The Chelsea Girls(42)
“Of course I do.” I stood to go. I’d heard enough and if I stuck around any longer, I’d tell Mr. Butterfield to go to hell and toss his tea in his face. And if I did that, without a doubt, the show would be surrounded by picketers and close before it had a chance to open.
But with Butterfield placated, we’d have a chance.
“If Hazel goes to American Business Consultants to clear her name, will you give us a little breathing space, Mr. Butterfield?” I forced myself to let my hand linger on his arm as he showed me to the door.
“I just might, Miss Mead.” He offered up a slow, vicious smile, revealing a mouth of crowded teeth. “I very well just might.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hazel
June 1950
First thing tomorrow, I’m going to go right uptown and confront Mr. Canby. How dare he put you in that position with Butterfield?”
“No, you can’t.” Maxine grabbed Hazel’s arm, pleading. “He made me promise not to tell you any of this.”
It had taken only a couple of drinks for Hazel to get Maxine to spill the beans as to what was going on. Hazel had known something was up when she came down from the mezzanine level earlier that day, having just checked the sight lines for the play’s final scene, and spotted Mr. Canby and Maxine slipping out of the house manager’s office, neither saying a word to the other and practically tiptoeing away. They were up to some kind of intrigue, and Hazel was determined to find out what.
So she’d invited Maxine to El Quijote that evening, where they’d gossiped for a bit before Hazel asked her directly what was happening. Eventually, Maxine had filled her in on her meeting with Mr. Canby, followed by the one with Mr. Butterfield. Hazel shook with anger. What the hell had Canby been thinking, sending Maxine into the lion’s den like that? Maxine had assured Hazel that she’d slowed him down and sweet-talked him into backing off, and he’d even opened up the possibility of Hazel getting “cleared” from all charges.
“So you see, it was a good idea after all,” said Maxine. “First thing tomorrow, you can go down and get your name taken off the list.”
Hazel called for another drink. “Still, the two of you had no right to go behind my back.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. Look, once the show’s open and ticket sales are through the roof, Butterfield will have lost what little power he wields.”
They simultaneously knocked on the wooden bar with their knuckles, and laughed. The knot of worry in Hazel’s gut released and she assured Maxine that she’d not turn on Canby for using her leading lady in his attempt to make nice.
First thing the next morning, after a sleepless night, Hazel headed to the offices of American Business Consultants, located in a skyscraper across from Bryant Park.
She took the elevator up but paused a moment outside the door, unsure. Anger would only inflame the problem, not help it. She took a couple of deep breaths and reminded herself of the goal: to clear her name, not create more drama. Face-to-face, they wouldn’t be able to deny the inconsistencies and inaccuracies. She hated to stoop to their level, but she wanted to save the show from even the threat of picketers, from being shut down.
As the director and playwright, she was accountable for over a hundred jobs, another reason she hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. She didn’t want to disappoint anyone.
Secrets were dangerous. Better to have it all out in the open.
A secretary took her name and disappeared. The place wasn’t particularly grand or bustling, the floors scuffed and the walls empty. Hazel counted only four office doors off the small waiting area, where copies of Red Channels were fanned out on a glass table. Hazel stifled the impulse to snatch them up and bury them in her purse.
“Miss Ripley. In here.”
The secretary held open a door with the name Vincent Hartnett on it. Mr. Hartnett had thinning hair that had been unartfully draped across his scalp, a coiffure that probably took longer to arrange than her own.
“What can I do for you?” He closed a folder and placed both elbows on it, hands under his chin.
No handshake, no niceties. Fine. Hazel sat in the chair opposite. “My name is Hazel Ripley. My name is listed in Red Channels, and Mr. Butterfield suggested I come by. The entry about me is erroneous and I wish to clear things up.”
“I see.” He opened a desk drawer and took out the booklet. “Ripley, did you say?” He rifled through the pages until he found the right one, and then took a moment to study it while she stayed silent.
Someone knocked on the frame of the open door. “Mr. Hartnett, just wanted to let you know I’m heading out.”
Hazel turned her head and let out a small “oh.”
Charlie—the man from the roof of the Chelsea, looking much healthier than when she’d seen him last—stared back at her.
Hazel had assumed he was a Fed, but obviously not. He hadn’t been lying when he said he worked in the private sector; he was one of Hartnett’s lackeys. Judging from the shocked look on his face, he was as stunned as she was.
Charlie gave her a barely perceptible nod before turning to Mr. Hartnett. “I didn’t know you were with someone. Sorry to interrupt.”
“Do you two know each other?” Mr. Hartnett eyed Hazel.
“No, we don’t know each other.” Charlie’s answer was firm.