Carlin Romano - Philadelphia Noir

“You bitch. See what you done? All this woo-woo shit? The actors think you’re a loony-tunes too. They put court orders or somethin’ on weirdos like you. You better hope they’re not headin’ off to find a cop.”

I would have argued with the jerk, but I was worried he might take out his anger on my dog. Besides, he had a child with him. He began to trot after Thomas Kelman.

“Hey, buddy, I’ll make it worth your while. All of yous. The kid likes this stage-type shit, what can I say? Just finish up what you started before that kooky dame started bustin’ your chops. I’m no sensitive Sally; if your friend wants to off her hubby, that’s fine by me. Hey, maybe I could help yous out with that… Audience input, you know? I know some guys… Hey, what can I say? Connected. Know what I mean?”

Kelman didn’t answer, which tickled the hairy charmer to no end. “Yous guys are good ! It’s like you don’t even hear me. I could use that on the missus. I can’t yak now, hon, I’m acting.” He chortled as he and his kid chugged to keep pace. Then the boy, who was half as tall as his father and a quarter his heft, began to complain about being hungry. “All right already. So we’ll quit. You wanna quit? Let’s do it.” There was kindness in his voice. Playfully, he cuffed his son on his skinny shoulder. “Who’s the boss?”

It wasn’t a question, but the boy replied with a pleased and chirpy: “Me, Pop.”

“You bet.”

The pair started to amble south toward Walnut Street while the remainder of the audience dispersed, rebuking both me and the cast with varying levels of indignation. There’s nothing like canceling a free performance to get people’s dander up. My failed effort at city boosterism made me want to slog home and return to the pitiless computer screen. It may be a harsh critic, but it’s a silent one. Despite my bruised ego, I stuck close to my mystical pals, waiting for an opportunity for a private dialogue. Which, if you think about it, could have turned into a ventriloquist’s monologue/pantomime.

I didn’t get the chance for a confab, though, because William Taitt rushed onto the scene, charging in from 4th Street and almost barreling into the parent-child duo. The electric streetlamps hadn’t yet winked on, so visibility was reduced. Fortunately, Dad spotted Taitt as he strode forward, oblivious to anyone but himself. It was clear that Becky’s husband was infuriated, and that decorum had been thrown to the winds. As he drew closer, it was equally apparent that he was inebriated. I’m sorry to say that’s sometimes the case with William Taitt. I blame myself.

Becky, my brave Becky, blanched and turned her head away as if expecting a blow. Martha squared her shoulders, preparing to give Taitt a piece of her mind. Kelman stepped forward to block the man’s approach.

“Kee-rist,” the father gushed while his son burbled an impressed: “Cool.”

“Didja see the guy’s shoes? High heels. Like a dame’s. I’m tellin’ you, this is somethin’ you’ll never forget. Them dopes that left early are missing a real good show. NYC don’t have nothin’ like this. You’d pay big bucks up there for an act like this.”

Parent and child returned to the center of the action while Taitt bore down upon his wife. As always, he was dressed in the latest style: the shoes that had caught the dad’s attention as well as a plum-colored jacket and trousers the hue of a fawn’s soft hide. The piping around his coat’s lapels was syenite-blue. Were he a few years younger, Taitt would have been viewed as a dandy. His hair beneath his hat was wild, however, and his shirt and cravat askew.

“You make a mockery of me, wife,” he seethed. “I won’t permit it. And hiding behind your Amazon warrior. Mistress Martha Beale’s no mythic queen who’ll guard you from-”

“Have done, Mr. Taitt,” was Kelman’s quiet command, which drew immediate ire from Becky’s drunken husband.

“Do you dare to countermand me, sir? This is a private matter. I insist you-”

“And I insist you behave in a civil manner toward your wife and Miss Beale-”

“ Civil , Mr. Kelman. I doubt you understand the meaning of the word. You, a mere Johnny-jump-up who hopes to pluck golden coins from your heiress while laying her in your feathered nest. Here hen, hen, hen. Produce some shiny eggs for me, pray do.” He attempted to push past Kelman, who stood his ground. The scar on his left cheek twitched; his hands curled themselves into fists.

“William, please. Desist. I’ll come home presently-”

Naturally, Martha objected. “Becky, what did you just tell us? Besides, remember the pain he has inflicted in the past under similar circumstances. I won’t allow you to be battered again.” She put a protective arm around her friend’s shoulder, which further enraged Taitt.

“You three can go to the devil! I’m William Taitt. My family built this city. I won’t be denied my conjugal rights.”

“Your rights don’t include assault, sir.” This from Martha, which drew a sneering condemnation from Taitt: “How would you, a spinster, know anything about marital rights, madam? Or fornication, unless it’s with a-?”

“Taitt. Silence-”

“Lay a hand on me, Kelman, and I’ll make certain you’re hounded from the city. I am aware that you are in the mayor’s employ, but his relationship with me is one of friendship and camaraderie.”

You may wonder where was I while this altercation unfolded. The truth is that I stood stock-still and slack-jawed. My characters speaking for themselves? Carried along by their own volition? Like the father and son, I watched the scene in silence.

“I’m waiting, wife. You have a child at home, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I haven’t, William. How could I?”

“Ah, contrition, Becky… A new guise. But I think not spoken with sufficient sorrow.”

“My sorrow is in seeing you under the influence of drink. You make a spectacle of yourself in front of our friends-”

“You call these people friends? Well, I do not. And I won’t have my spouse hectoring me.” He held her arm tightly as he spoke.

Martha snatched at his sleeve when he attempted to lead Becky away; Kelman grabbed Taitt’s shoulder. Kelman’s fingers may be as long and tapered as a pianist’s, but he’s accustomed to using force when necessary. He’s also tall; when roused he appears taller and even more imposing. Becky’s husband looked puny beside him, as if his fine garments were sturdier than his limbs.

“Let her go, Taitt. Your threats have run their course. She told you she’d return in due time.”

“I ordered you not to touch me, Kelman.” At that, William Taitt yanked a pistol from his jacket, a new derringer manufactured in the Northern Liberties. If you’re a history buff, you’re familiar with the weapon and its eponymous inventor. If not, this is no time for an aside on the Gold Rush of ’49, or the romance of the Old West. Deringer , Henry. Look him up.

When the gun was whipped out, everyone except Taitt froze. This included the dad and kid. I was already doing my zombie impression.

“Not quite the cock-of-the-walk, are you now, Mister Kelman? Unhand me at once, or I’ll do some damage.” Taitt waved the shiny weapon aloft, pointing randomly at the purplish sky. “This is no fowling piece, I assure you. Oh, I know, gentlemen don’t arm themselves on our city streets, but you see, I’m in the vanguard of taste. I set style, I don’t follow it. Who knows, someday derringers like mine may become de rigueur accessories like hats or walking sticks or ladies’ parasols. I intend to have my wife obey me.” He lowered the gun to shoulder height and smiled. “Don’t think I’m not sincere. The pistol’s loaded.”