Evan Hunter - The Paper Dragon

He wanted to own this city.

But more than that, or perhaps a part of it, an extension of it, he wanted to know that this was where he belonged, this city into which he had been born, this city whose streets and gutters he knew from the time he had felt for immies in deep puddles along the curb, this city whose rooftops held secret fluttering pigeons to watch, hot, sticky tar to mold into huge, strange shapes, chimney pots behind which you could pee, this city that had grown to include the Bronx and a two-family house opposite the junior high school, hide and seek behind hydrangea bushes, fig trees wrapped in tarpaper against the winter's cold, a two-cent Hooton with nuts every afternoon on the walk home from Evander, Bronx Park and the winding river path, Laura in the woods behind the Botanical Gardens, they'd been eaten alive by mosquitoes, this city, this.

He wanted to claim it, but more than that he wished to be claimed by it.

Those solitary walks to the library alone, when alone his thoughts would spiral and somersault, when alone he would build magic castles bright with minarets and floating golden banners, when alone he was master of a world in which he walked proud and unafraid and people knew his name and dreaded it, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his mackinaw, the library books dangling at the end of a long leather strap except when it was raining and his mother made him put them in a shopping bag from the A&P, those solitary walks when he knew without question who he was and what he would become.

He wanted the city to tell him who he was again.

He paid the driver and got out of the taxi, walking directly to the stage entrance and opening the door onto the long alley that led to the rear of the theater. Selig and Stern were standing at the end of the alley, in whispered consultation just outside the metal stage door. Selig was wearing a black overcoat with black velveteen collar and cuffs, puffing on a cigar and standing alongside the iron steps that ran to the upper stories of the theater. The alleyway was gray, capped by an ominous piece of gray sky that hung high above it like a canopy. Selig stood in black against the rusting iron steps, surrounded by gray walls and gray smoke. His face appeared gray, too, as though someone very close had passed away during the night.

Stern was wearing a blue plaid sports jacket with a navy blue sweater under it. He was rubbing his big hands together as though chiding himself for having anticipated spring in December, his shoulders hunched, shivering with every swirling gust of alley wind. He looked up in surprise as Arthur approached, and then said, "Is the trial finished already?"

"No, we broke early," Arthur replied. "Is Kent here?"

"Not yet," Selig said.

Kent Mercer was their director, a faggot whose nocturnal revels ("I'm a night person," he would protest, "that's why I'm in the theater, really") often terminated along about dawn when less talented citizens were rising and banging on the radiators for heat. No one expected him to be on time because he never was, and no one ever mentioned his tardy appearances — except Selig, who would invariably remark, each time Mercer arrived late and pantingly out of breath, "Have a good night's sleep, Kent?"

"Where is it?" Stern asked, shivering. "The trial, I mean."

"All the way downtown. Foley Square."

"Is that near the traffic court down there?" Stern asked.

"I think so."

"I was down there once on a speeding ticket," Stern said.

"Mmm," Arthur said, and wondered how Stern could possibly equate a traffic ticket with something as important as a plagiarism suit. Of the two men, he liked Stern least, which in itself was no recommendation for Selig. "Have you heard from Mitzi?" he asked.

"Not yet," Selig said.

"Well, what's happening with Hester's contract?"

"You know as much about it as we do," Selig said mildly, and then puffed on his cigar and looked at the wet end as though suddenly displeased with its taste.

"Last Wednesday—"

"That's right," Stern said. Stern had an annoying habit of agreeing with a statement before it was finished. Arthur was tempted to say, "Last Wednesday someone told me you were a son of a bitch." Instead, he glanced at Stern in brief anger, and then said, "Last Wednesday you told me Hester liked the play."

"That's right," Stern said.

"That's what her agent told us," Selig agreed.

"Aren't you fellows cold out here?" Stern asked.

"No," Arthur said. "And on Friday, you told me she wanted to do it, and it was now a matter of negotiation."

"That's right."

"This is Monday," Arthur said.

"You know Hester."

"No, I don't know Hester."

"She's not sure now."

"If she was sure Friday…"

"We don't even know if she was sure Friday. We only know what her agent told us."

"Her agent said she wanted to do the play, isn't that right?"

"And that she was ready to negotiate."

"That's right."

"Well, has an offer been made?"

"She's getting a thousand a week at Lincoln Center, that's whether she's in any of the plays or not. If we even hope to spring her, we've got to offer at least fifteen hundred."

"Well, how much did you offer?"

"It hasn't come to that yet."

"Look, would someone please talk straight?" Arthur said.

"We've always talked straight with you, Arthur," Selig answered.

" Was an offer made?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because she still has to talk to the people at Lincoln Center about getting sprung."

"Won't they let her go?"

"We think they will, but it's a matter of sitting down with these people and discussing it."

"Well, when is she going to do that?"

"As soon as she's sure she wants to do your play."

"That's right," Stern said.

"Let me try to get this straight," Arthur said. " Does she want to do my play?"

"It would seem so."

"When will we know?"

"I'll call her agent again, if you want me to," Selig said. "Is that what you'd like?"

"Yes."

"I don't think we should push this," Stern said.

"Why not?"

"Because if we can get Hester Miers to take this part, we'll raise all the money for the play immediately. That's why."

"I thought we had all the money already," Arthur said.

"This show will cost eighty thousand dollars," Stern said.

"Have we got all the money, or haven't we?"

"No, Arthur," Selig said. "We have not got all the money."

"You told me…"

"That's right," Stern said.

"You told me all the money was in. You said…"

"That's right, but a few of our people have dropped out."

"Well, even if a few of them have dropped out, that doesn't mean…"

"One of our people was a man who'd promised us a very large sum of money. He's decided to put it into a musical instead."

"How much do we still need?"

"We still need sixty thousand dollars," Selig said flatly.

"That means we've hardly got any of it," Arthur said.

"If we sign Hester, we'll get all of it," Stern said.

"Then for God's sake sign her!"

"She's not sure she wants to do it."

"Call her agent. I want to know."

"Mitzi will say what she said over the weekend," Stern said. "Hester's not sure."

"If you want me to call her, I will," Selig said. "I'll do whatever you want me to do, Arthur. After all, this is your play."

"That's right," Stern said, "but calling Mitzi won't do a bit of good."

"If Arthur wants me to call her, I will."

"Is that what you want, Arthur?"

"I want this play to go on," Arthur said fiercely.

"We all do."

"That's right. But calling Mitzi isn't going to help. She'll say she hasn't been able to reach Hester."

"Look…"