Reign, p.16
Reign, page 16
The thought was morbid, unlike him, and he tried to dismiss it, thinking instead about the tremendous trash bill the removal of all the ruined materials would bring, not a pleasant thought either, but one closer to realities, intended to help him drive back the discomfort that seemed to be entering his brain through the mold-coated channels of his nostrils. If only, he thought, I could smell something else. The scent of the mold seemed redolent of death and decay.
But Evan would be back soon. The kid seemed pleasant enough, and, like Tommy, eager to please. Now if only he didn't take so damn long on the crapper . . .
Curt had just about made up his mind to go above, when he heard footsteps from the direction of the stage. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief that Evan was returning, when he realized that the steps were not Evan's. Instead of a brisk clatter, like those of someone returning to their task, they were instead a slow and ponderous shuffling, not so much the sound of walking as that of something being dragged along in the dirt.
It was possible, wasn't it? Maybe Evan had glanced into one of the bays on the left and found something heavy that he wanted Curt to see. Wasn't that possible?
No. That was stupid. There was someone out in the main tunnel, and it wasn't Evan. So what? So fucking what? It sure as hell wasn't a ghost. It could be Abe Kipp or Harry Ruhl or a goddam electrician, and to learn who it was, all he had to do was look — just take a few steps to the main tunnel, turn, and look.
Then do it, damn it. Just do it.
He hissed air through his teeth in self-disgust, twisted about, and stepped into the corridor.
It wasn't Evan. And it wasn't Abe Kipp or Harry Ruhl or some goddam electrician.
Electricians didn't wear long black robes with hoods that covered their faces.
Electricians didn't move along tunnels like this thing did, half-floating so that Curt could see the toes of its bare feet, the dirty yellow-white of old bones, dragging through the dust, plowing thin furrows as it came toward him.
Electricians, or Abe Kipp, or Harry Ruhl, didn't drive a wedge of ice down Curt's throat, didn't make him feel that at any second his carefully controlled bladder might burst in wet fear.
Electricians and plumbers and janitors didn't, goddammit, do those things, and Curt could only stand and watch as this absurdly medieval apparition, this terrifying and imbecilic anachronism drifted closer and closer, the light behind it growing brighter, the dark oval within the cowl becoming blacker, an ultimate blackness that would drown him if he did not move, or yell, or look away . . .
And then, in the blackness, he saw its eyes.
"Hope Sprite's okay!"
It was gone as quickly as Evan's words had come, just vanished, as if it had never been there, and instead he was looking at Evan bouncing down the tunnel, a green can in each hand, a smile on his face, a face mercifully normal, eyes, nose, mouth, all in the proper place and in the proper relief.
"The machine's out of Coke," he went on, holding out a can for Curt to take.
Although Curt felt incapable of motion, he saw his hand reach out and grasp the can, and felt the cold. The sensation steadied him, and he nodded at Evan. "Thanks," he heard himself say harshly, and cleared his throat.
"Pretty dusty down here," Evan said, acknowledging Curt's roughness of voice.
"Yes . . . it is. Maybe we've been down here long enough. We can finish this next week." He tucked the clipboard under his arm and let a cold jolt of the soda sear his throat. "Have you seen our recreation area?" he asked Evan, thinking that an exit from the tunnel in that direction would keep him from once more passing the dark mouths of the bays.
"Not yet."
"Come on then, I'll show you," he said, and led the way out of the tunnel.
What he had seen, he told himself, had to be an hallucination. He had been working too long without a break, maybe thinking too much about Tommy Werton's death, and, finding himself alone in a particularly eerie place, and in a morbid state of mind, that mind had just overloaded its circuits and shown him something that did not, could not exist outside the network of ganglions in his brain. Simple as that.
The only alternative was that there were ghosts, and Curtis Wynn had never believed in ghosts. He had spent over half of the thirty-eight years of his life in theatres, a good many of which were reputed to be haunted, and not once had he ever seen anything inexplicable by natural means, not once had he felt the presence of any creatures other than human.
