Stage Fright, page 4
Before Jimmy could ask, Paddy came up to him. “Evening, Captain. Off duty, I see.”
“For a change.”
“Get you a beer?”
“Thanks. Yuengling. Jimmy will take a refill.”
Jimmy covered his glass. “Going easy tonight. Working a new case.”
The case was just a convenient excuse. Jimmy really preferred to keep his wits about him around Frisano.
“He’ll change his mind in a minute,” Frisano said, accepting the fresh pour from Paddy.
“Just wave when ready,” Paddy said before moving off to serve another customer.
Frisano took hold of his glass, raised it in cheer but didn’t say to what. He drank a sip, all while Jimmy observed. He caught the eye of one of the young ladies at the bar; she had a wistful look on her face. All the hot ones were gay it seemed to say. A sound of raucous laughter erupted behind them where three guys playing darts cheered their success. The noise inside the bar was invasive, not conducive to talking. Jimmy sensed Frisano was thinking the same thing.
“Might be quieter upstairs, you know…in your office,” Frisano said.
If they went there, Jimmy wasn’t sure they’d get much talking done.
“Follow me, we’ll use my uncle’s office in the back.”
They got up from their stools, grabbed their beers, and together wound their way through the crowd, bypassing the bathrooms and finally coming to a wooden door at the back. It had one of those keypad locks; Jimmy knew the combo and pressed the four digit number before hitting enter. A click sounded, and he turned the knob. Frisano entered first, Jimmy following, closing the door behind him. The noise from the bar was instantly muffled, as though the room had been sound-proofed. Thick wood in these old buildings.
“That’s better,” Frisano said.
Jimmy just nodded, took a sip of beer. He wondered again about the motive behind this impromptu meeting. They hadn’t seen each other since early July, over two months. The separation hadn’t bonded them. Only the moment did.
“So, Frank, what can I do for you?” His voice was cool, detached.
“Seetha Assan,” Frisano said. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
Jimmy felt his chest constrict, but then he let out a rush of air. This wasn’t a pleasure call. Was that relief he felt, or disappointment?
“She called me,” Jimmy said.
“When?”
“Last month sometime. We spoke for like three seconds. She hung up on me.”
Frisano said nothing, absorbing his words. “She called you at my urging.”
“Yours? I don’t understand.”
“After Rashad died…”
“You mean, after you gunned him down…”
“Jim, he was holding people hostage. He’d killed. He got what was coming to him.”
“Swift justice.”
“At least it wasn’t blind.”
Jimmy had no reply. He looked around the small office. A simple desk, two chairs, empty cases of beer, a photograph of the Irish coast on the wall. No computer, no modern conveniences. Paddy liked things simple. Jimmy envied him. He sat down on the edge of the desk, felt the walls closing in on him. He had a lot of questions suddenly and wasn’t sure which one to begin with. That mysterious call last month from the sister of the man Jimmy suspected of being involved in the murder of Joseph McSwain had left him cold. Just like the case itself.
“As I was saying, Assan was dead, the NYPD was searching for his next of kin. A search finally revealed a sister, named Seetha, out in Queens. Woodhaven. Detectives Barone and Dean went out to talk to her, confirm her identity, her relationship to the deceased. We were satisfied. We turned Assan’s body over to her. What she did with it, I don’t know. She might have had him cremated. She said he had brought shame upon the Assan family.”
“Murder will do that,” Jimmy said, bitterness on his tongue.
“The case was closed, filed away. Then one day I get a visitor at the Precinct.”
“Seetha?”
“She wanted to meet the man who killed her brother.”
“That must have been difficult.”
“It was no problem. In the eyes of the NYPD, I was a hero.”
“And in her eyes?”
“Only sadness, blackness emanating from her soul. Their parents were deceased, Rashad once the family hope. When he was sent to prison, she was just a teenager and didn’t understand what had happened. She went to live with distant relatives, which is why she was so hard to track down. She kept a low profile. It was only after the story came out about Assan’s killing that she wanted to know the truth about her brother.”
“And did she find it?”
“I don’t know.” Frisano paused, took a sip of his beer, like he was swallowing regret.
“Frank, why don’t you just spill it? Twenty questions takes too long. What’s going on?”
“Seetha told me she wanted to know what made her brother turn. He’d gone to the police academy, he was a rising star in the NYPD and he’d made his immigrant parents proud. Then something happened, Assan changed. He’d been a happy guy, thinking about a future. He had a fiancée, she said. Then he was in that bar fight, busted by his own brotherhood, sent to prison for manslaughter. Seetha saw him only one time after that. She visited him in prison, right after her twenty-first birthday. She wanted to know why.”
“And did Assan tell her?”
“He told her to go away,” Frisano said. “And she did, she told me. In tears. She said she was all alone in the world.”
“Why do I feel I’m not going to like where this is going?” Jimmy said. “Where is Seetha now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that. There’s a lot you don’t seem to know.”
“And officially, I’m not supposed to do anything. Assan’s case is closed.”
“But my father’s murder isn’t. Does Seetha know something about it?”
