a rat-a-tat beat to it.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning, Welly,” Jimmy offered. The crisp envelope still lay between them on the table, its status—and Jimmy’s agreeing to take the case—in limbo.

“As you’ve no doubt heard, we have a new show starting previews tomorrow.”

“Triskaidekaphobia,” Jimmy said with a nod. “A hell of a title.”

“Indeed, horribly memorable. But it works. We in the company call it T13.”

“Economical.”

“Are you aware of what the word means?”

“I looked it up when Ma told me the name of the show. Fear of the number thirteen.”

“It’s a very clever play about fear, all sorts of fears.”

“Is this the part where I ask you what you’re afraid of, Welly?”

“Not me, per se,” he said with a subtle shake of his head. That’s when he reached inside his jacket pocket again and withdrew another envelope, the size of a party invitation. He slid the note toward Jimmy, who took hold of it. Inside the unmarked envelope was a card made of thick stock. The kind that might have a monogram or a name written across the top in fancy script. No such identification here. Just a quick, typewritten message.

Are you afraid of death?

“Cryptic and a little creepy,” Jimmy said. “Was this sent to you?”

“No. To Casey Crais.”

“Who is that?”

“Our playwright.”

“Ah. Not only cryptic then, but ironic.”

“And threatening,” Welly Calloway said, leaning forward to close the gap between them.

Jimmy considered the implications of the note. It could be completely harmless, a friend or cohort playing a practical joke, and considering the play’s subject matter, not surprising. Or it could be a stunt to drum up publicity for a show in need of it. Have that gossip columnist from the Post get a hold of it, he’d write a hell of a snippy article about it and soon everyone within a ten block radius would be yammering about T13. Or, it was possible the note’s intentions could be deadly serious—which Jimmy supposed was the reason why he was here at the Cosmic Diner, being offered a hefty retainer to find out which of these options was the truth. Jimmy had a few questions.

“Have there been any other messages?”

“No.”

“Mysterious phone calls? Stalker behavior?”

Welly shook his head. “No. Not that I’m aware of.”

“So I’m guessing you want to hire me to investigate who sent this, and why?”

“Indeed. The case, as you say, seems cut and dried.”

“Why me? Have you notified the police?”

The moneyed T. Wellington Calloway scoffed at the idea. Jimmy didn’t blame him. First of all, no actual crime had been committed, and second of all, the police didn’t act upon anything until idle threats became tangible evidence. In other words, the cops needed a body before they got involved. Jimmy knew the routine all too well. Even then, their involvement didn’t guarantee success.

Jimmy knew that all too well, also.

Welly continued, his blank, hazel eyes cautiously looking around to ensure they were not being observed. Mysterious notes create paranoia. “We—myself, the other producers backing the show, Casey himself, too—would like to keep this, uh, hiccup as quiet as possible. The last thing we need is to upset the cast and crew as we wrap up rehearsals and prepare for our first preview. Sometimes bad publicity is just that—bad.”

“How do you propose I do my job, ask questions of everyone, and not give people reason to worry about their own safety? Just who knows about this note?”

“No one in the cast,” he said.

“Unless someone in the cast sent it.”

“Jimmy, we are producing a psychological thriller. The drama is on the stage.”

“For now,” Jimmy said.

“You were a sweet boy. You sound cynical now.”

“Cynicism buys results. It keeps you from accepting people at their word,” he said. “Okay, Welly, how do we explain my presence at the theatre? Of course the house staff and crew know me as Maggie’s son, a substitute usher when she’s in a pinch. But they also know I’m a private investigator and when I’m not handing out Playbills to patrons, they might get suspicious.”

“Already thought of that. Officially, Jimmy, you are joining the company as a security guard. Theatres all over Broadway do it, both front of house and backstage. You’ll have full access to the theatre.” He paused, his tone shifting. “Jimmy, I’d consider this as a personal favor to me. The McSwain family have such a long history with the Calloway Theatre. Maggie runs a tight ship in the front of house, just as she has for twenty years. It gives me great pleasure in having seen you grow into a responsible, dedicated man. You have a rare quality, Jimmy: honor. Which is why I am entrusting the safety of everyone associated with T13 to you. Casey’s safety, primary among them. A lot is riding on this new show, reputations, money, you name it.”

“Just so we’re clear, you’re hiring me for two reasons. Keep the playwright safe, all while I investigate who might have sent this note.”

“Casey will tell you more. He’s waiting for you back at the theatre. Listen to him, please, no matter how…unique he may be. Writers are like that, quirky and distant. I don’t have to tell you how vital he is to the show’s success, since he may need to rewrite certain scenes based on our audience response during the early previews. He needs to get his head on straight and this kind of distraction won’t do. Jimmy, we have exactly a month to get things squared away,” he said. “Opening Night is set for October thirteenth.”

“You’re taking a chance, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“As your title suggests, there are people out there who fear the number thirteen,” he said. “You’re almost embracing the idea.”

“It’s a play about phobias,” Welly said. “And our mysterious letter writer has found ours.”

“Which is what?”

“Fear of failure.”

Jimmy nodded, considered what was at stake. A show, not a life. Interesting.

That’s when Jimmy McSwain finally put the envelope in his pocket. He took a sip of his coffee. It was cold.

* * * *

As Welly stated, the McSwains didn’t lack for a personal connection to the landmark Calloway Theatre, having opened and closed many shows over the years, but for Jimmy, tackling this case represented a new experience for him. He was a true insider now, part of the production, so much so he might as well start checking the weekly grosses on Playbill.com. Every Monday.

New York’s close-knit theatre community was known as much for its mega-musicals and star-driven plays as for its backstage drama and back-stabbing ways. So many of the artists, from the high-and-mighty producers, to the tortured playwrights and over-rated directors, the powerful stagehands, all the way to the lowly, but all-seeing ushers and bartenders—everyone seemed to take pleasure in the abject failure of a production that never should have left its try-out in Peoria. Of course everyone loved a hit, too, as long as it was theirs.

So one could imagine the vitriol being spewed about a show that dared to open cold.

The new American play, Triskaidekaphobia, had two obstacles standing in the way of success: it was making its World Premiere on Broadway, an unknown quantity, and conventional wisdom suggested you just didn’t do that. Then there was that awful title. Jimmy had to wonder what the producers were thinking. Or for that matter, the bold writer who was, perhaps as a result of deliberately invoking fear, on the receiving end of a possible death threat. Was Casey Crais trying to sabotage his own material with an ostentatious, obscure title? Jimmy had been around the theatre district his entire life, growing up in nearby Hell’s Kitchen, and so he had learned how cutthroat a business it could be. For all he had learned about T13, the creative team seemed to be doing the opposite of what you should do when opening a show. Shows should have simple titles. Look how long Cats ran.