“I hope my phone’s still working.”
“If it’s not, I’ll fly home and fix it myself.”
Chapter 11
THERE ARE—IN ALL OUR LIVES—certain times to feel good, other times to feel bad, and many more times to feel in-between. This was, for me, one of the hopelessly stuck-in-between times. I felt great about Dan’s declared longing for me, but I felt awful about the way I was deceiving him. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. Would I ever break loose from this gut-twisting tug of war? Would I ever be free to give Dan my wholehearted devotion and unrestricted allegiance?
Maybe someday, but not tonight. Tonight I had to study the smudged and wrinkled pages of a scribbled-up message pad, and search for clues to a brutal killer’s identity.
I filled a jellyglass with Chianti and took it into the living room, setting it down on the table near the couch (or, rather, the homemade daybed contraption I try to pass off as a couch). Then I scooted into the kitchen, grabbed my L&M filter tips and the message pad, hurried back to the couch (or whatever you want to call it), and seated myself directly in front of the fan (which made it hard for me to light my cigarette—but where there’s a will there’s a way). A puff of smoke, a sip of wine, a chorus of “Only You” by the Platters, and I was ready to tuck into the task at hand.
Three glasses of wine, umpteen cigarettes, and who knows how many hit tunes later, I was all tuckered out. I had read all thirteen of Gray’s messages nine or ten times over, studying each word as if it were a hieroglyph and I were an Egyptian scholar (which wasn’t so far from reality since Rhonda’s handwriting was almost indecipherable). I had hoped to pick up at least one truly significant clue—something that would send me shooting, like an arrow, straight toward the homicidal bull’s eye—but that hope never materialized. Aside from Aunt Doobie’s hotel room number, I learned only a couple of things that I thought might be helpful.
I now knew, for example, that Gray had had a lot of friends, and that four of them were named Randy. (Okay, okay! So it was probably more likely that all four messages had been left by the same Randy, but I couldn’t be certain of that now, could I?) I knew from the preponderance of masculine names that most of Gray’s friends were male. Aside from Aunt Doobie, the only female name on the list was Binky—”Binky from acting class,” to be more precise.
Binky’s message was the only one with a phone number, and I decided to dial it that very night, before the morning papers with the news of Gray’s death hit the stands. I drained the dregs from my third wine glass, lit up another cigarette, and placed the call.
One ring, then two, then a brusque “Hello.” It was a man’s voice, and it didn’t sound happy.
“Oh, hello,” I said, trying to sound calm and cool as a cucumber (which was impossible since I was hotter than a roasted chicken, and as calm as Daffy Duck on the opening day of hunting season). “May I speak to Binky please?”
There was a long pause, and then the brusque voice growled, “Who is this?”
“Uh . . . mm . . . you don’t know me,” I stammered, madly searching for the right thing to say. “ My name is Phoebe Starr and I’m a friend of Gray Gordon’s and I’d like to talk to Binky if I—”
“You’re a friend of Gray’s?” The man’s tone had turned from curt to curious.
“Yes, that’s right. We’re neighbors in the Village.”
“So, what do you want to talk to Binky for?”
I was reluctant to answer the question. Who was this impertinent man? And why was he screening Binky’s calls? Was he her father, brother, husband, boyfriend, or lawyer?
“Well . . . uh . . . see, I’m an actress,” I began, taking my own sweet time, speaking as slowly as I could without seeming retarded (I didn’t want to reveal too many personal facts—okay, fables—until I knew who was on the other end of the line) “ . . . and I’ve been looking for a new drama coach. So, when I ran into Gray on the street the other day,” I continued, still stalling, “I started asking him a bunch of questions about his acting workshop. I wanted to know how much it cost, and if you had to audition, and if he thought I’d be able to get in. But Gray didn’t have time to talk to me since he was in a big hurry to get to the theater . . . so he gave me Binky’s number and said I should talk to her about it.”
The man burst out laughing. “
Her
?” he croaked, between guffaws. “Are you sure Gray said ‘her’?”
