Bullets for Macbeth Read online

  “Then why did you ask to see me?” Hilary demanded.

  “I didn’t. It was Mike Godwin’s idea. As I said, I already deal with a professional agency. ...”

  “Are you suggesting that my firm is not professional?” She was barely able to keep her voice under control.

  Before he could answer, the door opened. A slim brunette in her late twenties or early thirties started to enter, saw Grilis was occupied, turned around, and closed the door again. The producer faced Hilary, a bored expression on his face.

  “Look, Miss Quayle—”

  “I prefer Ms.!”

  He ignored her. “I’m sure that in your own bailiwick, Miss Quayle, you’re quite competent.” He smiled, probably thinking he was being charming. “But show business isn’t the toy industry, where you have most of your experience. That’s where you obviously belong: with Barbie and Ken and—”

  That did it. Hilary snatched up the portfolio and began to zip it up. “It’s as obvious, perhaps,” she said tartly, “as where people like you belong, Master Grilis! The only difference between toys and show business is that toy firms know something about PR.”

  “I don’t like your inference,” Grilis stated.

  “It’s not an inference,” Hilary retorted, “it’s an insult.”

  He stared at her stonily. “For someone who came here asking for a place on my payroll, you’ve got a lot to—”

  “I did not come here asking for a job!” she snapped. “And now that I’ve met you, I’d have to be an ass to want to work for you!”

  Grilis rose. “In that case, I would suggest you get your ass out of my office!”

  “With pleasure!” She yanked open the door. Godwin was on the other side, just preparing to enter.

  “Hello, Fred,” he said quietly. “I see you’ve made Hilary feel welcome.”

  The producer looked the soul of innocence. “Your friend was showing me her scrapbook when she started insulting me. I don’t know what I said or did, but she seems to operate on a short fuse.”

  Hilary whirled on him. “You’re a damned liar! Everything you—”

  Godwin put a restraining hand on her arm. “Hilary,” he remarked, “I’m familiar with Fred’s customary charm. Do you mind waiting outside? I’ll handle him.”

  She gave Grilis a poisonous look, then left, slamming the door. Godwin motioned me to a chair. He walked to Grilis’ desk and placed his palms flat on the top. He leaned over so that his face was only a few inches from the other’s.

  “Fred,” he said ominously, “two words: she’s in!”

  “Mike,” the other argued, “one word: money! Wilkinson is the cheapest flack—”

  “Because nobody else hires the old lush!”

  “He owns a press list. He has a phone and he knows how to lick stamps.”

  “And that’s PR?” Godwin sneered. He turned to me. “Gene, did this shmuck say anything that’s going to make it impossible for me to get Hilary to handle the show?”

  “Probably. Besides, she already has certain reservations ...”

  “Like what?” Grilis demanded belligerently. I ignored him and spoke to Godwin.

  “You waited too long before coming to us. How can we plan an effective campaign when the show’s opening so soon?”

  He nodded. “I can thank my partner here for that,” Godwin said. “All right, Gene, do me a favor and talk to Hilary while I finish up in here. See if you can get her to calm down.”

  I said I would and reentered the reception area, pulling the door closed behind me. But Hilary was nowhere to be seen. I asked the receptionist what happened to her, and she told me she’d left directly after emerging from Grilis’ office.

  There was no point in chasing her. She was probably already at the Opel, she had her own set of car keys, and in her frame of mind I doubted that she’d sit around for me.

  I lingered in the anteroom, waiting for Godwin. His angry voice and Grilis’ could be heard through the thick wooden door, even though it was shut.

  “Those two are always arguing,” someone said. I turned to see who was speaking. It was the brunette. She had a well-composed face; that is, she did her makeup well. Her hair was piled high on her head, save for strands that curled around her ears like commas. Here eyebrows were perfect arches, and the green eyes beneath were veiled by heavy lashes. She had a small, upturned nose, but the mouth beneath it was too wide for an otherwise delicate face, and her crimson lips added a suspicion of sensuality to an expression which was in all other ways ingenuous.

