Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival Page 5

  “Are you okay?” Ingram dropped down on his knees next to Chris.

  “I don’t know. Water might help.” He was so weak he couldn’t really move. A stroke? His greatest fear, that he’d suffer a stroke, but survive it as a needy dependent old queen. Death would be better than some nurse wiping his ass twice a day.

  Ingram held a glass of water to Chris’ lips. Most of it dribbled out of his mouth. “I’m going to call nine-one-one.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.”

  Ingram produced a phone from somewhere and dialed. Chris fed him the necessary information, address, side streets. The boy hung up.

  “I need you to…two things.” His words were slurred. “Put the cash in the freezer.” Ingram did as Chris said. “Help me…my my my blouse off.”

  “What? I don’t—”

  “Ingram, I don’ wan…see…w-w-wiff tits.” He sounded like an old person who hadn’t put in their teeth.

  “Gotcha.”

  Together, although mostly Ingram, they got the blouse off, unhooked the brassiere and removed the breasts, and then got the blouse on again.

  “I’ll just have to suffer through the ass padding.”

  “You seem so together, so with it.” Ingram was kneeling again, listening for the ambulance.

  “My my my mind seems to be to to to be working. It’s my my my mouth that’s not.”

  Time stood still. He heard sirens.

  “Go, you’ll have to let them in.”

  Ingram jumped up and bolted from the room.

  Chris felt a fuzzy feeling in his brain and throughout his body. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. He focused on his trusty cat clock, ever vigilant, ever watching with those tick-tock eyes. It might be five; he wasn’t sure. Voices rose through the fog. Metal banged and rattled. Hold on, he encouraged himself, but it was futile. Everything went white, bright white. He could hear the men

  Eleven

  “They’re going to move me to a different room later this morning. That’s what they said, anyway,” Chris said to Jericho who had talked his way into Chris’ room.

  “And, you’re feeling better?”

  “Yes, Jerry.” Chris took his friend’s hand. “It’s really strange, but the best they can tell, there was aconite in my bourbon; it’s really rare; but you didn’t get sick?”

  “No, I was fine. And, so was Ingram. He’d had bourbon with you, too. It’s a poison?”

  “Yes a poison. How do you know about Ingram?” Chris batted his eyes. “Have you been checking up on me?”

  “Well, the police questioned all of us. And, the kid has been sitting out in the waiting room since you were brought in here. I talked to him. We compared notes. He’s worried sick about you.”

  “That’s sweet, isn’t it?” Chris ran a hand through his curls, loosening them. He pulled out a hairpin he’d missed. “I feel like a fright, so I must appear that way.”

  “You’re gorgeous.” Jericho squeezed his hand.

  “Now, I know you’re a lying flirt. Thank you.” He smiled and took his hand back. “I need a manicure and a fresh coat of face. Or, maybe some big sunglasses, a scarf, and a floppy beach hat.”

  “Mona Desmond you’re not.”

  “Oh, Jerry, it was feeling like that until you strolled back into my life.” Chris adjusted himself in the bed and took a long sip of water from the straw in a plastic cup. “It was feeling like the long goodbye.”

  “Well, I think there’s still plenty of third act, not to mention a fourth and fifth.” Jericho paced the room. “I’ve got so many ideas. I can’t wait until you’re out of here and we can work together in the club. I need to walk the stage. Get a feel for the place. See what type of choreography will work there.”

  “The stage really isn’t that big. I remember being cramped with just two or three dancer boys. And, you know how small you were!” Chris cackled. His response seemed disproportionate, even to him.

  “Have the police talked to you about any leads?”

  “No. They said it was the bourbon. It’s the last thing I had. But, no one else got sick from it. So, it doesn’t make any sense.” Chris again adjusted in the bed.

  “Are you okay? You seem fidgety.” Jericho stopped pacing and returned to Chris’ side.

