The Chelsea Girls(36)
“They’re closing in.”
Hazel picked it up. “Who is?”
“Read the headline.”
She did so out loud. “Un-American Activities Group Probing Radio, TV, Stage.”
“Stage. That’s us.” Mr. Canby took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.
She scanned the first paragraph.
The House Un-American Activities Committee is heading east, and soon will be initiating a probe of communism within the Broadway theaters of New York City. Committee investigators are already on the ground in the Big Apple investigating suspected actors and writers, as well as gleaning information from others claiming to have facts about commie influences in Manhattan’s showbiz.
The pattern for the Broadway probe will be no different from that of the Hollywood hearings. The HUAC expects several former members of the Communist Party to come forward and purge themselves by answering questions and naming those they knew in the Party.
“Purge.” Mr. Canby let the word hang in the air. “That’s some word. They’ve already started interviewing people in secret.”
Floyd and the set designer were downstairs in the basement, checking to see if any old props could be retooled for the show, and Hazel was grateful they weren’t in earshot. She didn’t want them to see Mr. Canby so anxious. “I don’t know anyone who’s been interviewed.”
“Because they’re secret, doll.”
The article would certainly strike even more fear into the hearts of the theater community, everyone wondering if a rival was turning on them, if they were a target. If they’d go off to jail and lose everything. An insidious, poisonous fog was drifting down Broadway, across stages and into producers’ offices and rehearsal rooms, making everyone suspect and scared.
“What can I do to help you? To help our production?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing. I mean, that’s what you should do. Nothing. Don’t speak out, don’t talk about it with other people. Lay low.”
“What about the radio interview Maxine and I are supposed to do this afternoon?”
Canby had arranged for an on-air interview at NBC, and Hazel hated to admit how eager she was to return to the studio as a budding playwright, as opposed to a cow.
“You’ll still do that, of course. We need all the good press we can get.” Canby’s expression softened. “Don’t get me wrong. I believe in this show. This is the best thing I’ve produced in decades. Screw Butterfield Supermarkets.”
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Butterfield Supermarkets, some upstate grocery chain owned by an amateur blacklister. He enjoys organizing boycotts of anything slightly pinko. Laurence Butterfield has decided the theater is his next pet project.”
Floyd and the set designer emerged from the wings just then, preventing Hazel from asking any more questions. She dove headlong into the agenda, knowing that they had only an hour before the rest of the cast reassembled, and Mr. Canby headed off after giving the nod of approval to both sets and costumes.
As Floyd and the set designer were packing up to go, the rest of the cast drifted back in for the afternoon’s rehearsal.
The air in the room seemed to chill even before Hazel realized that two men in dark suits were charging down the aisle. This could not be good. She desperately wished Mr. Canby were still here.
“Yes? Can I help you?” Hazel tried to stay calm, put a neutral expression on her face.
“We’re investigators with the FBI.” The one who addressed her had an angry landscape of razor burn across his neck. In tandem, the men flashed their badges before tucking them back into the inside pockets of their jackets.
“What do you want?”
“We were informed that Floyd Jenkins is here.”
Floyd stepped forward, clutching a folder with his sketches in front of his chest like armor. “Yes? You want me?” His voice rose almost to a falsetto.
The other man, a bear of a guy in a too-small suit that pulled at the seams, nodded. “We’d like to ask you some questions, downtown. Come with us, please.”
“What is this all about?” said Hazel. “You can’t just come and take him away, we’re working here.”
“Actually, ma’am, we can. If you’ll come with us, please, Mr. Jenkins.”
The room froze. “Floyd, let me call Mr. Canby, don’t go anywhere,” said Hazel, starting down the steps from the stage.
“No, no.” Floyd waved his hand. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.” He handed the folder to Hazel. “See that these get back to the costume shop, to my assistant. Tell her we have the green light and to get to work.”
“No, Floyd.”
“It’s fine. I’ll answer their questions and be back in no time.”
With the agents flanking Floyd on either side, they disappeared up the aisle.
“Maxine Mead, you are an absolute delight.” The host of the radio program leaned in close to his microphone. “I know all our listeners out there are entranced, and if only they could see you like I do, they’d be panting like dogs.”
Not exactly the way Hazel would have liked him to put it, but at least so far the radio interview had gone smoothly, with all the focus on Maxine. Hazel hadn’t been able to reach Mr. Canby to tell him of the FBI spiriting Floyd off to be interviewed, but their own interview had only five minutes to go, after which she could head right over to his office.