Boo-boo alert. Right name, wrong gender.
“He didn’t actually use the word ‘her,’ ” I hurried to explain. “I just assumed . . .”
“Then, you assumed wrong, sweetheart. Do I sound like a girl?”
“
You’re
Binky?”
“The one and only.”
“Please pardon my mistake, Mr. . . . uh . . . um . . . er . . .” I stumbled, hoping he would fill in the blank of his last name.
“Kapinski,” he said. “Barnabas Kapinski. But you can call me Binky. Everybody does.”
“Okay, Binky,” I said. “If it’s all right with you, it’s all right with me.”
He laughed again. “It’s not a very manly name, I know, but then, neither is Barnabas.”
I giggled, just to keep the good will flowing. “You’re in Gray’s drama workshop, right? You’re studying at the Actors Studio? With Lee Strasberg?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Ooooh, that’s so wonderful!” I gushed. “You must be a really good actor! I know Mr. Strasberg only accepts the best. And some of his students are famous stars already! I mean, James Dean and Marilyn Monroe are studying at the Studio now, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but you don’t see them around much. They’re kind of busy making movies.”
“And what about you?” I probed. “Are you starring in any movies or shows?”
He laughed again. “Not unless you count my starring role at the Latin Quarter every night. I’m the best bartender they have.”
I let out another giggle and tried to think of a way to get him to talk about Gray. “Well, that’s a better job than Gray had,” I stressed. “He was just a busboy before he landed the
Hot Tin Roof
understudy job. And now he’s a star! At least that’s what Brooks Atkinson says. Did you read his review of Gray’s stand-in performance in the
Times
today?”
“Of course. Atkinson is the best drama critic in the city. I read every word the man writes.”
“So, what do you think about what he said? Is Gray as good an actor as he claims?”
“Yeah, yeah, Gray’s okay, I guess,” Binky replied. “He seems pretty skillful when he’s doing scenes at the Studio. I didn’t see him on stage last night, though, so I don’t know about
that
. . . But what the hell does it matter what
I
think, anyway? Brooks Atkinson said he’s good, and that’s all that friggin’ counts. Gray’s a lucky guy. He’ll be getting more offers than he can handle. He’s on a friggin’ free ride to the top.”
I couldn’t see Binky’s face, but judging from his grudging tone of voice and vulgar choice of words, I’d have wagered it was green with envy.
“I bet you’ll be next,” I said, hoping to soothe his jealous soul and turn his attentions to more important matters (i.e., the things that mattered to
me
). “Everybody who gets accepted at the Actors Studio eventually hits the big time, right?” I asked. “That’s why I want to study there so much. Do you think I have a chance? Is it as hard to get in as everybody says?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty tough,” he said, warming to the role of the wise advisor. “First of all there has to be an opening in the Studio. Mr. Strasberg likes to keep the headcount under control, and sometimes he won’t accept a new student unless he’s lost an old one. And then—if a space does open up and you want to apply—you’ve got to do at least two auditions, have excellent recommendations, and be super serious about pursuing an acting career. You’ve got to have some experience, too.
Professional experience, I mean. Not just high school or college stuff.”
“Gee, that
is
tough,” I said, with an exaggerated sigh. “Still, I
am
really serious about being an actress, and I
do
have some professional experience. I’ve done some summer stock and a slew of radio commercials. Does that qualify?”
“It might be enough,” Binky said, “but all the experience in the world won’t do you any good unless you perform really well at the auditions. That’s what Mr. Strasberg cares about the most—whether or not you have an exciting stage presence, and whether or not you can act.”
“Oh, I can act, all right!” I said, with unshakable self-confidence. (Am I a good actress, or what?) I wanted to convince Binky of my talent and drive so that he would accept me as a striving colleague, and show me around the Studio, and introduce me to his and Gray’s fellow drama students (be they friend or, more importantly,
foe
).
But Binky wasn’t very receptive to my performance. He paused for a moment, then muttered, “You sound pretty damn sure of yourself, little girl.”
