Bradley Sinor: «Places for Act Two!»

"Liam! Liam Gideon! Where the hell have you been! I expected you back by half past four!"

The voice belonged to a tall skinny man, with muttonchop sideburns that seemed to cover half or more of his face. He came charging toward Liam from behind a huge Greek column that was part of the Piratesset. He seemed to be on the edge of pure fright. Hands were constantly in motion, pointing this way and that or flipping through the pages of a libretto that had seen better days.

"I'm sorry I was delayed, Mr. Bunberry. It couldn't be helped," said Liam.

"Couldn't be helped! You know that Everett is screaming that he can't rehearse unless he has his new sword," said Bunberry.

"I well know all his complaints, sir," said Liam.

"Then why were you dawdling about! I'm still expecting him to fall in the pit deliberately, just to spite me!"

"I doubt that," said Liam.

"Sir, Mr. Gideon was not as you say it, dawdling about," said Dracula.

"And who would you be?"

"I am... Count Dracula." Dracula's eyes fastened on Bunberry's. Neither man blinked "Had it not been for the timely intervention of Mr. Gideon when three thugs were attacking me, I would have found self in a grave situation. He did the only thing that a man of honor and duty could do."

Bunberry stood there for a moment, his eyes glassed over, a thin sheen of sweet on his forehead.

"Well, if it was something like that I can understand the delay," he said. "Just get that sword to Everett. The old hen will be fretting his life away, sure that his performance will be ruined and his career over, until he gets it. Then get down to the costume shop. They need to measure you for your new Frederic costume."

At that, Bunberry whirled on his heels and headed off in the direction of the pirate ship set that filled much of stage left. Just before he got there, a large fat man that Liam didn't recognize, dressed in a tailored waist coat with a top hat and cane in hand, stopped him. The two men began to speak in whispers.

"I expected him to be quite a bit more vehement about the whole thing," said Liam.

"Perhaps it was something I said," mused Dracula.

"Look, you blinking Irishman. If you don't stand still, Effie is going skewer that pretty little bum of yours with a very long needle!"

With those words ringing in his ears, Liam made a conscious effort not to move. If Effie Ferguson made a threat, she meant it. Looking somewhere between 30 and 60, she was the absolute mistress of The Strand Theatre costume shop. She had the reputation of being able to make a gunny sack, four buttons, a flower, a skein of thread and some glass beads into the fanciest ball gown.

Facing the mirror Liam could see the woman's hands moving swiftly, marking with a long piece of chalk on his pants leg. Then she produced a rather formidable-looking shaving razor and slid it along the cloth from the back of his knee to his ankle. He could feel the cloth parting, but never once felt the touch of the metal.

"You just tell me what I need to do, Effie, and I will do it."

"Now, that's a good lad," she said. "We want you looking only your best, now, to go on for their Highnesses."

"Highnesses? What are you talking about?"

Effie chuckled but did not look up. "Now tell me, Mr. Liam Gideon, are you trying to say that you don't know about our 'guests' for opening night?"

Liam drew a breath and forced a smile. He had played this little game with Effie before. "No Effie, I don't. So would you please share that information with me?"

"Well," she said. "I suppose if they had wanted you to know someone would have mentioned it to you."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps everyone thought that every one else had told me. So why don't you tell me."

"Maybe I should. After all, it isn't often that poor little common actors get the chance to perform for the high and mighty likes of 'themselves,' now do they?"

"Yes?"

"It seems that opening night we will have some people in the audience that will bring all of the 'right' sort of society as well as the commoners in."

"Who in hell are you talking about, woman? Is St. Patrick himself coming to see the show?"

A sharp pain drove its way into Liam's calf. He could barely keep from moving, knowing that Effie would do much worse if he did.

"No, you Irish gobashit, it isn't St. Patrick, nor is it Grace O'Mally or even Finn MacCool! Trust an uncivilized Irishman to think of those insignificants in a case like this," she said.

"Insignificants! Geez, woman, there are moments I wonder about your sense of who is or isn't important," Liam said. "So, now, who would it be, if it isn't those noteworthies?"

"Simple; it is himself, Albert Edward, Prince of Wales and heir to the throne of England who will be gracing these premises on opening night. Seems that he and his wife think that seeing a performance of "Pirates" would make a grand way to spend her birthday," Effie said.

"I suppose they're renting out the entire Theatre? Just an intimate little gathering of 1,500 of their closest friends," said Liam.

"No, they aren't renting out the entire Theatre, you Irish idiot. But don't you think that Bertie has that many friends?"

Another pain shot through Liam's calf to punctuate Effie's words. There was a muted chuckle from the costume mistress.

"Woman, you enjoyed that!"

"Me? Of course I did. Now, stand still!"

"I wanted to stop in and wish you good luck, Liam," said Dracula.

"I appreciate the sentiment, Count. But I really wish you hadn't said it," said Liam.

"What?"

Liam smiled. Explaining theatrical traditions to non- theater people was something that every actor had to do now and then. He led Dracula into the Strand Green Room.

The Green Room, which was painted a mottled brown, was a large lounge in the back of the theater where actors and stagehands could take a few minutes and relax in. Why it was called The Green Room Liam didn't know. As a matter of fact he had never been in one that was green; it was just another theatrical tradition.

"It's an old theatrical custom. If you wish a performer good luck before they go on, you don't say those words; they'll bring him bad luck. Instead, actors say "break a leg." Every actor knows what you really mean" said Liam.

Dracula raised an eyebrow at Liam's explanation.

"I suppose each profession has its own customs. Very well, let me bid you to 'Break a leg.'" Figuratively, of course, not in reality."

"Thank you," said Liam.

"Are you nervous?" asked the count.

"A bit," Liam said "A very wise actor once told me that if I weren't at least a little bit nervous before each performance, then that was the time to worry."

"Your friend had the right attitude."

Just then the door to the Green Room flew open, as if a storm was behind it. Bunberry came barreling in, followed by Effie and several stage hands.

"Liam, there you are. I've been looking all over the theater for you!" said Bunberry.

"Is there a problem? Everett has his sword and knows the new choreography backwards and forwards."

"I don't know what he does or doesn't know, and it doesn't matter. Everett is incapacitated and won't be going on tonight," said Bunberry.

"Incapacitated? Is that a fancy way of saying he's drunk again?" said one of the other actors.

Effie answered them with a humph, and a look of disgust. There were tales that Everett had, over his twenty-five year career, given some of his best performances drunk.

"He's passed out and no one can rouse him. He's breathing, so I assume he is alive. I spoke to the gobashit earlier, not an hour ago," said Effie. "He seemed fine then. I certainly didn't smell any alcohol on him then."

"Could he be sick?" asked Liam.