  I introduced myself and she took my hand in a limp grip, which was probably just as well since her nails were as long as talons.

  “I’m Dana Wynn,” she said, “Fred’s assistant. Do you know if Godwin’s going to be in there much longer?” She stressed his name with a faint emphasis that told me he was not one of her favorite persons.

  I couldn’t enlighten her on how soon she’d be able to see Grilis, and she lost interest in further conversation. Taking a seat, she drummed polished nails on the metal clasp of a tooled alligator bag resting in her lap. She had on a long green winter coat with an orange scarf tucked in at the neck. Her high-heeled patent-leather boots reached above the hem of her coat. (I don’t normally have much of an eye for women’s apparel, but there wasn’t anything else to look at while I waited, and even if there had been, I still would have noticed her.)

  Godwin came out. He looked around the room.

  “Where’s Hilary?”

  “She didn’t stay,” I answered.

  “Figured she wouldn’t.” He turned in the doorway and spoke to Grilis. “I’m going to smooth things out with her. Don’t louse me up again, understand?”

  I didn’t hear a reply, but Godwin must have because he nodded and closed the door. “Come on,” he told me, “I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Crossing the reception area to get to the cloak closet, he saw Dana Wynn. They faced each other, and she smiled with artificial sweetness.

  “Well,” she said, extending her hand, “looks like we’ll be working together again, won’t we, Michael?”

  “Uh-huh,” he grunted, continuing to the coat closet without taking her hand. But she didn’t choose to be ignored. As he and I buttoned our topcoats, she planted herself in front of him and inquired, with amiable insincerity, about Melanie’s health.

  “She’s all right,” he mumbled.

  “Oughtn’t you to be home with her?”

  “What for?”

  “Doing little considerate, husbandly things,” she purred. “After all ... we don’t want anything to happen this time, do we?”

  He stared at her coldly. “I’m afraid I can’t stay and chat, Dana. Besides ...” He made the pause significant. “You don’t want to keep Fred waiting.”

  She turned a smile on and off in a split second. “Yes,” Dana Wynn said, “Fred is a busy man.” She brushed past us and entered the producer’s office.

  “She’s a poisonous bitch,” Godwin told me, as he hoisted a stein of dark. “Falstaff in reverse: when her weapon’s out, she’ll spare neither man, woman, nor child. Freddy’s little toady.”

  We were side by side on swivel stools in a Zum Zum on the ground floor of the same building. I had a sandwich and light beer in front of me. As I spread hot mustard on the top slice of black bread, I asked if there was anything wrong with Melanie’s health, as Dana Wynn had hinted.

  “Well, I am worried about it—and Dana knows it. I wish I could get Mel to ease up and take things slower. She’s under too much strain, and that’s bad.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking. Something Dana said ...” I paused, reluctant to give it a name.

  “Yeah,” he replied gloomily, “you can say it, I know the word.”

  “Miscarriage?”

  “Twice.” He drank.

  “Christ, I’m sorry!”

  “The doctor explained it to me once, I don’t know exactly what the technical term is. Structural problems. Anyway, it was stra
in, nervous tension, both times. Didn’t need anything else; she just got too upset and stayed that way. That’s why I’m worried now.” He was silent for a while, his hands clutched around the glass as if its physical presence somehow reassured him. “They told her,” he continued at length, “that this had better be the last time. Another unsuccessful pregnancy could kill her.”

  We sat there drinking beer, saying nothing. Godwin ordered two more steins and I tried changing the subject, hoping I might be able to shake him out of his depression.

  “I didn’t know you and Grilis were partners.”

  “The marriage of heaven and hell,” he laughed. “G&G, that’s us: Grilis and Godwin.”

  “And the other companies on the front door?”

  “The rest are subsidiaries of Goodfellow Industries, but G&G’s independent. Goodfellow wanted to buy my share out, but I wouldn’t let it go, because I know what’d happen. There’d be no more Shakespeare productions, just Broadway war-horses.” He brushed a hand through his hair, pushing a snowy forelock from his forehead. “G&G is what every director dreams of—his own rep company with casts, scripts, and all hand-picked.”