Uh-oh.
His tone had turned gruff again—especially when he pronounced the words “little girl.” Had I overstepped my feminine bounds? Had I threatened Binky’s masculinity with my forceful (albeit fake) self-esteem?
“Oh, that’s just an act,” I hastened to admit, working to recover lost ground and get back on Binky’s good side. “I kid you not. I’m nothing but a nervous Nellie inside. I’m so full of self-doubt, I’m bursting at the seams.” (This part was a snap for me to play since it was completely in character.)
Binky let out another laugh, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The “proper” male/female order had been restored.
“That’s another reason I wanted to talk to you, Binky,” I went on, simpering, making my voice sound as girlish and fluttery as possible. “Gray said you might be willing to meet with me, help me get all the right application forms, and take me into the Studio to show me around. If I could just meet some of the other members of the program, watch a workshop in progress, and see what the audition area is like, I think it would help me get over my nervousness. Don’t you agree? Do you think you could help me, kind sir?”
If Binky had been able to see me, I’d have been gazing at him like a puppy and batting my lashes to beat the band (the way Abby had taught me to do). As it was, though, I was free to cross my eyes and stick out my tongue (just to relieve the pressure, you understand).
“Yeah, maybe,” Binky said. “I guess I could take you to the Studio someday. But not right now. It’s closed for the Fourth. Won’t be open till Tuesday.”
“Oh, Tuesday will be fine!” I exclaimed, jumping to seal the bargain before he could change his mind or delay the day. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Binky! And Gray will be delighted to hear how helpful you’re being. I’ll call you on Monday so we can set up a time and a place to meet.”
“Er . . . well . . . okay,” he mumbled, sounding unnerved and somewhat dumbfounded.
And with any luck, I thought—bidding him a fast farewell and hanging up the phone in a flash—he would stay that way.
I WAS AS TIRED AS A MARATHON TAP dancer, but it was too early—and too hot—to go to bed. I considered going uptown to the hopefully air-conditioned Mayflower to pay Aunt Doobie a surprise visit, but simply didn’t have the energy. Thinking I’d call her room at the hotel instead, I got the address and phone number of the Mayflower from the phone book and wrote the info down on the message pad. But then, just as I picked up the receiver and began to dial, I was besieged with second thoughts. Who
was
this woman, anyway? Maybe she was Gray’s aunt, and maybe she wasn’t. She could be Eisenhower’s aunt, for all I knew! So, what the devil was I going to say to her? How could I get her to talk about Gray? What kind of story was I going to make up this time?
Aaaargh!
Finally realizing that I was too addled and exhausted to deal with Aunt Doobie at the moment, I dropped the receiver back in the cradle, deciding I’d try to get in touch with her tomorrow.
Shuffling into the kitchen in a daze, I washed Abby’s gloppy makeup off my face at the sink, gave my arms, neck, and shoulders a cold sponge bath, cranked open a new tray of ice, and loaded a tall glass with cubes. Then I held the glass under the faucet and filled it to the brim with tap water. By the time I staggered back into the living room, turned off the radio, and turned on the TV, half the water had been drunk (by me, I guess, but I don’t remember doing it).
Sitting back down in front of the fan, I sucked on an ice cube and tried to focus my attention on the final monologue of
The George Gobel Show
. I was hoping the casual comedian’s folksy, down-home humor would soothe my frazzled nerves and take my mind off the murder. Ha! I might as well have hoped for a snow storm. The memory of Gray’s slashed and bloody body was as intense and unrelenting as the temperature.
Even
Your Hit Parade
, the next show to come on the screen, offered no relief. The sunny lyrics of the most popular songs—not to mention the beaming faces of the cheerful singers—only made me feel worse. (Mourners like the rain, you know. It makes them feel that the cosmos is crying, too.) And then later in the show, when Gisele MacKenzie came out and sang “It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie,” I got
really
depressed. If the words to that song were true, I was going to burn in hell for all eternity—not just for the duration of the heat wave.