. . .
At that moment, three thousand feet directly overhead, a JN-4 airplane was making broad circles, its pilot rubbing his chin. His sole passenger was banging on the fuselage. Griffin had flown many times with his daughter, so he was no stranger to the discomforts of flight—the harsh winds, the way the goggles cut into his face, the sickening drops and turns, and, worst of all, the way all Jenny pilots were morons. In frustration, Griffin pounded again against the side of the plane.
“Hey!” The pilot, Captain Berger, bellowed over the guttural engine noise, “Don’t do that. I’m trying to think.”
Dusk had come and gone as they’d followed the Delta. Berger had kept yelling over his shoulder that even though they were late, Griffin should look at the way the setting sun played against the river, how it was like molten silver, or perhaps a tarnished mirror from better times.
“What? Just get me to San Francisco.”
Berger had been quiet for a while. When the sun had fully set in the west, Berger had spoken again. “Did you know I write poetry?”
“Oh, God.”
“You know what it’s about?” he had yelled.
Griffin hadn’t answered.
“It’s about airplanes.”
And from that moment on Captain Berger had recited his poetry.
He only stopped when they were over downtown San Francisco, and he was looking for the airstrip he was sure was just by the marina, though they seemed to have forgotten to light it tonight, and boy would he give Captain Stuart a piece of his mind about that. Then he, without skipping a beat, returned to his “Ode on a Milk Route.”
. . .
The first act lasted exactly forty-six minutes. Miss White knew this, for she waited outside the theatre exactly that long. Even though Mr. Griffin hadn’t asked for a seat, she had two tickets for the rear orchestra in her purse, as she suspected he might want to watch the show incognito, and the Orpheum was such a lovely theatre in which to see a show.
She also had a small surprise for him.
She wasn’t one to wait in vain—she detested the potboilers in which
heroines did exactly that—and was ready to take her seat, alone, after only five minutes of pacing by the box office. But management stressed that there was no seating during the act, and she would have to wait until the first intermission. So she did her waiting outside.
She listened to the hobo, who was doing Gilbert and Sullivan’s Major-General song, until he got to the tricky parts about “the crimes of Heliogabalus.” When she noticed him skipping lyrics, he looked away and only mouthed the rest.
So then it was silent. It was a lonely feeling to stand on the sidewalk and hear muffled gasps of amazement from inside, or brief musical interludes, and when she heard “Roses, Glorious Roses,” she suspected she had missed something special. Where was Mr. Griffin?
Finally, she left his ticket, and the special something, at the box office. The girl inside barely looked up from her magazine to listen to Miss White’s instructions, which were simple but in their precision reminiscent of the girl’s least favorite teacher.
As Miss White entered the theatre, she was directed toward the orchestra. The Orpheum lobby was one she had looked forward to seeing again in all its splendor, but it made little impression on her tonight. She passed the great golden statues, and the murals of ersatz mythological scenes, and even the giant aquarium, a postwar addition that had been freshly stocked with coral and rare tropical fish. The whole time she was frowning.
She couldn’t stop worrying, and so she found an usher. “Excuse me?”
“Madame?” A tall, dignified man, he bowed from the waist.
“I’ve left a ticket with the box office for my friend Jack Griffin,” she said, “but the girl didn’t seem to pay attention. I’m worried she won’t give it to him.”
“You needn’t worry,” he said, reaching for her ticket as if to cut this interaction short.
“You see,” she leaned in and whispered, “there’s a backstage pass with the ticket. I want to make sure he gets it.”
At this, the usher fixed her with a stare that made her uncomfortable. “A pass?” He blinked.
“An Annie Oakley. It came to me legitimately,” she said in a rush, as the brass buttons on his red uniform made her nervous. “After the show, the library collects ephemera from the stage manager—”
“It’s perfectly all right.” The usher reached out his palm, which was creviced and callused, and it took Miss White a moment to relinquish her ticket to him. “I’ll make sure your friend is taken care of,” he said.
Carter took the path to his dressing room at a trot, checking his watch—the interval was eight minutes—and handing his turban to his dresser, who in turn handed him a towel and a glass of water. Ledocq stood in the hallway, arms folded.
