Authors: Garson Kanin
She laughed and slapped the table. The waiter, mistaking it for a signal, came over at once.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Yes!” Jenny said. “One more.”
The contretemps sent her into further hysterics. Thank God. She forgot her suspicion.
“Do you know Nan Arnold?” I asked, as casually as I could.
“Do
I? I wish I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Do
you
know her?”
“No.”
“Well, if you did, you wouldn’t ask why. A real little pisshead. English. And a tramp. They used to call her The British Open. She started in the chorus—couldn’t dance her way out of a wet paper bag. So pretty soon—choreographer’s assistant, assistant stage manager, then with Clay, then stage manager—production supervisor. And now I think she’s even getting Associate Producer, the bitch. Well, what the hell. She did what she had to do. Some society jerk once said to Merman, 'Is it true girls in the theatre have to sleep with producers and directors to get anywhere?’ And Merman said, 'Sure, it’s true—if they’ve got no
talent!’”
“Nan Arnold,” I said.
“You keep
saying
that, for Chrissake. Why? What the fuck’re we talking about
her
for?”
“I thought you’d be interested.”
“Not in her, I’m not.”
“I understand she’s coming down here.”
“What?!” She set her glass down with a
crack!,
spilling some of her drink.
“Yes,” I continued. “To stand by in case we lose Clay. It’s all hush-hush up to now—so don’t say anything, will you? Or anyway, don’t say you heard it from
me.”
She had turned, before my eyes, into a huge rag doll. She sat there, limp and lifeless, her mouth painted on, her eyes made of buttons.
When, at length, she spoke, it was in an unfamiliar voice: “God help me,” she said.
It took a fresh drink to bring her to.
Then she said, “I wonder who engineered it. Not Clay. That’s for sure. He loathes her. From way back. They were both working for Merrick when he was doing four, five shows a year—and she tried to leapfrog Clay; but he was too strong, and he had her bounced. A couple nights later, she walked over to him in Sardi’s and dumped a plate of spaghetti on his head. With red clam sauce. Eddie told me all about it. In fact, he was there. With her.”
An explosion in my head.
“Eddie?” I asked, quietly. I was shaking.
“Our own dear little walking hard-on, sure. I think he had something on with her for a while. In fact, I’m sure.”
“Well,” I said, “let’s hope for the best. What else can we do?”
“We can have another drink,” said Jenny.
I could not sleep. There are times when you know something even though you cannot prove it. This was one of those times. I knew for certain that Eddie was involved. I knew that Clay was absolutely innocent—even though Art and Cindy had some doubts—and even though the redoubtable Thomas Edward Atkins did not believe in Clay at all.
I have spent the past two days floating around the company, trying to pick up any scraps of information. It was all meager. The whole gang has clammed up in the most mysterious way. There is still pot around—I can smell it. And still snow—I can sense it. But where it is coming from now, I have no idea.
That Eddie-Nan-Clay triangle haunts me. What can I do about it? Should I take it up with Art? Cindy? Alicia? I’m no good at this on my own. Too involved emotionally, and find myself jumping to dangerous conclusions. What about Atkins? He, at least, is official. Not only that, but experienced. Yes. Atkins it is.
Disaster. I made an appointment to see Atkins, went over, and spent almost an hour with him. I told him the whole Clay-Nan story, and the Nan-Eddie connection, and what I knew about Eddie. I could tell he was only half-listening, his mind on other matters.
Finally, I stopped talking.
“Tell me,” he said. “Do you have some personal relationship with Mr. Botsford?”
“No, sir.”
“And what, may I ask, is your position with this play?”
“I’m the Production Secretary.”
“Secretary,” he echoed. And from the way he said it, I knew I was dead. He conveyed somehow that had he known this earlier, he would not have allowed me an hour of his valuable time. He was on his feet now, saying, “I’m sorry, Miss, your information has no value whatsoever. I appreciate that you are attempting to be of service to your friend and—uh, fellow worker—”
(Fellow worker! “Are you now or have you ever been…”)
“—but what we are dealing with is an official charge which cannot be countered with gossip or hearsay or unsubstantiated conjecture. I am sorry.”