  “I’m surprised at the amount of control you wield. Usually the money man tells talent what to do, not vice versa.”

  Godwin grinned sardonically. “Well, Fred isn’t always as discreet as he ought to be. You might call G&G a form of personal insurance for him. And for Dana.”

  “Against what?”

  “How shall I put it? Against any drastic changes in lifestyle. ...”

  I nodded. “So there’s a Mrs. Grilis.”

  The director shrugged and took a sip of beer. “There’s a whole Grilis clan up in Attleboro. An empire of Image to uphold.”

  I saw why Godwin won the argument about Hilary, but wasn’t sure I should let her in on it.

  It was growing late. He paid the check, then wrote an address on a napkin and handed it to me.

  “Here’s the address of the rehearsal hall. Ask Hilary to come tonight. Tell her that from now on she’ll be dealing with me and not Grilis.”

  I took the napkin, thanked him for the beer, and dismounted from the stool. Since I didn’t know whether I could persuade Hilary to accept the account after her clash with the producer, I thought it polite to wish Godwin a good rehearsal, at least.

  “Thanks,” he said sourly, “but I’m not looking forward to it. Not tonight.”

  “How come?”

  “Remember the kid you met last night? Evans?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I have to fire him.”

  To my amazement, Hilary was still sitting in the Opel. Though the day was waning and the air was growing chilly, she was in front, shivering.

  “Why didn’t you switch on the heater?” I asked, turning on the ignition. “You could freeze to death in here.”

  “I didn’t want to run down the battery.”

  I pulled the car into traffic. She asked me what had taken me so long, and I explained, relaying Godwin’s message.

  “All right,” she sighed, “I guess I’ll take the account. Give me the address.”

  “It’s in my pocket. I’ll drive you over later.”

  “No, don’t bother. I want the car afterward.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t pursue it further. I fished into my shirt pocket, extracted the napkin, and handed it to her. She put it in her pocket

  “Gene ...” she began, tentatively.

  “Hm?”

  “I’m sorry about before.”

  I cut in abruptly. “Forget it.”

  “You know how bitchy I am when I get wakened too early.”

  “I know.” My tone did not encourage further discussion.

  We rode in silence. But after a while, Hilary said something that I couldn’t hear. I asked her to repeat it.

  “I said I’m worried about Melanie. She doesn’t look well.”

  I told her about the two miscarriages. She bit her lip.

  “No wonder she’s aged so,” she murmured. “God, if anything happens to her, he’ll be devastated.” Hilary shook her head. “I just hope Harry’s wrong about Macbeth and nothing terrible happens.”

  But it was a forlorn hope.

  4

  NOW THAT WE WERE representing Godwin’s Macbeth, I had to gather biographical data on cast members for news releases and program copy. During the next few weeks, I hung around rehearsals attempting to collar players when they weren’t busy emoting.

  Some of the dreariness began to rub off on me. Most theater companies share a family warmth, with rehearsal breaks rife with merriment, but this show was an exception. When cast members weren’t onstage or waiting for cues, they tended to cluster in isolated knots of twos or threes, occasionally whispering to one another, but more often keeping silent. At first, the atmosphere was only subdued, but as performance date neared, the prevailing mood grew increasingly somber.

  Pervasive gloom is, of course, a product of the play. It’s difficult to be lighthearted when supping full of reiterated horrors. By actual count, Macbeth contains a dozen major violent deaths, numerous secondary slaughters, two civil wars chockful of reported butchery, a variety of maimings, dismemberments, decapitations, and nefarious traffic with the blood and guts of innocents. The word murder crops up twenty-seven times in the text; death, twenty; kill is uttered nine times, and there are not fewer than thirty-seven references to blood and bleeding. “What bloody man is that?” asks King Duncan on his first entrance, while the last major dramatic event is the severing of Macbeth’s head.

  But besides the oppressive nature of the play itself, there were more immediate reasons why the black pall of melancholy hung over Godwin’s company. Ill luck plagued them. Harry Whelan may have blamed Armand Mills for quoting the play so liberally, but whatever the cause, the group was beset by accidents and, ultimately, tragedy.

