Chet Williamson: Reign

The Venetian Theatre was over fifty years old in that summer of 1966. Although it was shabby, and the seats were threadbare, there was still much that was majestic about it. But it had never, not even on the night it had opened, looked as sumptuous as it did on the evening of Dennis Hamilton's party, and had certainly never seen such a contingent of the wealthy and famous standing within its marbled grand lobby, flanking its wide, carpeted staircases, chattering on its palatial mezzanine lobby.

The party had begun at nine, and by ten-thirty nearly all two hundred and fifty guests were there. Many had flown from New York and Los Angeles into Philadelphia, and there hired cars to take them the remaining thirty miles to Kirkland. There were actors, directors, musicians, writers, and a smattering of technical people, nearly all of whom knew or had worked with Dennis Hamilton. No one had been invited simply for appearance's sake.

Dennis and Robin stood near the front entrance, greeting the latecomers. Left alone for a rare moment, Robin squeezed his hand gently. "Will the liquor hold out?" she asked him. There were four bars in service, three in the grand lobby, one in the mezzanine lobby, and all were cluttered with humanity.

"So the caterer claims," Dennis said, then grinned. "Of course I don't know if he had this group of alcoholics in mind when he made his plans."

Brian Chaney and Lydia Marks came through the front door, received hugs, compliments on their latest films, and were told where to take their coats. "Lydia looks good," Robin said when the couple were out of earshot.

Dennis nodded. "Amazing what a seventh facelift and a butt-tuck can do, isn't it?"

"Don't knock her. She's still doing nude scenes."

" Last Chance, you mean?" Robin nodded and Dennis shook his head. "Uh-uh. Body double."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Clinton told me. A twenty-two year old porno star."

Robin giggled. "You know, I like this party better than our last one.”

“Closing night? Why? That was a good party."

"I know, but it was sad. It was the end of something, and this is the beginning of something new. Everybody seems happier."

"I don't know, I thought they were pretty happy that they'd never have to see me in Empire again… unless they catch it on the late show."

"You know that's not true," Robin said, but the conversation stopped there as Michael Riley came up, bottled beer in hand, to talk to Dennis, and Robin took the opportunity to wander.

She was immediately grabbed by Cissy Morrison, an actress who had started out in the film version of A Private Empire and who now shared her sitcom with another ex-movie queen of the sixties. "Jesus, Robbie," she gushed, "this place is fantastic. I mean it's like the fucking Roxy or something. Of course I never saw the Roxy, but I saw pictures, you know? This place must have cost a mint, huh?"

Robin smiled. "Only about half of your annual share of the residuals on After She's Gone, Cissy."

"My ass. I couldn't touch this place with a ten-foot dick, honey. But of course I didn't have John Steinberg investing my income for the last twenty years.”

“John's good," Robin said.

"Of course John's good," agreed a voice from behind Robin. She felt a hand around her waist and turned to look into the deep green eyes of Steinberg himself. "Good evening, darling," he said, and kissed Robin on the cheek. "Lovely party. And the omnipresent Ms. Morrison. I loved your most recent show, Cissy. I tell all my friends that no one, not even Lucille Ball in her salad days, falls hind-first onto a cherry pie like you do. Sheer artistry."

Cissy Morrison made a face. "You're a cunt, John."

"I wish, my dear." Steinberg turned his attention back to Robin. "You look glassless, love. May I get you something?"

"No thanks, John. I don't want to get too sloshed to be a good hostess.”

“Never happen. You're the perfect hostess, drunk or sober. How's Dennis?”

“He's wonderful. He's just so excited about this."

"Aren't we all."

"About what?" Cissy asked.

"About this theatre, my sitcom queen," Steinberg said. "About the workshop, about the whole project."

"You have any shows yet?"

"It's just been announced," Robin said, "but a few submissions have trickled in already."

Steinberg took a sip of his drink and nodded. "Trunk work, no doubt. But there may be something good in them. If there is, we'll find it." He grinned, showing white, even teeth. "And we'll produce it."

"With whose money?"

"Oh, we have our ways, dear. We have backers in abundance, and expect a multitude more. You, for one."

Cissy squinted her eyes. "Me?"

"Why do you think you were invited here tonight, love?"

"God, John…" Robin said, shaking her head.

"Why do you think we paid to fly you across this great, musical-theatre-loving country of ours to wine and dine you and tell you how marvelous your still young-looking hindquarters look encrusted with cherry pie filling?"

Cissy gaped, and Robin giggled. "John, stop it."

"Oh, Robin, it's all right, Cissy knows I have no interest in her hindquarters save from a purely aesthetic point of view, don't you, Cissy?"

"Well sure, I mean I know it's a fund raiser, but…"

"Not a fund raiser, Cissy," Robin said. "John's looking for investors, not contributors." She turned a mockingly cold eye on Steinberg. "But I thought the pitch was going to come later."

"I'm sorry, I apologize," John said. " Mea maxima culpa. It's just that, when faced with this woman's residuals, my thoughts turn from her backside to her money."

"Well, honey," Cissy drawled, "if you ever want to see the one, you're gonna have to kiss the other."

Steinberg exploded in sincere laughter. "I love you, Cissy," he said, wiping tears from his eyes. "I really do. I only dish it out to you because I know you'll reciprocate."

"Bet your ass, John. Now why don't you go get me a drink."

Steinberg obediently wandered over to the bar. "Is he living down here with you?" Cissy asked Robin.

"Yes. He and Donna Franklin, his secretary, have apartments on the third floor. Dennis and I are there, and Sid, of course. He has a small apartment right next to ours."

"What, you're all on one floor?"

Robin nodded. "Curt's here too."

"Jesus, they must be tiny. How do you stand it?"

"Oh no, our apartment's huge. Twice as big as any of the suites we used to stay in on the road."

"What about the one at the Ritz-Carlton-Boston?"

"By far. And we've got more apartments on the fourth floor for Dex and Quentin when they come down to work a show. Not to mention twenty smaller rooms on the fifth floor."

"What did they use all this space for before?" Cissy asked.

"It wasn't just a theatre," Robin explained. "The theatre only takes up a little more than a third of the floor plan. This was a whole community building that David Kirk built for the town of Kirkland. He was quite the philanthropist – really a very generous man. The third and fourth floors were a school for orphan children. The third was classrooms, the fourth was the dormitory, and on the fifth floor there was a hospital for the people of the town."

"Speaking of hospitals, here's the perfect medicine," Steinberg interrupted, returning with Cissy's drink. "Explaining the history of the estate, Robin?" He handed the cocktail to Cissy.

"Who was this Kirk guy anyway?" Cissy asked.

"A philanthropist, a humanitarian, and a supreme quack," Steinberg said. "He made his first money at the turn of the century when he found a mineral spring on his parents' farm near here. Instead of remaining a starving farmer, he became a master marketer. Began to bottle the water, added some herbs to it, printed a bunch of labels, and purveyed the stuff as 'Dr. Kirk's Medicinal Tonic.' People were suckers for patent medicines back then, so he expanded his line, wrote a book called Physical Culture: Wellspring of a Healthy Society, and did very well indeed. Well enough to build Kirkland Springs Sanitorium near his spring, become a multi-millionaire, and turn the little village of Farmers' Corners into the company town of Kirkland."