I was out.
I went home and placed a person-to-person to Gene. He was away on assignment. I walked and walked. To whom could I turn? Then it struck me. Alicia. Of all the people in the company, save Clay, she was the only one with whom I had had any intimate contact. Moreover, she is a kind and good person and fond of Clay.
I phoned her, went up to see her. I had not been alone with her since that now unbelievable night.
She poured tea and listened to the story. I was getting quite sick of it.
“Eddie,” she said, “is a certifiable rodent. There is nothing I would put past him. Nothing. A wicked weasel. What is ever so painful is the knowledge that there are any number of members of this bloody company who could easily stand up and clear the air—but they won’t, you see. Not one. Fear, I expect.”
“Is there anything
we
can do?”
“Perhaps.”
She moved about the room, going from window to window and looking out. When she had done every window, she turned back into the room. A plant caught her eye—a fern. She put her finger on the soil near its roots, went out, came back presently with a small silver watering can and watered the fern. She then went about watering every single plant in the suite, and there must have been a dozen. When she had finished the last one, she took the watering can out. A few minutes later, she returned, sat down opposite me, lit a cigarette, and said, “Several ways—but suppose we begin with the simplest one.”
She then clearly and carefully outlined her plan. I thought it completely nutty, but she appeared to have such conviction that two hours later, we began to carry it out.
While I located Nan Arnold, with the help of Actors’ Equity membership department, Alicia walked about practicing her imitation of Nan Arnold. She knows her and rather likes her, she says, except for the irritating little-girl whisper she affects in imitation of Marilyn Monroe.
“What a fraud,” Alicia had said. “I knew her back in London when we were both still knocking on the door. She’s a reconstructed little Cockney, same as I! Still, I must confess—that Monroe pastiche, along with her imitation U-accent, has a certain charm. And it seems to have worked for her. So,
brava!”
When I reached Nan Arnold, Alicia got on the phone, hooked it to her little tape recorder, and went into a long conversation involving various theatrical shoemakers.
“Of course,” she said, “I should have stuck with Capezio—but this chintzy person insisted I take bids, and so I did…Oh, dear me, yes—mean as cat’s meat. So here I am…Yes, all period…Who?...Spell that out, would you, duckie?…I have it…And how goes it with you?…Yes, I heard. Many congratters…Oh, the usual tussle. It gets better…Yes, isn’t that so? All right then, duckie. Many thanks. Ta.”
She played the cassette back several times, talking along with it, until I swear she sounded exactly like Nan Arnold.
“Did you note,” Alicia asked, “that she said not a word about our
scandale
down here?”
“Do you suppose she knows about it?”
“Don’t be idiotic, there’s a dear. Nothing travels as fast as theatrical news—especially juicy stuff, such as ours. I promise you it’s all over Broadway. I’ve had three snooping calls myself today.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That I hadn’t heard a thing. That I’d let them know as soon as I did.”
“Great.”
“Well,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Shall we have a bash?”
“All right.”
I then did what she had carefully coached me to do. I rang the Benjamin Franklin Hotel and asked for Eddie. He came on. I began recording the call.
I pinched my nose, and said, “Mr. Eddie Convery, please. Long-distance, person-to-person calling.”
“Who’s calling?” he asked.
“Are you Mr. Convery?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Who’s calling?” I asked.
“Miss Arnold,” said Alicia on the extension phone.
“O.K.”
“Are you Mr. Convery?”
“Yes!”
“Thank you. Here’s your party. Go
ahead
, please!”
A
LICIA
: (
As
N
AN
)
How
are
you, love?
E
DDIE
: If I thought you
gave
a pink fuck, I’d tell you.
A
LICIA
: How’s the show?