Hallucination, then. A visit home was just what he needed, and he decided to leave early.
~ * ~
As soon as Curt and Evan stepped into the basement hall and closed the door to the storage area behind them, the musty odor was replaced by that of chlorine. "Smell that?" Curt said. "The pool. Right around the corner. But in here . . .” He crossed the hall and opened a door. "A bowling alley, shuffleboard court, even quoits, if anyone is still into that."
"Very thirties, huh?" Evan said, grinning at the large room. Although he had never played quoits, he had bowled often while in the Marines, and had enjoyed shuffleboard at several of the boarding schools he had attended, even though it was considered a retiree's game.
"In here," Curt went on, sliding open a pair of paneled doors, "are pool tables and card tables. Kirkland's bridge club met here some years ago. Dennis had the pool tables' surfaces recovered." Evan nodded appreciatively. The tables were elegant, with legs of polished mahogany and large net pockets rather than ball returns. But he had little time to examine them closely, for Curt led the way immediately out another door and across the hall, from where the chlorine smell came.
"The pool," he said as he passed through the doorway. "Six lanes. We use this a lot. You have a suit?" Evan nodded. "You may want to give it a try today then. It's heated, of course. The locker rooms are through there." He gestured toward a door at the deep end of the pool. "Come on — it goes through to the gym."
"A gym too? You've got everything here."
Curt shrugged. "It was a community center. And the man who ran the community was generous."
As they passed through the men's locker room, down the rows of dark green metal lockers, Evan pictured it as it must have been over half a century before — the laughing, sweaty bodies of businessmen, sated with their Saturday luncheon at the local Rotary, casting off their inhibitions with their suits and ties, becoming kids again, splashing about in the pool David Kirk had given them. But this picture of aquatic felicity was banished by the sight that met his eyes as they walked into the spacious and well-appointed gym.
Terri Deems, clad in a leotard and Reeboks, was driving the flywheels of a rowing machine to a state of frenzy. Her short red hair was plastered to her forehead, and sweat darkened the light green fabric between her breasts. When she saw the two men, it seemed to startle her. She broke her rhythm, then took two more long strokes before she relaxed, letting the machine come to a rest with a long hum of gears.
"You two met?" Evan asked.
"Yesterday," Terri said.
"So," Evan said smiling, "you're into exercise.”
“I'm into not dying an early death, that's all.”
“Things slow upstairs?" said Curt, crossing his arms.
"Marvella's in one of her solitary moods — she can't stand the sight of me right now."
"If I remember right," Evan said, "most of the time Marvella can't stand the sight of anyone in her shop." Terri gave a sour smile.
"Well, the five dollar tour is over," said Curt. "I'm going to take our list to the office, then get out of here." He started to move toward the door, but Evan didn't follow. Curt turned back, gave him a look half-amused and half-pitying, and nodded. "Happy Thanksgiving. See you both next week." Then he was gone.
Jesus, thought Evan, is it so obvious? Well, if it was it was. He was simply not capable of walking away from Terri Deems without an overwhelming reason. "So," he began, "how did you come to work for Marvella?"
"Your father used to date my mother," she said, without the trace of a smile. The answer took him by surprise, and he gave a chuckle that he was sure sounded as uncomfortable as it felt. "I'm sure there was more to it than that."
"Really? And how did you get your job?"
He felt his face redden. "I, uh, I had some connections too."
She shrugged. "Makes the world go round, doesn't it."
"Look, um, would you like to have some lunch?"
“Why?”
God damn it, but she was cold. "Well, it's almost noon, and I thought you might be hungry."
"I brought my lunch, thanks.”
“Maybe dinner?"
"I eat dinner at home."
"A movie?"
"I don't think so." There was not a hint of apology in her voice. Evan knew that any further attempt would be useless.
