Chet Williamson - Reign

The deal went pretty much as Steinberg had planned. Irwin Richards, sensing a coup along the lines of The King and I revival, was more resistant to a friendly takeover than Steinberg had expected, but a five per cent chunk of the show added to the rest of the money finally persuaded him to bow out. He told friends later that it was the best deal he ever made – a two million dollar return on a $75,000 investment. John Steinberg knew the bragging was nothing but sour grapes. Although it was a remarkable return, had Richards successfully fought the takeover, he would have realized ten times that amount over the next decade. Indeed, it made Dennis Hamilton rich all over again. It also made him famous once more.

It made something else too, something that Dennis Hamilton would not become aware of until much later.

Scene 3

In the inner lobby, under the Byzantine vaulting of blue and gold mosaic that had taken three Italian craftsmen two years to create, Dennis Hamilton, having escaped from Sybil Creed's tiresome and guilt-inducing theories of performance, spoke of ghosts. It was a much more welcome topic to him than acting, for he had no personal stake in ghosts.

"I've never seen one, Ally," he said.

Ally Terrazin rolled her eyes upward, toward the gleaming gold leaf a few feet above their heads. "God, Dennis, you've been in the theatre all your life, and you've never even seen one?"

"That doesn't mean I don't believe in them – I've just never been lucky.”

“Ranthu says there are ghosts in every theatre if you know how to look for them.”

“Ranthu?" Dennis asked.

"My channel."

"Aw, Ally…” Dennis smiled and shook his head. "You're into that stuff now? You need to get away from the coast. It's Cloud-Cuckooland out there."

She rolled her big, blue eyes again, and Dennis laughed. She still made him laugh as much as she had when he first met her.

His friend, Ric Terrazin, the comedian, had introduced Dennis to his daughter in 1979, when she was eighteen, and Dennis had had an affair with her shortly afterward, and still had, as Ally well knew, a warm spot for her. She was an actress now, and was always working, mostly in supporting roles in low-budget teen comedies and slasher movies, genres she felt that she was getting too old for. Producers and audiences disagreed, however, and she continued to bare her breasts in a half dozen features a year.

"Ranthu is serious business, Dennis," she said, shaking her head so that her long blonde hair whispered over her bare shoulders. "A lot of these guys are fake, sure, but I check them out pretty good. Ranthu's for real."

"And what's Ranthu say about ghosts?"

"He says that all theatres are haunted."

"By what?"

"By psychic residue."

"Uh-huh. You mean like cosmic dung?"

"It's not funny. I mean like psychic residues of mass emotions. Okay, okay, look. When people come to see a play, it's like the old Greeks, right? Like catharsis? Like your emotions get really out in the open and stretched and exposed and all?”

“With Neil Simon?"

"Don't be a smartass. You know what I mean. Especially in live theatre. There's this psychic link between the performers and the audience? And some of that psychic…” – she searched for the word – " stuff hangs around. And people who are in here, like alone at night or something – or even in the daytime, because it's always dark anyway – their suggestibility is heightened. And they start to see things."

"Wait a minute," Dennis said. "You say suggestibility. So does that mean that they make these things up? That they're hallucinations?"

"Well, maybe sometimes. But sometimes they're real too."

"Ally, you're a flake, but I love you." He smiled and kissed her cheek. "And if there are any ghosts in my theatre, I hope you'll be the first to find them."

She grinned. "I don't. Ghosts scare the shit out of me. You remember that movie I made last year, The Ouija Man?"

"The one where you took the shower?"

She pursed her lips. "That's the part you remembered, huh? Well, when we were fucking around with the Ouija board in rehearsals, I really got freaked out.”

“Why? What did it say?"

"It spoke to me."

"Spoke?"

"Oh, you know, it spelled to me, okay? Spelled my name. And then it said, 'See me die.'"

"See you die?"

"No. 'Me.' It spelled M-E. Like I was supposed to see it die, you know? And we asked it when, and it said soon, and we asked where, and it said, 'Theatre.'“

“Just theatre? Didn't say which one?"

"Uh-uh. I didn't want to ask it anymore. It was just too weird."

"So what's the end of the story?"

"Huh?"

"So did you see someone die in a theatre?"

"Well, no."

"Then doesn't that prove it was bullshit? I mean, it said soon, didn't it?"

"Oh yeah, but what's soon to us may not be soon to the entities. I mean, Ranthu thinks in terms of epochs."

"Great, Ally. So if somebody dies in a theatre you're in within the next epoch, that means the Ouija board's real?"

"You don't believe in anything, do you, Dennis?"

"Nothing that originates on the west coast, no."

Before Ally could reply, Tommy Werton came up to them, a bottle of Budweiser dangling from one hammy fist. His smile was almost lost in the thicket of black beard that climbed nearly to his eyes. "’Scuse me, Dennis. Robin asked me to remind you it's almost eleven. Time to start the show."

"Oh, right. Tommy, you know Ally Terrazin? Ally, this is Tommy Werton, our ASM."

"ASM?" Ally repeated.

"Poor girl's never been in live theatre, Tommy," Dennis said smiling. "Had to start out in movies."

"It's short for assistant stage manager," Tommy said. "I do all the stuff Curt doesn't want to."

"In short," Dennis added, "Tommy does almost everything that requires getting your hands dirty. So. We've got the multitudes all ready?"

Tommy nodded. "Robin and Sid rounded 'em up. Let 'em in?"

"Is Curt in the booth?" Dennis asked.

"Yeah. Spot's warming up."

Dennis turned back to Ally. "Ready to see the show?"

"You mean there's more?"

"Sure. I've only shown you where we keep our ghost, right here in the inner lobby. And only because you asked. I wouldn't have done this for just anyone." She smiled. "Only west coast flakes."

"You got it. Open the doors, Tommy."

Tommy did as he was ordered, then quickly walked down the left-hand aisle toward the stage, avoiding the surge of drink-laden guests pouring through the inner lobby and then into the theatre proper, after having dutifully oooed and ahhhed at the complexity and beauty of the mosaics.

Curt had, Dennis thought, done a marvelous job with the lighting. It was too dim to make out any details of the theatre, just bright enough so that you could find a seat. Above, the flat dome of sky was dark in the center, except for the dozens of stars (really 10 and 25 watt bulbs) that peeked through the scudding clouds provided by two half-century old stereopticon machines. Yet a hazy pinkness bloomed on the right side of the ceiling, as though the artificial sky was on the verge of a burgeoning sunrise. The audible responses ranged from the expected "Gorgeous…” and "Incredible…” to the equally anticipated "I can't see a fucking thing!" from a number of the more tiddly guests.

"It looks terrific," Dennis heard Robin say, and felt her hand slip into his. He turned and kissed her lightly. "Here's Mister Microphone." She handed him a Shure wireless. "Just flick the switch when you're ready. Curt's got the power on."

"Thanks. You're throwing a wonderful party, love." He squinted across the thirty-four rows of seats toward the stage. "Can you see anything up there?”

“No. Just darkness."

"Good," he said. "That's how we want it. When that fire curtain comes down, they are going to love it."