Stage Fright

Chapter 1-2

But none of that was Jimmy’s concern, not after his meeting with Welly Calloway. As he stood beneath the marquee of the theatre, he awaited the arrival of his next appointment. Welly had said to meet Casey here at one, and by Jimmy’s watch, the playwright was twenty minutes late. So he spent the time looking at the signs and placards which had been put up behind the glass cases on the front of the building. At least the play had an intriguing tagline: What Are You Afraid Of? Not unlike the message sent to the playwright. The big letters were stylized, painted in red, the question mark a splotch meant to indicate violence. In fact, the entire façade of the theatre was draped in red and black, bringing to mind the devil. Certainly people were afraid of him. A sign dangling from the marquee above shouted that Previews Begin Sept 13. Opening Night October 13. Tempting fate. It didn’t escape Jimmy that the cast list numbered thirteen. Again, pushing the envelope or being deliberately cheeky?

Jimmy remained on the sidewalk, and still there was no sign of the alliteratively named writer. No sign of anyone, in fact, which was odd considering the show was one day away from previews. No customers coming for tickets at the box office. And what about the cast and crew? Were they not rehearsing all day, doing a final tech run through? Why was there not an invited dress rehearsal for industry folk? What was with all the secrecy surrounding this show? Indeed, what were the producers afraid of?

There were a total of forty-one Broadway theatres, the Calloway a jewel among them, having stood on the north side of 47th Street between Broadway and Eighth Avenue since 1927, situated between the Ethel Barrymore and Samuel Friedman, the latter of which had once been the legendary Biltmore. Across the street gleamed the Brooks Atkinson Theatre. Not quite the busy theatre thoroughfares found on 44th or 45th, but these four playhouses held their own during a crowded season. The classic Ethel Barrymore was currently the only house lit, with the Tony-winning play The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. Jimmy couldn’t help but muse that perhaps Triskaidekaphobia wasn’t such a bad title after all.

The Calloway was named after famed stage actor Harold Calloway, who in the 1920s had desired to create a rivalry with the Barrymore stage dynasty, a man who pined, unsuccessfully, for the great leading lady, Ethel. Given that the Calloway family was beyond wealthy, having made their fortune in shipping and once owned half of the west side piers of Manhattan, Harold had convinced his grandparents to build a theatre on Broadway, and he chose the available lot next door to the newly-opened Barrymore. It was clear Harold had no head for business, but he was a magnificent actor who thrilled audiences with his interpretations of both modern plays and his favorite scribe, Shakespeare. His youthful Hamlet was legendary for its brutal strength and vitality, though later in his career, his Richard III was vilified by critics, an unremarkable end to his career. Truth held that Harold Calloway died in his upstairs apartment on the final night of that latter production. Rumor held that he still roamed the aisles of his namesake theatre.

Jimmy had never seen evidence of such ghostly imaginings.

Casey Crais however, was proving ghost-like, still not appearing even after the scheduled time had evaporated into the still, summer air.

Jimmy was stuck leaning against the side of the building, once more reading the list of names associated with the show and trying to familiarize himself with the people he would be interacting with over the next month, perhaps less so if he could easily ascertain who had sent the note, and, more importantly, why. Of the many names listed, from the numerous producers on down to the director, Devon Havers, Jimmy knew only one other name besides Wellington Calloway. It was a name that awakened an unsettling sense of fear inside of Jimmy.

That would be the Costume Designer for the show.

A man named Remy St. Claire.

Remy had been the love of Jimmy McSwain’s life once upon a long time ago. A man of beauty and refinement, he had left the city for good, so he claimed, three years ago, his ambition—and demons—winning out over love. Jimmy now tried to shake away the memories of their past relationship, but knew it was futile. With Remy suddenly—and surprisingly—back in town, and the two of them sharing space backstage, not only was a reunion inevitable, it was palpable. He felt his heart race, thinking what he would say when he came face to face with Remy. Had he changed at all? For better, or for worse? Indeed, fear was a recurring theme today.

