The Chelsea Girls(46)

“Well, thank you.” She hated to admit it, but his praise pleased her to no end. If she could impress this guy, then the audience of ticket payers would be a breeze.

“Although I have to say the second lieutenant was facing upstage too much. There were times I didn’t hear what he said.”

Hazel tried, and failed, to bite her tongue. “Everyone’s a critic, I guess.”

“No, no. I’m not saying anything bad. I mean, you probably knew that already.”

She didn’t let up. “I get it now. You’re a budding artist yourself, aren’t you? Let me guess, you acted in a couple of your high school plays.”

Even if she didn’t know it already, his bright red cheeks gave him away.

“I was in the drama club. I couldn’t do sports with my condition, so ended up building sets, hanging lights, that kind of thing. I even got cast in Waiting for Lefty at a community theater upstate.”

Now she understood his father’s fury. The Odets play was all about striking cabdrivers and communists. Talk about making Laurence Butterfield’s blood boil. Her respect for Charlie went up a notch. “That was very brave of you.”

“Not really. My father had the company shut down and banned from ever performing again. Everyone hated me.”

“Your father, as I have said before, is a beast.” She stood and walked up to the stage, leaving him to stew. She wasn’t here to babysit, there was a job to be done, a play to put on.

Poor kid, though. The humiliation obviously still stung.

She gave some notes to the cast and then they ran the final scene one more time. The juice wasn’t there, not like the last time, but that was fine. Ups and downs were to be expected.

As the second lieutenant walked onstage and delivered his lines, she braced herself. She’d told him to not upstage himself, and moved him farther away from Maxine so that he’d naturally have to speak up.

Charlie turned his head to look at her. Even though she kept her eyes glued on the stage, there was no avoiding his triumphant grin.





CHAPTER TWELVE


    Hazel


July 1950

Floyd finally resurfaced—sort of—the next week. Hazel’s phone rang in her room at the Chelsea, where she was going through the script again, trying to figure out some clunky transitions in the second act. Her relief at hearing Floyd’s voice on the other end of the line was enormous.

“How are you? Where are you?”

Floyd’s voice was weaker than usual. “I’m fine. Listen, I have to take a step back from the production. They are asking lots of questions and I have to keep a low profile.”

“Who’s they? The FBI? What kind of questions?” She suddenly remembered that the phones were tapped. “No. Wait a minute, be careful what you say. Do you understand, Floyd?”

“I do.” She heard him swallow. “Let’s just say that I’m perfectly fine, but I’ll be unreachable for a few weeks. My assistant knows what needs to be done, you’re in good hands.”

“No, that’s unacceptable, Floyd. Why do you have to go into hiding?”

A pause. “Not hiding. Just unavailable. I’ll explain later, but for now, be careful yourself, okay? And be careful what you drink.”

“What?” What was he talking about?

“That drink, just be careful. Don’t pair it with tangerine. Very dangerous.”

Brandy.

He was saying that Brandy had turned him in.

Would Brandy have done something like that, just because she didn’t like the color of her costume? It seemed crazy. Yet just yesterday, Maxine and Brandy had gotten into an argument about the blocking. Previews for the show, which were open to audiences but not reviewers, would begin next week, and everyone was on edge. When Hazel intervened, Brandy spat out, “Of course you take Maxine’s side, she’s your friend.”

The way she said the word friend, emphasizing the double meaning, wasn’t lost on Hazel or on the rest of the cast. Even worse, Hazel had spied Charlie hovering in the wings, observing the exchange. Hazel, tired and irritable herself, had lit into Brandy. The girl had approached Hazel later for stepping out of line and apologized. Her words may have been warm, but her eyes didn’t convey a jot of remorse.

“Floyd, take care of yourself and let me know if there’s anything I can do. Maybe we can meet somewhere and catch up?” She hated to leave it like this, so open-ended.

“No. Don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself. And be careful.”

What a mess. This day off, which would be followed by another tomorrow for the Fourth of July, was endless. Hazel wanted nothing more than to get the show back in motion. The late-afternoon sun streamed through the windows of her room at the Chelsea. She had to get out.

She strode over to Maxine’s room to see what she was up to, but a strange sound made her pause before knocking.

“Maxine?” She rapped quietly. “Are you all right?”

Maxine opened the door a sliver. “I’m fine. Do you need me?”

“I’m not here as your director, silly. I heard from Floyd. He said he’s lying low, for now, and that we should be careful of Brandy. I think she’s the one who turned his name over to the FBI.”

Maxine drew her inside and cleared off some room on the settee. While Hazel’s rooms were neat and tidy, Maxine’s looked a lot like when she’d first arrived, with clothes strewn around and silk scarves hanging over lamps. Whether for mood lighting or because that’s simply where they landed, it was hard to tell.