“That’s why I told her to call you. I mentioned how you suspected Rashad might have been a part of the incident that took your father’s life. It might have been the reason for his downfall. All she would tell me was he was filled with anger. A one-eighty from how he’d been as a kid.”
Frisano’s words tasted like a morsel of a tasty meal, and Jimmy wanted another bite. But the plate was empty now, Seetha’s whereabouts not even providing a crumb.
“I tried to find her,” Jimmy said. “After she called me. I had no phone number. I couldn’t find an address. It was like she didn’t want to be found.”
“The house wasn’t in her name. That’s what took so long to find her.”
“And now? Frank, why are you here? If this isn’t a case the NYPD is interested in…”
Frisano set his beer down on the desk, came closer to Jimmy. His body hovered over him, large, imposing, and incredibly sexy in this confined space. When things had been good between them, Jimmy could have reached over, taken his hand, clasped it, drawn him in, kissed his sweet lips…and then let desire take its natural course. Instead, Jimmy folded his arms across his chest.
“I thought between the two of you, you might find some new clues, about what happened to your father and to her brother. Why two families had to be destroyed. Look, Jim, I know how you felt about me after what went down with Assan...how you still feel. If that’s how you want it to be, I have no choice but to accept that. That doesn’t mean we’re enemies, or that I can’t pass along important information to you. If you truly believe Rashad Assan had knowledge of your father’s death, then its possible Seetha knows something she may not even be aware of.”
“So you told Seetha to call me. She did. But she hung up. Clearly she changed her mind, in a split second.”
“No, Jim, she was afraid.”
“Afraid?” Jimmy felt a chill hit him. It had been a day filled with talk of fear. “Tell me, Frank, why you really came to see me?”
“Seetha Assan has disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“I was checking up on her, you know, clearing unfinished business off my desk. I wanted to know if she followed through by contacting you. What I discovered was her home had been cleaned out, no forwarding address given to the landlord. The guys at the 106 can’t do anything either since no formal missing persons report has been filed. But I’m worried, Jim.”
“You want me to find her?”
“I think you will want to find her. It’s your only connection to Rashad, the last one.”
Jimmy quieted, his mind swirling. He’d just taken a new case, one that could consume him for at least the next month, till the opening of the show. But the Forever Haunt, his father’s case, was always at the forefront of his mind, and here was the freshest lead he’d been handed. How could he possibly dig into some heretofore unknown woman’s disappearance when he’d promised to protect the edgy, nervous Casey Crais from a threat that might not even be directed at him? Jimmy felt the room darken, his eyes narrow. He saw the dinner from earlier tonight play out, his father’s empty chair, the flat beer in his glass. Joseph McSwain should have been there. Not just tonight, but last night and every damn night for the past fifteen years. He gazed back up at Frisano.
“Give me her address. I’ll have to start somewhere.”
“I thought so.”
Frisano removed a folded piece of paper from his pocket, handed it over. As Jimmy took hold of it, Frisano held their touch, let their eyes lock. Jimmy wished he could look away but to do so would be cowardly. The man before him emitted heat, and when he reached out a hand and put it against Jimmy’s shaven cheek, the feeling was warm, almost tender. Frisano let his fingers scrape against Jimmy’s chin, slip down to the tease of chest hair visible from his open-neck shirt. Frisano brushed it, hope alive in his gesture, regret, too.
“We were good, Jim. Real good.” His voice was soft. It drew Jimmy to him.
He was at a loss for words. How easy it would be to kiss this man and invite him upstairs.
But he blinked, looked up. “Thanks for the information about Seetha.”
The moment was over, pleasure fleeing, business separating them.
Frisano drained his beer and set the empty glass down on the desk, got ready to leave. His hand was on the doorknob when he turned back around. Jimmy saw remorse in his eyes, maybe a tear.
“If you really want to bring someone back to life, Jim, you should start with yourself.”
CHAPTER THREE
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to your inner most fears.”
Not exactly a rallying cry to get the troops motivated, but perhaps that was the tone set by the play, the cast and crew having grown accustomed to their fate. There came laughter among the thirty odd people assembled on the stage of the Calloway Theatre. Jimmy McSwain was one of them, and he felt both out of place and out of rhythm with the jovial nature of the gathering. Sure, the cast had been rehearsing for weeks, the creative team putting the finishing touches on the set, lighting, and sound design in the last few days, so they must all be excited to have finally reached the first preview. But for Jimmy, knowing a threat had been lodged, in supposition, at the show’s playwright and the culprit could be one of the many assembled here, he had to take a cautious approach. He didn’t join in the laughter; he allowed a smirk so as not to bring too much attention to himself. After all, aside from Welly and Casey—plus a couple of the house stage hands—no one here had a clue who Jimmy was, or what he was doing among them.
It was Welly Calloway, dressed again in his signature seersucker suit, who was speaking, standing center stage while the cast and crew formed a wide circle around him. He wasn’t just the theatre owner but the show’s lead producer and he had a lot riding on the show’s success. Jimmy leaned against a piece of scenery, a comfortable wingback chair, distant from the rest of them. He was keeping a casual approach, not wanting anyone to feel intimidated by his presence. He stared out at the house, the aisles lit, the seats freshly cleaned. How many times had he gone up and down those aisles, Playbills in his hands, seating people while the footlights of the stage acted as a forced barrier? He understood there was an unwritten rule regarding the separation between front of house and backstage, and he also respected it. One side was the business of show, the other the business of operations, a deep chasm existing between creatives and their corporate counterparts. It was noontime, and of course nothing was happening inside the house. His mother was still home, not expected to organize her crew until 7 for an 8 pm curtain.
