Evan Hunter - Romance

The knife descended viciously, its blade glinting with pinpoint pricks of light as Josie turned to shield the fake thrust from the audience. The stabber ran off into the blackness. Josie fell to the stage, lay there motionless.

And now the other actors materialized like mourners at an Irish wake, surrounding the stricken Actress, the Detective firing questions at each of them as if she were really dead, asking the Director what they had talked about at dinner, asking the Understudy whether they had argued recently, and finally turning to the Actress herself, who — surprise of all surprises! — wasn’t dead at all, but who rose from the stage now and fell back into a chair doubling as a hospital bed, and weakly answered the Detective’s questions along with the rest of them in a scene outstanding only for its sheer boredom and longevity.

“Thank you, people, it’s beginning to come together,” Kendall said. “Take ten and I’ll give you my notes.”

As the actors began moving off, Jerry popped onstage, still wearing the long coat and the wide-brimmed hat.

“How was that, boss?” he shouted to the theater. “Scary enough?”

“Very nice, Jerry,” Corbin said, and Kendall gave him a look.

“Little Hitchcock there, huh?” Jerry said.

“Very nice,” Corbin said again, and Kendall gave him another look.

The two men sat silently for a moment.

“She’s very good, isn’t she?” Corbin said at last.

“Josie? Yes. She’s wonderful.”

“Made it come alive for the first time,” Corbin said.

Kendall said nothing. The play was a long way from coming alive. Josie’s performance had given it a good boost tonight, but unless Corbin sat down and rewrote the damn thing from top to bottom…

“Almost a shame,” Corbin said.

“What is?”

“That he missed.”

The two men came into the theater while Kendall was giving the cast his notes. Both were wearing topcoats. No hats. In the light that silhouetted them from the lobby as they came through the doors at the rear of the theater, he could see that one was blond and the other had dark hair. They were both tall, wide-shouldered men of about the same height and weight, both in their thirties somewhere, he guessed. The blond had hazel-colored eyes. The one with the dark hair had slanted brown eyes.

“Mr. Kendall?” the blond one called, inadvertently interrupting him in the middle of a sentence, which Kendall didn’t appreciate one damn bit.

“Sorry to bother you, I’m Detective Kling, 87th Squad, this is Detective Carella, my partner.”

He was showing a shield now.

Kendall was unimpressed.

“Miss Cassidy told us you might still be rehearsing here,” Kling said. “We thought we’d save some trouble if we caught you all in the same place.”

“I see,” Kendall said dryly. “And just what sort of trouble were you hoping to save?”

“Few questions we’d like to ask,” Kling said.

“Tell you what,” Kendall said saccharinely. “Why don’t you and your partner here go out to the lobby together, and have a seat on one of the red plush velvet benches out there, and when I’m finished giving the cast my notes — which I was attempting to do when you interrupted — we’ll all come out there and play cops and robbers with you, okay? How does that sound?”

The theater went suddenly as still as a tomb.

“Sounds fine to me,” Kling said pleasantly. “How does that sound to you, Steve?”

“Sounds fine to me, too, Bert.”

“So what we’ll do,” Kling said, “is go find that red plush velvet bench in the lobby, and sit out there hoping the person who stabbed Michelle Cassidy won’t make California by the time you finish giving the cast your notes. How does that sound to you?”

Kendall blinked at him.

“See you when you’re done,” Kling said, and turned and began walking toward the back of the theater again.

“Just a minute,” Corbin said.

Kendall blinked again.

“The notes can wait,” Corbin said. “What did you want to know?”

Which cued a scene outstanding only for its sheer boredom and longevity.

“You look tired,” Sharyn said.

“So do you,” Kling said.

“I am,” she said.

It was almost midnight. Sharyn had called the squad-room at eleven to say she was in the city…

To any native of this town, there was Calm’s Point, Majesta, Riverhead, Bethtown — and the City. Isola was the City, even though without the other four, it was only one- fifth of the city. Sharyn had called the squadroom to say…

… she was in the city and if he still wanted to have a cup of coffee she could meet him someplace uptown, which is where she happened to be. At St. Sebastian’s Hospital, as a matter of fact. As an afterword, she mentioned that she was as hungry as a bear. Kling mentioned that he hadn’t really eaten yet either, and suggested a fabulous deli on the Stem. At eleven-thirty — fifteen minutes before the shift was officially relieved — he dashed out of the squadroom.

Sharyn was now wolfing down a pastrami on rye.

She licked mustard from her lips.

“I’m glad you called,” he said. “I was going to throw myself out the window otherwise.”

“Sure.”

“What were you doing at St. Sab’s?”

“Trying to get a cop transferred to a better hospital. Right after you called me this afternoon, an officer got shot on Denver and Wales…”

“The Nine-Three.”

“The Nine-Three. Ambulance took him to St. Sab’s, the worst hospital in the whole damn city. I got there at six, found out who was in charge, got the man moved before they operated. Police escort all the way down to Buenavista, sirens blaring, you’d’ve thought the Mayor was in that ambulance.”

“So you were in the city, anyway…”

“Yes.”

“So you called me…”

“Well, yes.”

“… just so it shouldn’t be a total loss.”

“Right. Also, I was very hungry. And I owed you a meal.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. How’s your hamburger?”

“What? Oh. Yeah. Good. I guess,” he said, and picked it up and took a big bite of it. “Good,” he said.

“Why do you keep staring at me?” she asked.

“Habit of mine.”

“Bad one.”

“I know. You shouldn’t be so beautiful.”

“Oh, please.”

“Why’d you walk out last night?”

“I didn’t walk out.”

“Well, you cut things short.”

“Yes, well.”

“Why?”

Sharyn shrugged.

“Was it something I said?”

“No.”

“I kept trying to figure out what I’d said. All day today, I kept trying to figure it out. I almost called a dozen times. Before I finally did, I mean. What was it I said?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me, Sharyn. Please. I don’t want this starting on the wrong foot, really. I want this… well… tell me what I said.”

“You said the color I was wearing was good for me.”

Kling looked at her.

“So?” he said.

“I thought you were saying that the color was good for my color.”

“That’s what I was saying.”

“So that started me wondering if the reason you’d asked me out was that I was black.”

“Yes, I know. You asked me…”

“And I started wondering what it was you wanted from me. I mean, was this just de white massa hittin on de l’il house nigguh? I guess I didn’t want to risk finding out that was all it might be. So I thought it’d be best if we just shook hands and said goodnight, without either of us exploring the question too completely.”

She bit into the sandwich again, sipped at her beer, her eyes avoiding his. Kling nodded and took another bite. They both ate in silence for several moments, Sharyn polishing off the sandwich as if she hadn’t eaten in a week, Kling working less voraciously on the hamburger.