It was as if T13 represented a perfect storm in his life: the place where his mother earned her living, the site of his next case, and undoubtedly where he would encounter the man he never thought he would see again. Jimmy wiped at his sweaty brow, the afternoon glare getting to him. After a heatwave that seemed to have lasted the entire summer, Jimmy looked forward to the cool breeze afforded by the fall. Another theme kept running through his mind: cold coffee, cold case, cold heart. They were all part of Jimmy’s world right now, but it would all have to wait. He observed a man slipping out the iron gates of the stage door, a furtive glance on his shielded face as he looked both ways. His eyes settled on Jimmy and he approached.

“McSwain?”

“People call me Jimmy. It’s easy.”

“Follow me.”

Jimmy didn’t. He stood his ground. “How about you introduce yourself.”

The man was nervous, his feet antsy on the sidewalk. Probably forty and dressed in a blue suit, white shirt with no tie, he fussed with the crisp lines of his slacks. He looked back up. “Just meet me across the street, is that so difficult?” He said nothing more, and then, not even paying attention to the westbound traffic, he darted over to the Rum House, a small bar located inside the Hotel Edison. Jimmy had no choice but to trail after him. He had to assume the man was Casey Crais. Hadn’t Welly forewarned him about writers being slightly off-kilter? Was anyone ever just kilter?

Jimmy crossed the street and pulled open the wooden door, stepping into the dimly lit bar. He recalled it had been used as a setting for the movie Birdman. It was intimate, smelled of stale beer and wasted lives, and something sadder still. Maybe it was the ghost of the matzo ball soup served by the now defunct Café Edison once located across the hotel’s lobby. Shame about that closing. New York was forever changing, and not for the better. His prey was leaning against the bar, a shot of clear liquid in front of him. Jimmy sidled up to him.

“Would have been nice if you ordered me one,” Jimmy said.

The man knocked the shot back. Then he nodded toward the bartender. “For him, too.”

A second later two shots appeared before them.

“I don’t drink with strangers,” Jimmy said.

“Yes, of course I’m Casey Crais for Christ’s sake. Do you see anyone else around whose life has been imperiled?”

Imperiled. Jimmy wasn’t sure the word worked in such a context, but hell, this guy wrote drama, apparently well enough to have his words produced on Broadway. Who was Jimmy to step on his dictionary? As they raised their glasses in silent toast, Jimmy got a chance to further observe the man he’d been hired to protect. He had light blond hair and stood five eight, with a slim build, no doubt the result of challenging his metabolism with that nervous energy he generated. Jimmy had yet to see the guy relax, let alone breathe, even as he absorbed that second shot of booze. Jimmy knocked his back before turning the glass upside down. He’d cut himself off.

The guy wasn’t going to be easy to work with. Best to open with an easy subject.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“I’m not the story, McSwain. My play is.”

“Okay, so tell me about your play.”

He closed his eyes for dramatic effect. Then they opened, like a movie camera was there to capture the close-up, the intensity wrought upon his face. “Let me ask you this, McSwain. Is a man like you afraid of anything?”

Jimmy’s first instinct was to answer: people who called him by his last name. He held his flippancy in check, his mind truly considering a reply. Fear was an irrational emotion; that much he knew. The mind controlled it, and when someone was faced with whatever they feared, it could stop them in their tracks. Fear of the unknown, of being buried alive, of snakes, of flying, of heights, phobias nestled their way into your psyche, but so often they all grew from one reality: death. Everyone feared dying, whether by the unknown, of being buried alive, of snakes, of flying, of falling, or something else. If Jimmy was to be honest with himself, he supposed his fear was the truth. About himself, about his father’s death. Because once he knew the truth of what happened that day, he wondered what life would then mean. Would he lose his purpose, his soul reduced to a shell?

“I’ll take your silence as a compliment,” Crais said.

Jimmy flipped over his shot glass, nodded at the bartender. “How so?”

“Everyone is afraid of something. That’s what my play is about. It’s meant to unsettle.”

“Is it about facing your fears?”