E
DDIE
: Same as I told you last week. Only worse.
A
LICIA
: And how’s everything else?
E
DDIE
: Listen, you cluck! This is a telephone you’re talking over. Will you cool it?
A
LICIA
: You can say yes or no, can’t you?
E
DDIE
: So far so good, now get the hell off.
A
LICIA
: But have you heard from
You
know?
E
DDIE
: Who?
A
LICIA
:
You
know.
You
know.
E
DDIE
: I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.
A
LICIA
:
(Lowering her voice)
Why don’t you fall ill or some such and bugger off for a bit? Y’
know?
E
DDIE
: I know you’re a cunthead, that’s what I know. That would be some sucker shot—to leave here. Christ, they’re crawling around like cockroaches. They’re all over the place—in everybody’s hair and up their ass. So I should blow? I swear to Christ—if you had another brain, you’d have
one.
A
LICIA
: I’m thinking about
you,
Eddie. I’m on your side. And remember, I'm in on this, too. I mean, if there’s a muddle, it wouldn’t be too good for me, either. Would it?
(Silence)
Hello?
(Silence)
Eddie?
E
DDIE
: Whoever you are, lady—
up yours!
A
LICIA
: What?
E
DDIE
: Fuck you! She never called me “Eddie” in her whole life. Drop dead, you spying scum!
“Damn,” said Alicia.
“What are you talking about?” I said. “We’re in! Home free.”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “That one blunder botched it.”
“Come on, Alicia. Anybody listens to this cassette will know what we know.”
“What
do we know?”
“That
he
got Clay’s combination from
her,
opened the trunk, and planted his stash in it.”
“That's what we
think,
dear. What we hope. Not what we know. I’m afraid we’re still a long way from the answer.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But we’re a hell of a lot closer to the question. We know who did it—now all we have to do is
prove
it.”
I couldn’t imagine why she was so depressed. I was elated.
Drinks with Russ and Buddy.
“Just goes to show,” I said. “You never can tell about people. My father used to say, 'You can’t judge a book by the cover.’”
“Your father was William Shakespeare?” said Russ.
Buddy howled.
“No,” I said. “I mean about Clay. I mean, I can’t believe it.”
Acting too hard, I was beginning to sound like Alicia’s imitation of Nan Arnold.
“Can’t believe what?”
“Why
would
he?” I asked. “He’s successful, and a good job, and a good future. What made him become a pusher?”
“Don’t be an asshole, Miss, y’mind? I mean, you
are
an asshole, but try not to show it so much, huh? It’s goddamn sickening.”
I began to cry. That, I must say, I do very well.
Russ to Buddy:
“Now look what you’ve done.
Another
fine mess!”
“Sorry, Ollie!”
They went into their Laurel and Hardy routine.
R
USS
: You’ve made the lady cry!
B
UDDY
: Lady? I thought she was a
woman!
R
USS
: You
thought?
B
UDDY
: I did.
R
USS
: With what?
B
UDDY
: With what?
R
USS
: No. Not with what. With what?
B
UDDY
: With what
what?
R
USS
: Did you
think?
B
UDDY
: Did I think
what?
…Ow!!
I stopped crying.
“Dry your eyes, Goldilocks,” said Russ.
“And don’t wet your pants,” said Buddy.
Russ. “It’ll all come out in the wash. Clay is clean.”
Buddy. “Yes. And clean is Clay.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“There’s been a
ghastly
mistake,” said Russ, with his best British acting accent.
“A foul miscarriage of justice, m’lords!” said Buddy.
I had had enough.
“You two clowns give me a swift pain in the ass,” I sad.
“Bless her foul little mouth,” cried Russ. “She is one of
us.”
“God forbid,” I said. “A cocksucker I'm
not!”
They were well and truly shocked. I went on. “A man’s career and reputation and name and everything is at stake—and you two little shits can sit around and joke about it. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. And I’ll bet you are, deep down.”