  “I’m ready to get the hell out of here. They want to observe this and test for that. I don’t get it. I feel fine. But, I’m connected to all these tubes and wires. Can’t get up to pee. Can’t go for an easy walk. I’m ready to move on, to get on with it.”

  “And, that’s our thought, too.” The doctor’s eyes widened at Jericho Taylor standing there. “This is a family only—”

  “Oh, Jerry’s better than family,” said Chris with a smile followed by a flirty wink. “He’s, of course, welcome.”

  “Okay. Well, we’re releasing you. A nurse will be by to remove the IV and all that other stuff. She’ll give you some papers to sign and some discharge instructions.” The doctor poked and prodded Chris a bit. “Yep, you’re set to go. Good luck.” He turned and shook Jericho’s hand.

  “How about that?” Chris said.

  “I have a meeting, but I can cancel it and wait for you, if you want.” Jericho checked his watch.

  “No, it’s fine. Can you let Ingram know that I’m being released and he can take me home. He’ll get a kick out of that.”

  “Of course. I’ll go now.” Jericho bent over and kissed the top of Chris’ head. “Listen, you call me as soon as you’re settled in again and we’ll get to work on our project, okay?”

  “You bet.” Chris waved at Jerry as he departed.

  A few moments passed and a big nurse entered the room. Chris could spot a transvestite at a hundred yards. He smiled at the woman who professionally removed the IV needle and the electrode wires with their sticky ends. She went through the paperwork, and after a bit, returned with a wheelchair and escorted Chris and Ingram out to the street where the boy hailed them a yellow cab.

  Twelve

  “Honey, I’m home!” Ingram bellowed from the kitchen. He raced down the hall and into the bedroom where Chris was propped up in bed, reading. “I got everything you asked for.”

  “Aren’t you a sweet boy!” Chris put down Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. “What did you bring me?”

  The words fell out of Ingram’s mouth in a rush. “Magazines, gum, nail files, the Times. Are you okay? Do you want anything else? Something to eat?”

  “What is it?” Chris took his hand; forced him to stop.

  “The final callback is this afternoon. I got called for it.” Ingram turned away.

  “Well, that’s wonderful news. You should be preparing, not acting like a nanny for the old lady.”

  Neither of them spoke for a long while. The silence grew uncomfortable.

  Chris broke first. “What?”

  Ingram played with the bedspread fringe. “I’m afraid that I’ve only got the callback because of you. I saw Jericho at the hospital. We talked for a moment. Not about the show, but about you. Still, the hospital, the club, your call.”

  Chris slapped playfully at Ingram’s hand. “I don’t understand. What’s the problem?” He adjusted himself, adding another pillow behind his scarf-wrapped head.

  He looked into Chris’ eyes. “I don’t want this part if I’m getting it because of you or my connection to you. I want things to happen for me based on my own abilities, my own merits.” Tears sprung to Ingram’s eyes.

  “Listen, in this business, in show business, you take every break and opportunity you can drum up. No matter how you get through the door, you still have to perform the part. It’s your performance that matters in the end, not how you got into the audition. And, look at me.” Chris reached up and, with two fingers to the boys chin, he turned Ingram’s face toward his own. “I know Jericho better than a lot of people. If yo
u weren’t his best possible choice, you wouldn’t get a call back. And, the fact that there’s been so many call backs, he’s deciding between you and someone else. You’re only going to get the role if you sing and act circles around the other guy.”

  Ingram let out a deep breath. “Well, then. I have to go.”

  “Change your shirt. That one is all wrinkled.”

  The boy did as instructed, choosing something from a rack of vintage, ’80s shirts. “Okay, I’m off.” Ingram bound down the hall and left with the bang of the door.

  Chris got up and went to the bathroom. He felt better, more like himself, but still not a hundred percent. Instead of standing to pee, he chose to sit. With an empty bladder and clean hands, he made his way to the kitchen and drank two tall glasses of water. That was the doctor’s advice, two or three glasses of water every hour. It made for a lot of trips to the bathroom, but Chris understood that cleaning out the kidneys and liver was the most important thing.