“Not always,” he said. “Some people thrive on their fears. It keeps them awake, aware.”

“No wonder someone sent you a death threat,” Jimmy remarked, wishing he could retract it. “Sorry.”

“No, not at all. You have to embrace that which you fear, or it could destroy you. It could anyway.”

Jimmy stared down at his refilled shot glass. He hated that he’d been manipulated.

“You never answered my question,” Crais said.

An image of Remy St. Claire flashed in his mind. “Right now, I fear not being able to do my job properly,” Jimmy said, blinking before regaining his composure. “So let’s talk about that. When did you receive the note?”

“A couple days ago.”

“Where was it? And how did you know it was meant for you?”

“Who else would it be for?”

Jimmy thought of several people. But Casey Crais sounded convinced. He’d wonder why later.

“Let’s get back to where.

“It was left taped to the stage door,” Casey continued.

“Which means it was left by someone without backstage access.”

“Or someone who does, but who was trying to deflect attention.”

“Anything on the security camera?”

He shook his head. “Blurred. Someone with their head covered. Wearing a hood.”

“I’ll have to take a look. In the meantime, do you think it’s an inside job?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You actually haven’t said much. Welly Calloway seems more concerned about your life than you do. You keep talking about the issue, your play. Which makes me wonder if your fear is not being paid attention to. Are the producers doing enough to publicize the show? Have you not gotten enough interviews? Not enough Twitter followers? This play, from all I’ve read, it’s your big break, isn’t it?”

“What’s your point?”

“You wouldn’t be the first Peter to cry wolf.”

“So that’s it, you got hired, what, an hour ago? And now you’ve solved the case?”

“Have I?”

“I don’t like you, McSwain.”

“I feared that was the case,” Jimmy said.

Crais pursed his lips. “Funny.”

“I can be. I don’t like to be. I get a job, I take it seriously.”

“And I received a death threat.” His tone was filled with indignation.

“So you assume. And if it’s really meant for you, it’s a threat you don’t seem to be taking completely seriously. If you were, you’d be begging me to help, not talking about the psychology of its sender,” Jimmy said, the alcohol fueling heat in his voice. “Casey, you don’t want Opening Night to be your closing night, do you?”

Casey Crais shuddered at the thought. “It’s not death I fear,” he finally said. “Death is not unavoidable. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“I fear, and I’m hardly alone in this thinking, how I will die,” he said. “Will it be from an act of violence, a gunshot blowing a hole through me or a knife slicing into my body? Will I feel tremendous pain? Will I suffer?” He paused. “Is the pain truly gone after death, or is it like that mythological character who had his liver eaten daily?”

“Prometheus.”

Crais looked impressed. “A violent image.”

Violence holds a certain power over people. They watched the evening news, wanting to know what had happened that day, relieved to know the victim’s whose lives—and deaths—were splashed across the broadcast were not theirs. They were home, tucked safely into their beds. It was like the old adage: check the obits in the morning to make sure you’re not there; then get on with your day. That’s when Jimmy took hold of the shot that had been poured for him but which so far he’d ignored. He kicked it back in one gulp. When he set the glass down, he stared directly at his client. “So, Casey, what I’m to take from your remark is that you’re not meant to die peacefully in your sleep at some ripe old age. You believe someone is out to murder you, and based on this note, soon. Which begs the question why.”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need the Calloway Foundation’s money to hire you.”

Casey Crais, running a nervous hand through his hair, then excused himself, claiming he had a rehearsal to attend. Jimmy was left alone in the Rum House, the only person left inside other than the bartender. It was mid-day, people had lives. He did, too, a case to investigate. He slapped down one of the hundred dollar bills Welly had given him. He got change and a receipt, left a decent tip before exiting the cool bar for the warm air.

He stared across the street at the Calloway Theatre. Its marquee was dark at the moment.

But by tomorrow night the theatre would be lit, alive and ready to lure curious patrons of the arts to its seats. Triskaidekaphobia appeared destined to open up a Pandora’s Box of fears for all involved, and Jimmy knew even he wasn’t immune to its lure.