"Okay, well . . . I'll be seeing you." He gave a half-hearted wave and left the gym. Outside the door he paused and listened to the rowing machine crank up immediately. God, what an impression he must have made on her — not even a moment of contemplation for the poor putz who tried to date her. Nope, just pump that machine and feel the burn. Hell.
He decided to go watch the television in his suite and think about ways to look sexy.
~ * ~
Hot shit bastard, Terri thought, trying to punish the machine by yanking the oars out of their cradle. Just because his old man runs the place, he thinks he's got free and easy access to all the help. Fuck that.
She stopped her rowing, thrust the oars from her, and sat with her head down, watching the sweat trickle from the hollow of her throat down onto her chest. Dennis Hamilton's kid. Just the person she didn't need in her life. She was angry at her mother, and she was angry at Dennis as well for having loved Ann, and for maybe still loving her, and she was goddamned if she was going to have anything to do with his kid.
Even if he was as cute and charming as hell.
Even if she did, in spite of herself, like him.
~ * ~
She likes the boy. She'd like to have him, I'll wager, have him between her legs, making her sweat even more.
Sweat.
God, look at her sweat.
But that's nothing to how I'll make her sweat. Christ's jewels, I'll make her MOAN and sweat, sweat blood before I'm done with her, the little whore.
Sweat.
And blood.
Blood.
Scene 14
Thanksgiving passed. The core of people who comprised the New American Musical Theatre Project sated themselves on turkey for several days, then, slightly logy, returned to their jobs. Dennis and John Steinberg agreed that Craddock was a good choice for the first show, and the premiere was set for the following May. Though December was looked upon as the calm before the storm, there were still things to do.
Steinberg and Donna began to draw up the agreements, while Dennis and Robin discussed what revisions the composer and writer should be asked to make. Ann Deems arranged to have auditions held at the Minskoff Studios in Manhattan in mid-February, and Curt and Evan finished their inventory of the cellar. Though occasionally alone there, Curt saw nothing out of the ordinary, to his great relief.
The final two weeks of rehearsal for Craddock would take place, not in New York, but in the Venetian Theatre itself, and the performers and crew would lodge in the theatre building itself. While some of the dormitory rooms on the fourth floor would be converted into suites for Dex, Quentin, and the writers, others, along with the former hospital rooms on the fifth floor, would simply be enlarged and furnished in a non-opulent manner that would keep Broadway gypsies and the stage crew at least content. It had taken John Steinberg much time and effort to get permissions from Actors' Equity and I.A.T.S.E., the stagehands' union, to give their people what was basically dormitory housing, but the project promised to give so many people work that the whole theatrical community was solidly behind it, and the powers that be were willing to bend the rules a bit to get the fledgling out of its nest.
The fifth floor had been untouched for many years, and it was that large, ex-hospital area that was Abe Kipp's concern this early December morning. Although the iron bedsteads and wooden chairs had long since been removed to the Kirkland General Hospital that had been built in 1940, musty mattresses remained in each room. An antiquated table still sat in the center of each of the two operating theatres, and a few desks on the verge of collapse made up the remainder of the furniture. There were still porcelain sinks and lavatories in each examination room and ward room, unsalvageable, their once white finishes now faded to the yellow of rheumy eyes, and stained by years of mineral deposits from the springs that had made David Kirk's fortune. Even a few trolleys stood as they had for decades, crippled forever by the loss of wheels.
"Fuckin' mess," Abe Kipp observed. Years before he had used the place to hide out and goof off, but gave up on it because there were too many stairs to climb. Besides, the place had an odor he didn't like. The old mattresses were part of it, but it was more than just that. It smelled like something metallic, yet sour and organic at the same time, as if a mouse had died behind the wall. Only the smell never went away as the mouse dried up. Abe had searched for its source, but had never found it. It just seemed to come from everywhere.
He shook his head as he thought about those actors living up here. "Better them than me," he muttered. Maybe, he thought, after everything was all cleaned up and repainted, the smell would go away. It was probably in the fuckin' walls and floor. A coat of paint'd cover it up all right, sure it would.