“Am I fired?” Carter asked after a long swallow of water.
“I’ll keep you on another week, maybe,” Ledocq whispered.
“Was I right?”
“Were you right? How could I know it would look so good from back there? I owe you a dollar.”
“Tell the pianist that next time if someone calls for Liszt, he should stick with the ‘Mephisto Waltz.’” Carter opened the door to his dressing room. He saw Phoebe inside. He called over his shoulder to Ledocq, “In the next interval, we need to do blocking for the entrance of the Devil.” Then, shutting the door, he said, “How are you?”
She looked awful. She sat in the farthest chair, a shabby thing that had probably once been a prop, and she was clutching his silk pillow to her chest. “You’re in danger.”
“I’m cutting the bullet trick.” He went to the mirror, to check his makeup, which he’d sweated through. “Were you listening to the first act? Was it acceptable?”
“I just received a telegram. From Borax.” Phoebe waved the yellow telegram in front of her. “He says someone has been sent to kill you.”
“Might I see that?” He took it from her, opened it, and for a moment felt like he was onstage, or in a dream. “I don’t get the gag. There’s nothing here.”
“It’s in Braille.”
He muttered, “How remarkable.” His mind spun for a moment—marked decks of cards, telepathy demonstrations—and then back to Phoebe, whose face was colorless.
“Why did he send something to you and not me?”
“Because he’s devious.”
“Help me read it.”
She walked the pads of her fingertips across the embossed surface. “Tell Carter Secret Service sent man to theatre to kill him.” When she was done, she looked toward him.
Carter said, “He must be serious. That’s eleven words, and you know how the rates go up after ten.”
“Please don’t joke.”
Carter looked at the clock. “I’m going to change my shirt. I hope that’s all right.” He pulled off his jacket, and black tie, and then removed his collar stud and unwrapped the bands that made his sleeves appear to be fastened. When he was in his undershirt, he stretched out his bare arms and rolled his shoulders back to keep them loose. He spoke again. “You only read me part of the telegram,” he said.
She drew in a breath, inhaling so deeply she arched her back, and then let it out slowly. Weakly, she murmured, “It looked blank. I hoped you wouldn’t notice. The gist of it,” she said, suddenly angry, “is that Borax is a conniving fucker.” Her hand went over her mouth.
He froze with one arm in a sleeve. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the word from a woman—in fact, it reminded him of Sarah. He returned to dressing. When his shirt was buttoned, and his studs in place, he opened the door and whistled. A young page jumped into sight.
“Are you good with names?” Carter asked.
“Yes, sir!”
“Write these down. Hollis, Stutz, Samuelson, O’Brien, Starling. If any one of them tries to come into the theatre tonight, even if he has a badge and makes impressive noises about being with the law, don’t let him in. In fact, if anyone has a badge and tries to come in, make sure I know about it.” When the boy was halfway down the hall, Carter whistled again. “Add another name to the list—Griffin.”
He returned to the makeup table and sipped at the water. He could see Phoebe’s reflection, surrounded by lightbulbs, one of which was burned out.
“From what I’ve heard, the four who dropped me in the bay are all peeling potatoes for Coolidge, or however they punish their own. And if Griffin has turned assassin, I think I can live with that particular challenge.” Another sip of water. “So. Has Borax asked you to betray me somehow?”
“I don’t know what you did to him. He’s never asked me for a favor before.”
“So, would a ‘favor’ mean betraying me?”
“He asked me to find out if you destroyed television on purpose.”
“Pardon?” He was so startled by the question, he didn’t respond to a knock at the door.
“He seems to think it’s—do you want to answer that?”
It was Ledocq, who silently pointed at his watch. Carter nodded, and closed the door, and leaned on it. “Please go on.”
She read the telegram to herself. After a moment, she said, “Just that he wants to know if you destroyed it on purpose.”
“What else did he say?”
Silence. Phoebe folded her hands in her lap.
“Oh dear God.” He drummed on the door with his palms.
“What if—what if I had done something awful once, and what if Borax knew about it? He would try to command my loyalty, wouldn’t he? And remind me of it. Just a little.”
