Эд Макбейн - Barking at Butterflies and other stories

I did not call Natalie until just before dinner, when I told her the plan and announced that I might very well shoot myself before the night was over.

“Don’t shoot yourself,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Give me one good reason why.”

“I’ll give you four good reasons why,” she said. “Me, Sharon, Peter, and the dog.”

“Hell with the goddamn dog,” I said.

“Have you been drinking a little, dear?” she asked sweetly.

“I have been drinking a lot, ” I said. “Natalie,” I said, “I have the feeling that before this day is through I will have consumed more alcohol than I have previously in my entire life included.”

“Darling,” she said, “go back to the apartment and take a shower.”

“All right, honey, I’ll take a shower.”

“Good.” She paused. “Make it a cold one.”

“Very good,” I said, “a cold one. Goodbye, darling, I’ll call you later.”

“Whatever time it is,” she said. “Good luck.”

I didn’t take a shower. I walked from Forty-sixth to Thirty-fourth instead, and then I took a cab back to Forty-fourth and Sixth and ate four hot dogs with sauerkraut at the hot dog stand on the corner there, and then walked up to Columbus Circle and sat near the statue and wondered where the pigeons went when it got dark. I was waiting in Ho Tang’s when Danny and Beth came in. Edward was a step behind them. Danny walked jauntily to the juke box, and “One More Time” pierced the Korean dusk.

“Gene,” he shouted, “where the hell were you? You missed the best performance we’ve ever had!”

“I had to meet...”

“It was tremendous, ” he said, coming over to the table, “absolutely tremendous!”

“... my agent,” I mumbled. “Had to meet him.” My eyes sought Beth’s as she took off her Persian lamb and draped it over the back of the chair beside me. I could read nothing on her face.

“The audience loved it!” Danny said. He slid into the booth behind the table, so that Beth and I were facing him. Edward sat on his right and a jutting mirrored wall was on his left. It occurred to me that we had him surrounded, escape was impossible. “They laughed in all the right places,” he said, “they were quiet when they were supposed to be, they cried when... Beth, did you hear how still it got during the marbles scene?”

“Yes,” she said, “they were very attentive.” Her voice was noncommittal. I still knew nothing.

We ordered a round of drinks while Danny went on to relate to me all I had missed, going over each and every line the audience had howled at, explaining how the father-son scene had torn out their hearts, telling me he had seen an old lady openly weeping in the lobby after the second act curtain. I listened apprehensively, waiting for a cue from Beth. Were we to go through with this or not? Had she changed her mind after tonight’s performance?

“There’s still a lot wrong with it,” she said at last, and I glanced at her quickly. We were going ahead as planned. I sighed and lifted my glass.

“Oh, sure,” Danny said, “lots of little things wrong with it, but nothing we can’t fix in the next week. I tell you, I’ve never felt more confident about a show in my life. I wouldn’t have said this a few days ago, but everything suddenly seemed to come together tonight.”

He grinned charmingly, boyishly, his eyes glowing with enthusiasm. He was raising his drink to his mouth when Beth said, “Well, I’m glad you know it still needs work, Danny.”

“Oh, sure,” Danny said, and drank. “You should have been there tonight, though, Gene. You’d have been amazed.”

“Well, I saw it last night,” I said. “And I was at yesterday’s rehearsal.”

“No comparison,” Danny said, and lifted his glass again. “Am I right, Beth? Two different shows.”

“Miracles don’t happen overnight,” I said.

“Are you telling me? Nothing happens overnight,” Danny said. “A lot of hard work went into making this show what it is.”

“About yesterday’s rehearsal...” I said.

“Forget yesterday’s rehearsal. Wait’ll you see it tomorrow. Listen, what kind of an author are you, anyway? How can you possibly stay away from your own show a week before it opens? He’s jaded, that’s what,” Danny said, and laughed, and nudged Edward. Edward, sitting with his back to the wall, the collar of his trench coat raised, looked like a Mafia henchman in horn-rimmed glasses. He had not yet said a word.

“I thought you gave them the wrong slant on the father-son scene,” I said. I knew I was pressing. A warning flashed in Beth’s eyes.

“What do you mean?” Danny said.

“Yesterday. At rehearsal. I think the actors came away...” I hesitated. “Confused,” I said.

“Yeah?” Danny shrugged. He lifted his glass and drained it. “You wouldn’t have known it tonight. If anybody on that stage was confused...”

“Well, I think Gene may be right,” Beth said cautiously. “I’m still not sure that scene is coming off.”

“Oh?” Danny said. He signaled to the waiter and then leaned forward. “Where do you think it’s wrong, Beth?” he asked. His voice was interested, concerned, respectful. He kept watching Beth’s face. The waiter arrived just then, sparing her an immediate answer. We asked for another round. “One More Time” started again on the jukebox.

“Beth?” Danny said.

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” she answered.

The Beheading

“Oh, come on,” Danny said, and laughed. “The scene can’t be that wrong.”

“It is,” Edward said suddenly. The flatness of his voice startled all of us. Danny turned toward him as if he’d been struck with a closed fist.

“The scene with the father and son?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Edward said, and nodded.

“Well, gee, I’m...” Danny paused. “Tell me what’s wrong with it, will you?”

“Great many things wrong with it,” I mumbled.

“What?”

“I said...”

“He said there are a great many things wrong with it,” Beth said.

“Like what?” Danny said, and reached into his pocket for a notebook. He produced a pencil, opened the notebook on the table before him, and poised the pencil over a clean page. “Okay, let’s have it,” he said, and thrust his head forward. “Come on, come on, that’s what we’re here for.”

“The actors don’t understand it,” I said.

“I’ve explained it to them often enough,” Danny said.

“Yes, but they still don’t understand it.”

“Then I’ll just have to explain it to them again,” he said, and nodded. He looked up at me suddenly, his head darting forward again. “ I understand it, don’t I? I mean, I haven’t misinterpreted it, have I? If there’s one thing I think I know, Gene, it’s your play,” he said, and gave a short laugh.

“Well, the actors don’t seem to know what they’re doing,” I said, hedging.

“We’ll take care of that scene, don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll look at it first thing tomorrow.”

“It’s not just that scene,” Beth said. “The actors don’t seem to know what they’re doing at all .”

“In the play, do you mean?” Danny said.

“Yes.”

“In the whole play? ”

“Yes.”

The waiter arrived with our drinks. Danny was staring at Beth across the table. Her eyes did not waver from his face.

“I’m not sure I get your meaning,” he said.

“I mean,” Beth said, “the actors need more direction.”

“Direction?”

“Yes.”

“You mean motivation?”

“I mean direction, ” Beth said.