  He debated food, but wasn’t really in the mood. Nice not to be hungry.

  The police said they tested everything he’d come in contact with, his cosmetics, soap, toothpaste, clothes, the piano, his keys, the bottle of bourbon. None of them had any traces of the poison. From tests done by the hospital, they were certain it was the powder form of the drug, not the sap or leaves. He’d definitely ingested the stuff. The only possibility then was that the powder was put into the glass he drank the bourbon from and then the glass was washed clean. Benny and Ingram were the only two in the bar when he drank that bourbon. Or, someone had randomly put the powder into the glass and anyone could have gotten it. Making Chris just the “lucky” recipient. That didn’t seem to make sense.

  Chris realized that the only two people he’d been able to trust, Benny and Ingram, were the prime suspects in the attempted murder. Neither one really had anything to gain from his death. Without him, they’d both be without income.

  He thought about his will. It hadn’t been updated in twenty years. His brother was listed as sole heir, but his brother had committed suicide eleven years ago. Chris went down the hall and into his messy office space. He sat in the leather chair that had been his father’s, turned on the green shaded lamp, and began rooting around the drawers until he found his will. It hadn’t moved or been altered. From the dust in the drawer, it hadn’t even been seen in ages.

  “Who should I leave it all to? There isn’t really anyone. The art. The real estate. The jewels.” He tossed the papers into the drawer and closed it. He sighed as he took in the stacks of banker’s boxes filled with receipts from the bar. File cabinets filled with resumes and head shots, invoices and bills paid. He thought again of Mr. Folgate. He did want the land the bar stood on. Was it possible that he’d attempted murder? That was a little too Agatha Christie wasn’t it?

  Chris turned off the light. He thought more about his brother, Thom, as he wandered into the kitchen and drank another glass of water. He’d had no promise. Met new wives as easily as breathing. Divorced as easily as taking a shit. He was a nice guy, but could never settle down or settle for anything. No regular job. No regular home. He’d traveled around the world, mostly on Chris’ dime. They were brothers. They didn’t really understand each other, yet they supported one another. It was easy. They drank together. They laughed together. Chris gave him money and he left again for another jaunt or journey.

  He got dressed—slacks, blouse, hat, and cape. He headed out to the club. The torn yellow police tape fluttered in the breeze from the river. Chris pulled at the tape, getting it all off the doorway, and then walked around to the alley and entered through the rear door. The kitchen seemed even cleaner, as if that were possible. He opened the large refrigerator and it was stocked with food. Not really stocked for dinner service, but more like an oversized, personal fridge.

  The place felt cold, so he went down to the basement, turned on the lights, and made his way to the boiler. He made a few adjustments and got the steam heat turned on. Within moments, the radiators around the place banged and hissed to life. It would take a few days for the banging to stop, but the building would be comfortably warm all winter.

  Upstairs, with flashlight in hand, he walked through the whole club, just as he did in the old days. He turned on every light switch, checked for dead bulbs. He shined his flashlight into the corners and those places in the ceiling where leaks had once been.

  An hour passed before he was at the bar. He put on a pair of gloves and began hand washing every glass in the bar. Then, he ran them in batches through the dishwasher. He got two empty cardboard booze cases. He opened every bottle of liquor from the backlit, glass wall behind the bar, dumped the contents down the drain, and placed the empty bottles in the boxes. Bottles that hadn’t been opened were washed in hot, soapy water before being replaced on the shelves.

  By four o’clock the bar glass shined. He’d washed all the shelves and the mirrors and the bar top.

  Chris unlocked the front door and flipped on the neon “Open” sign. He was alone in his club. No bartender. No patrons. Just him. He made a fresh pot of coffee. While it brewed, he drank a bottle of water.

  Thirteen

  Ingram rushed through the door into the empty club. “I got it! He hired me!” He jumped over the bar and hugged Chris tight.

  “Congratulations. That’s wonderful.” Chris freed himself, went to one of the coolers behind the bar, and pulled out a bottle of champagne. He popped the cork without spilling a drop and poured two glasses.