“I don’t like secrets,” he declared.
This made Phoebe laugh. “You love secrets. Would you come here so I can touch you?”
Like he was tearing himself from a pedestal, Carter left the door. He crouched before her. Her fingers worked from his hair—“Oh,” she said, “sweat”—to his face, like spider legs. When she had felt enough, her hands dropped to her lap. “You don’t trust me.”
He was aware of his breathing. Shallow, through his nose. “What would you do in my position?”
She considered this. “I would very
carefully
make love to a certain woman.” As this did not produce laughter, she added gravely, “He wants to control me.”
“What does he have on you? More than just . . .”
She touched her finger to his lips. He crouched there, aware that it would be the easiest motion in the world to caress her, to put his hand on hers. He stood, finished dressing, and left the room, closing the door behind him without another word to her.
In the wings, he took an armful of hats from an assistant and stood half-wrapped in the act curtain while flats and scrim shot back and forth behind him. It was a complex act to stage, with multiple levels of scenery and drops mounted to pulleys that had to be raised or lowered at a moment’s notice.
All he could think of was Phoebe. Everytime she peeled away one mystery, there were two more underneath. What hadn’t she read to him? And destroying television on purpose? He considered this, listening to the incidental music. Why would Borax ask that odd question? Carter had asked the orchestra to choose pieces with a feeling of diminuendo. He didn’t recognize what they were playing, something with strings and finger cymbals, almost Turkish in nature.
A hand fell on his shoulder. James.
“I’ve been avoiding you,” Carter said.
James nodded. He held a sheath of papers. Carter recognized some of them as invoices he’d signed in the past several days. He squared his shoulders, ready with a fusillade of explanations. But James was quietly tapping the papers against his lips. He met Carter’s eye tenderly, and said, in a voice so low the orchestra almost obscured it, “Oh, my brother.”
That sent a chill down Carter’s spine far more effectively than any lecture could. He put the hats down. “Yes?”
“I’m very, very proud of you,” James said. “It’s truly a pleasure to have you as an older brother and I love you.”
They squeezed to one side to allow Cleo to find her mark onstage. “But?”
He shook his head. “No ‘buts,’ Charlie. The show has been wonderful tonight.” He stumbled over his next question: “Did you manage . . . did you hold on to that expense journal?”
“Well, you know it was stolen, but I did replace it, and it’s . . . it’s somewhere.” He wanted to apologize. “You know, the interval is almost over.”
James checked his wristwatch. “We have time. Let me walk you through something here.” He unfolded a ledger sheet, and he moved his finger slowly from the left columns to the right. “Given what you spent on start-up costs—”
“I didn’t spend that much.”
“You left your checkbook at my house. And I found these receipts at Ledocq’s. Let’s not spoil this. Look, here’s what you spent. And here’s what you’ll have to spend, each week, just to continue this run. And if you tour, here’s salaries, and this is the minimum weekly cost of maintenance, and transportation and renting venues in the contiguous states.”
“I realize—I have to do well tonight. And I have to bring business in. I know that.”
“No. It’s not that anymore.” James looked at him sadly, like he was explaining the rules of a game Carter had never understood. “You just finished yourself off.”
Carter shook his head. The words literally made no sense in his ears.
“Even if you increased business dramatically—if you had the kind of houses Goldin does—you still couldn’t recoup what you spent.”
“I’ll tour for four years straight if I have to. James, I’m here, I’m back, I’m being creative—it can work. I’ll make this work.”
“As I said, I’m proud of you. But we have to decide what you’re going to do after tonight.”
“Tour! We’ll play out the run, and tour.”
“Yes,” James replied, carefully. “I just want you to have as good a time as you can tonight. It may be possible that you’ll want to close up shop after we look at these numbers together.”
Carter looked at his brother. James, a Delphic oracle of sorts, intuitively and mysteriously understood money. Carter knew what understatement was and knew that his brother, who loved him, had seen a miserable and brief future for Carter’s show of mystery. But James was also giving him a gift, letting him be
himself
for one more night.
Carter picked up the stack of hats from the table. He closed his eyes. “So this could be a Viking funeral for me?”