KAZAN:

The Kapinsky kid was good, don’t you think? I remember him from the last understudy audition. He gave a decent performance then, too. He was my second choice. He wasn’t as polished as Gray Gordon-and not nearly as good looking, of course-but he had a lot of energy and drive.

BALDY:

Yeah, he’s okay, I guess. A hell of a lot better than those other two goons. Has he had any experience?

KAZAN:

He’s been on TV a couple of times. Had a small role in a

Pepsi-Cola Playhouse production, and he played a burn victim on Medic. They say he did a good job on that one-even though he was wrapped up like a mummy in bandages through the whole show. You never saw his face.

BALDY:

So are you going to hire him, or run some cattle call ads in the papers?

KAZAN:

We need somebody right away. I think we should sign up Kapinsky and save ourselves the time and torture of a cattle call. But what do you think? You’re the producer. You have a stake in this, too.

BALDY:

Yeah, but the talent is your territory. I’m just the money man. And my money’s on you, pal-so whatever you say goes.

KAZAN:

Okay, I’ll tell you what. Go find Kapinsky and tell him to meet us at Sardi’s tonight after the show, around eleven thirty. I’ll bring Ben and Barbara, and you bring Rhonda. We’ll see how everybody gets along. If the other actors like him and want to work with him, he’s in.

The fourth row had almost emptied out, so Baldy and Kazan stood up and began making their way toward the end of the passage. I sat still as a statue in my seat, hoping Baldy would just keep shuffling off to Buffalo (i.e., backstage to find Binky) and never look back. In case he

did turn around, though, and find his eyes drawn to my shocking-pink and red-plaid ensemble, I kept my face turned in the opposite direction, with my wavy, still damp hair draped like a curtain over my profile.

It wasn’t that I was insanely terrified, or anything like that. I mean, what could happen to me

here, in the shelter of the sanctified Actors Studio? And besides, it could have been somebody else’s big black limousine that Flannagan’s anonymous caller had seen down at the river last night. And maybe Baldy had interrogated the Vanguard bartender about me-and given him a secret C-note-just because he thought I was cute.

But I wasn’t taking any chances. If Baldy was in any way connected to the murder of Gray Gordon, and if he had any idea that I had become connected to the case, too-well, let’s just say I thought it would be a good idea for me to lie low. Real low.

So I stayed in my seat until Baldy and Kazan had both disappeared. Then I quickly exited the little theater and stole into the crowded entrance hall. People were standing around in groups, smoking cigarettes, complaining about the heat, and extolling the virtues of the “Method”-the style of acting endorsed by the Actors Studio. I wriggled my way through the herd, darted down the steps to the street-level side door, and then bolted, like a stallion out of the starting gate, into the steamy night.

Heading back across 44th Street toward Times Square, I was a total wreck. (Yes, I know. I had been a total wreck since this whole thing started! But so what? I’m just a total wreck of a person, and you should know that about me by now. I wish I were less emotional, and a heck of a lot more stable, but I’m not. And that’s all there is to say about that.)

It was very dark. As I crossed over Ninth and aimed myself toward Eighth, I felt as though I were staggering, alone, through a murky underground tunnel. There were a few scattered lights in the tunnel-a street lamp up ahead, an illuminated hardware store window over there, a foyer light in the entrance of a tenement building over here-but the overall effect was one of pure and absolute gloom.

Could doom, I wondered, be far behind?

Hardly any people were walking up or down the block, and cruising cars were few and far between. So when the furtive footsteps fell in behind me, I was able to hear them. And when I yanked my head around to see who was there, my response was so sudden and immediate I actually

did catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure-a slim, dark man dressed all in black, who darted into an unlit doorway before I could see his face. Was it Aunt Doobie? Was it Blackie? I was dying to know the phantom’s identity, but too scared to stick around and find out. I tore all the way over to Times Square and hopped the subway home without a backward glance.

WHEN I CHARGED UP THE STAIRS OF MY building and saw that Abby’s door was open, I almost sang the Hallelujah Chorus (or some of it, anyway). My best friend was at home! Coltrane was on the hi fi! Cocktails were being served! (Or so I hoped.) I burst into her apartment with a huge sense of relief and a heap of high expectations.

But the scene inside could not have been more

unexpected.

Abby was standing at her easel, wearing her color-streaked white painter’s smock, and jabbing at her canvas with a big purple-tipped brush. This, in itself, wasn’t so surprising-Abby always wore a smock and listened to Coltrane when she was working on a new illustration-but when I saw who her model was, I was shocked right out of my sandals.

It was Willy! (It seemed Abby had changed her mind about him being the murderer.)

Wearing a scanty homemade toga (Abby must have had an old sheet to spare), and a wreath of ivy (hopefully not the poison variety) on his head, Willy was reclining on a pile of pillows on the floor, and dangling a cluster of grapes (wax, not real) over his open, upturned mouth.

“Hail, Caesar!” I croaked, tossing my purse on the kitchen table and heading straight for the kitchen counter where a big pitcher of rum punch was alluringly displayed. “What’s up, Cleopatra?” I called out to Abby, quickly filling a glass with ice cubes and punch. “Let me guess. You’re doing a cover for a new magazine titled

Roman Orgy.” I carried my drink into the studio and sat down on Abby’s little red loveseat, close to the whirring fan.

“Nope,” Abby said, giving me a nasty look, then stepping back from her canvas and studying it through squinted eyes. “It’s an illustration for

Coronet. They’re running a three-part serial about the fall of the Roman Empire.”

“Oooh! Is

that what this is all about?!” Willy squealed, feigning outrage. “I thought you asked me to pose in this skimpy little dress just so you could gaze at my gorgeous legs.”

I smiled. Willy’s short, pale, pudgy appendages looked as if they belonged on a giant baby instead of a grown-up man.

Abby stared at her watch, and then glared at me. “You’re way overdue, Sue,” she said. “I expected you home three hours ago. When Willy showed up here looking for you, I was so sure you’d be here soon, I convinced him to wait. How come you’re so late? What the hell are you wearing? Where the hell have you been?” She was hovering on the borderline between upset and irate. Abby worried about me (and my poor fashion sense) a lot more than she liked to let on.

“It’s a long story,” I said, not sure I had the energy to tell it. “Where’s Jimmy?” (What I meant was, “Where’s Otto?,” but I didn’t have the nerve to put it that way.)

“Never mind where Jimmy is!” Abby sputtered, angrily sticking her brush in a jar full of turpentine and wiping her hands on her smock. “What I want to know is, where the hell were you?”

“Yeah!” Willy chimed in. “That’s what I want to know, too!” He pulled himself up and sat crosslegged, like a plump little Roman Buddha, on the floor. “We’ve been really concerned, you know!”

“So concerned you decided to have a toga party?” I wasn’t being snippy (there was no sarcasm in my voice at all, I swear!). I was just poking fun, stalling for time, giving myself a chance to relax (and take a few swigs of rum). I needed to calm down and catch my breath before recounting (i.e., reliving) all my troubles during the last twenty-four hours. And I needed to shore up the strength to face the troubles I felt the next few hours would bring.