He found Harry Ruhl in the costume shop where he had sent him. The nigger had called Abe on the backstage phone and bitched about getting the waste cans emptied and the place mopped up, so Abe had sent Harry. Abe didn't like to work for the nigger. He didn't like niggers in general, and especially not that big fat Aunt Jemima on the fourth floor. She was sitting behind her sewing machine now, looking at Abe like he was something she found under a rock. "And what do you want?" she said.
Abe didn't answer right away. Damned if he was going to respond to that kind of talk. Who the hell did she think she was? He glanced around but didn't see Harry anywhere. Terri, the new girl, was in the corner fussing with some dress on a dummy. His gaze lingered on her body until she looked at him and he had to look away. Helluva nice set of knockers on her. She wouldn't have been at all out of place in one of his skin mags. "Where's Harry?" he finally said.
Marvella jerked her head toward the door under the costume loft. "In the bathroom."
"You didn't say nothin' on the phone about cleanin' no bathroom."
"Wasn't my idea. Harry just figured long as he was up here he might as well clean it."
Holy hell, cleaning a nigger's bathroom. Sure, it had to be done from time to time, but actually doing it because he wanted to? Christ, if there wasn't any proof before that the kid was a retard, it sure as shit was here now. "Harry!" Abe bellowed, moving to the bathroom door. "What the hell are you doin'?"
Harry looked up grinning from the toilet bowl. "Just cleaning up, Abe.”
“You finished?"
"Almost."
"Well, get finished. I got something else for you. A really big job. Important.”
“Important? What?"
"Porcelain removal."
Harry's face was a blank. "Huh?"
"I want you to bust up some sinks and toilets."
"Bust them up?"
"Take 'em apart from the wall, put 'em on the freight elevator, and then out back. They gotta be replaced."
"Hey," Marvella said, not deigning to turn from her sewing machine. "We're working here. You want to finish this talk somewhere else?"
Abe ignored her. "Get rid of the furniture too. Mattresses, desks, couple operating tables —"
"Operating tables? You mean up on the fifth floor? The . . . the hospital?”
“Yeah, the hospital, but it ain't been a hospital for fifty years, Harry."
"But it was, Abe. People died up there. I had a uncle died up there. I never been up there, Abe."
"There was never no reason before, was there?"
"You'll go with me, Abe? Won't you?"
"Hell, Harry, don't be such a . . .”Abe lowered his voice. “. . . a pussy boy now."
"I'm not, Abe, I'm not, it's just that I don't like that place, I mean, you think of all the people who died up there.
Marvella turned, frowned at Abe, and shook her head at Harry. When she spoke, her voice was gentle. "There's nothin' up there, Harry. I been up there before. I been all over this place day and night, and I never seen a thing to scare anybody." Her face clouded for a moment, and Abe wondered if she was telling the truth. "Abe," she said, "why don't you go up there with him. Those things're pretty heavy for one boy to tote around."
"Hey," he said. He never referred to Marvella Johnson by name, since he would not give her the honor of addressing her as Mrs., and he was too frightened of her to call her by her first name. "Do I tell you what to do with your helper?"
Marvella's face puckered like a prune. "Just plan your itinerary somewhere else then. We're tryin' to work here."
"All right, all right, come on, Harry." Head held high, Abe Kipp strode to the door, and Harry scurried behind him with his mop, bucket, and garbage bag.
"Don't you be scared now," Marvella said to Harry, "and thanks for cleaning up." He saw Terri smile at Harry and nod as if to encourage him. Shit, Abe thought, why are women so automatically nice to dummies? Maybe if that hot ticket thought he was a dummy, she'd be nice to him too. Goddam, what a figure, even if she did cut her hair like a guy. He considered it and decided he'd crawl through a mile of broken glass just to beat off on her ankle.
He stole one last glimpse of the girl's nipples poking against her blouse, and then went out into the hall. "Come on, dammit," he told Harry, and started walking toward the elevator that would take them to the fifth floor.