  They drank while Ingram prattled on and on about the final audition and the conversation and how glad he was that Chris had said everything he’d said earlier in the day. “Hey, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be home in bed.” Ingram ushered him to a nearby stool, not his usual perch.

  “I needed to get out of the house. And, I’m feeling fine. A little weak, I guess, but fine.” He thought about telling the boy all he’d done, but decided he didn’t want a lecture from the kid. “Benny hasn’t come in tonight.”

  Ingram surveyed the barroom. “Well, I guess I can open a few beers if anyone wants something.”

  “You know how to bartend?” The kid made him laugh.

  “Well, I know how to open beers. I can pour bourbon over ice.”

  “Boxcar? Old Fashioned? Long Island Iced Tea?”

  “I can pour scotch over ice,” Ingram said with a smile. “The people who come in here never…don’t…we’ll cross that bridge if…” He inspected Chris.

  “I know you’re trying to protect me, but I’ve been on the planet for a lot longer than you have. I’ve done okay. I’ve survived. Hell, even poison can’t take me out.”

  “Poison. We should clean everything. This place was…the police made a mess with all their tests and checks. When…?”

  “I took care of all that this afternoon.”

  “You’re supposed to be resting,” Ingram whined.

  Chris hugged him from the side. “Yes, I know. I just needed…wait, I don’t have to explain myself to you. I like you. You’re a great guy. But, I’m on my own with all this. I always have been.” He shrugged Ingram off of him and stood up. “Were you going to make us dinner or something?”

  “Sure. I shopped. The fridge is stocked. Is there something you want?”

  “Whatever you make will be fine. I just need a few minutes alone. Go. Please?” Chris wouldn’t make eye contact with Ingram.

  “Sure. Sure.”

  The dining room floor creaked; the door into the kitchen swung open and closed. He took a deep breath, surprised at how he’d snapped at the kid. He didn’t know where that emotion had come from, but what he did know was that he missed Jimmy. He missed knowing there was at least one person on the planet who loved and needed him.

  Chris turned to hide his tear-stained face when Jericho burst into the bar with two women. They were laughing about something, joyful. He
really wasn’t in the mood.

  “Christopher Marlowe, as I live and breathe!” Jericho rushed to him and hugged him.

  “Hello. We’re short staffed. I’ll be back in a moment,” Chris rushed into the hallway that led to the bathrooms. He went past them, through a door marked “Private.” He fumbled with the doorknob in the soft red light; after an effort, he managed to give it the required combination lock turns. It was an ingenious lock, something thought up by one of those genius boys in the ’70s Jimmy always dated—boys who went on to instigate the tech revolution. He entered and closed the door tight. The lights came on automatically. Everything seemed in place, though very dusty. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d entered the office. A few days ago? A week? A year?

  He ran a finger over the closed, roll-top desk. He could write his name in the dust if he chose. He opened the thing. Inside rested a bottle of bourbon, covered in dust, like the rest of the room. He unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow. The liquid burned his throat in a lovely, familiar way. He took another drink before the sensation subsided.

  More tears came. He sat down in the desk chair. He drank and cried for a long time. The tapestry had begun to shred, not unravel, but deconstruct. Someone was trying to kill him. His club was dead. He was alone on the planet. No one loved him, and he loved no one.

  Chris contemplated what it would take to force the letter opener through his veins.

  He laughed at himself, glad there wasn’t a mirror. The view in his head had to be worse.

  “What is wrong with you, Miss Thing?” He drank more. “A little poison. A few threats. What kind of a queen are you? Sad. Pathetic. Well, it’s time for your Big Girl Panties. It’s time to kick some ass.” Another drink and he screwed the cap on. He opened a few desk drawers, came up with a scarf, and wiped his face, glad he hadn’t put on makeup. He rummaged through the drawer, found a pair of sunglasses and contemplated putting them on. He tossed them back.