Not having Maggie here made Jimmy feel even more like an imposter. This stage, it wasn’t his milieu. Jimmy rarely liked to pretend. His world was reality, it was one of death and life, black and white. It was justice served with a side of suspicion. His eyes continued to peruse the group, his mind looking for hidden motives. He returned his attention to Welly, who was still talking.
“We begin tonight under a shroud of mystery,” Welly was saying, “and that’s just how we planned it. Aside from some private industry readings, the New York theatre community remains in the dark about Triskaidekaphobia, heretofore known among us as T13. We forewent the process of an invited dress rehearsal, and instead want to present our first preview to a paying audience. It is the public who will ultimately decide our fate—confirm our fears or release us from their grip. So, I bow my head to you all—to Casey Crais, for his brilliant words, for the cast who have taken those words and instilled in them such power, to the creative team who have brought our show to life upon this wicked stage.”
The group applauded and laughed, all of them seemingly pleased with themselves. Jimmy remained quiet, uninvolved. As far as he could tell, no one wasn’t clapping. All for one and one for all; either that or someone was wearing their Janus face. Masking tragedy behind the comedy.
“Now, before we get to today’s final rehearsal, I just want to take a moment to talk about this beautiful theatre, the Harold Calloway,” Welly said. “My family has owned and operated this great house since 1927, a rarity on Broadway. Its namesake, Harold Calloway, was my great grandfather, and he trod these boards to great acclaim. It is his legacy we continue to honor more than fifty years after his death. We are a family here—an expansive one. The Calloway name might light up the marquee, but we can’t endure without the outstanding front of house crew who will take care of you and those patrons who come to see our show. You’ve already met the house manager, Stephanie D’Abruzzo, but later today Maggie McSwain, who has been our head usher for twenty years, will show you who the real boss is here among the aisles. And in keeping with our tradition of family, I’d like to take a moment to introduce Maggie’s fine son, Jimmy…he’s the handsome young man over there, leaning against Dr. Dell’Aquila’s chair.”
Jimmy felt all eyes turn to him. So much for keeping a low profile.
“You’ll be seeing Jimmy around often during previews, whether backstage, or front of house, essentially anywhere he wants to go. The production has hired him as a special security consultant, and before any additional fears consume you, I assure you there’s nothing to worry about. Theatres all over Broadway employ security experts; it’s just a sign of the times. Unruly patrons sometimes need a reminder of who’s in charge. So welcome Jimmy, but folks, don’t do anything to make him get suspicious. He’s not Maggie McSwain’s son for nothing. She may have the tart tongue, but his mind is just as, if not more, sharp.”
It was a nice endorsement, and as good an explanation as the crew was going to get.
Nothing was said about the threatening note sent to the theatre. Everyone was in the dark about that, except, of course, for the person who sent it. A person who might just be sitting among them right now. Jimmy’s eyes took another cursory look of the group, saw a mix of disinterest and anxiousness. No one, though, wore the look of guilt.
Welly Calloway finished his speech. “Ok, I think you’ve all heard quite enough from me, so let me turn the floor over to a true man of words…Casey Crais.”
Jimmy had already heard his fill of Casey yesterday, with his nervous energy and trenchant paranoia, so he zoned him out and concentrated, again, on the reactions coming from the cast and crew gathered all over the stage. They stood in small groups, like high school cliques, and while Jimmy didn’t know Adam from Eve, he assumed the actors stood together, stage management in another corner, wardrobe and tech folk staying with their ilk. He caught the eye of the only person he knew on the stage, his breath locking inside his throat. He blinked, and then the man was gone. Had he shifted to the wings, or perhaps excused himself entirely from the meeting? Jimmy knew seeing him was inevitable, talking to him more so. But he wasn’t ready to face Remy St. Claire, not just yet. He returned his focus to Crais, who he realized was in mid-sentence.
“…when they learned what my play was about, friends would ask why I was writing about fear, what inspired it? I’m guessing they were really asking me what I was afraid of, as though the play was a therapy session for myself. I said, can’t a writer find a topic that interests him without everyone assuming it’s about him? I’m not O’Neill, exorcising ghosts by writing about my family. Fear is universal, everyone on this planet feels it, and if you’re honest with yourself, deep down you have just one. Death. That’s what we’re all afraid of. But maybe that’s too simple. Maybe what we’re really fearful of is not achieving what we want in this life before death claims us.” He paused, and Jimmy could see him refocus, his brow furrowed. “I suppose what I’m saying is this: my big dream was to have a play produced on Broadway, and tonight that dream becomes a reality. Hit, flop, at this point it doesn’t matter. Call me a fatalist, but if fate decides to step in and deny me anything else, at least I’ll have achieved what I desired. I hope you can all say that too, when your time comes.”