  Evans, the actor Godwin planned to fire, was the first casualty. The way I understand it, he didn’t even show up at rehearsal on the day Hilary first clashed with Fred Grilis. When Evans appeared the next evening, Godwin naturally demanded to know where he’d been.

  “I was sick,” he murmured.

  “Why didn’t you call and let us know you couldn’t make it?”

  Evans shrugged, but did not reply. Godwin let it pass, but during a break, Hilary heard the director tell the young thespian to see him after rehearsal.

  The meeting didn’t take place, though. Evans went down the street to pick up coffee when he wasn’t onstage. On the way back, he slipped on the ice and landed sprawling just outside the rehearsal hall. Managing to drag himself up the flight of stairs to the drafty room where the run-throughs were being held, he collapsed on a chair. Someone got him in a cab and took him to Beekman-Downtown, where they set his ankle, which had been broken.

  He was back the following evening, using a crutch. Though he didn’t know it, the mischance saved his job. Godwin wasn’t about to fire him then and have the whole sympathetic cast down on his neck. Mills took charge of Evans, helping him to negotiate the stairs—and also, he evidently mentioned a few things about professional behavior. There were no more missed rehearsals, and nothing further was said about getting rid of Evans.

  The next accident involved one of the extras. In the last act there is a good deal of swordplay. Some bright person on props went and picked up some deadly antique cutlery and—to blunt the edges—pasted several thicknesses of adhesive tape over the cutting surfaces. The efficacy of this deterrent was revealed one night when one of Macbeth’s avenging enemies got carried away in a fight that Godwin had staged to avoid accidents. Unfortunately, the offender forgot his blocking and began slashing wildly at his opponent. The luckless extra sustained a severed tendon in his hand. He had to quit the show.

  Shortly afterward, Grilis was served with notice that he and Godwin would be sued for negligence by the injured performer. I asked the director about it, worried that the story would reach the ears of the press before we decided w
hat to do about it.

  The kid is claiming the sword should have been more carefully sheathed, which I can’t argue with,” said Godwin. “But he’s also claiming the accident wouldn’t have taken place if I’d directed more carefully. In other words, it’s my fault the scene wasn’t played the way I blocked it! As if I can tell what any of these goddamned ‘method’ actors are going to do once the spirit of ‘Truth’ gooses them!”

  Grimacing, he pantomimed a vulgar gesture of disgust

  There were other physical mishaps as well: sprains, splinters, abrasions and cuts, burns and minor falls—not unusual considering the size of the cast. Law-of-averages injuries. But we were visited by sickness, too—also understandable if the wretched temperature of the typical rehearsal hall is taken into account. Ours was no exception.

  It was a gigantic wooden room with little paint on any surface. One wall consisted entirely of mirrors with a brass dance bar running along its length. A piano with half the keys missing (or stuck) stood in a corner, and dozens of green-back folding chairs were scattered about the room. Heat came from old-fashioned radiator piping, none of which could be regulated. The control knobs had only two effective positions, on and off, and the latter plunged the room into Antarctic conditions. When the radiator was on, though, it was hard to breathe, so the large front windows had to be cranked open to provide some cooling. Anyone standing by them felt the harsh breath of winter on back and neck, while his front toasted in the stifling air. The cast tried to keep moving between windows and door so as not to suffer too long from either temperature extreme; soon, Shakespeare’s text became punctuated with sneezes, wheezes, and coughs, and the ashtrays overflowed with wadded tissues.

  The first victim to virus was Charles Stockton, the Lord Ross. He contracted pneumonitis, a condition halfway between bronchitis and pneumonia and sharing the worst aspects of both. Bedridden for days, Stockton returned out of loyalty to Godwin and dedication to the show, but he had to rest between each of his scenes, for his strength was greatly vitiated by the disease. Others began to miss rehearsals, and many claimed they caught Stockton’s malady, though some probably used it as an excuse to take nights off.