Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(82)

“Did you ever do a gig for Neville Patrick?”

“You mean On Screen’s honcho? I got some juice through On Screen, a solid shot in Triple Threat. Nailed that death scene, too. A couple of other, smaller bits. Theater’s my first love, but the screen gets you more exposure.”

“I guess you’ve met Neville’s wife, Rosa.”

“Never actually met her or the main man.”

“Lori and Ira Brinkman?”

“Ah…” He sucked thoughtfully on his juice. “I don’t think so.”

“Miko and Xavier Carver?”

He shook his head. “Don’t hear the bell ring. Man, are they suspects?”

“Toya L’Page and Gray Burroughs?”

“I don’t— Wait.” He closed his eyes, brow furrowed. Then he shrugged, opened his eyes. “Nope.”

“Where were you last night, Anson?”

“Home, man. Barely made it home, had to hoof it for five blocks in the frigging blizzard.”

“You didn’t go to a friend’s, have a friend over?”

“A couple pals had a blizzard party, but I couldn’t get there. Wanted the girl I’m sort of seeing to head over, but she was holed up, too. It was, like, whiteout time.”

“Did you talk to them, to anybody, say, after midnight?”

“Went to bed about then, I think. I’m hoping my agent tags me soon saying I got this part. I should know by the end of the week. They said end of the week. It’s a long time to wait.”

“Tell me where you were July twenty-second of last year.”

He let out a quick laugh, which ended in a puzzled smile. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“I guess not, and, man, I’m so stealing that approach if I ever play a cop. But I don’t know the answer.”

“Don’t you keep a calendar? For work shifts, for dates, for auditions?”

“Sure. But that was last year. You gotta wipe the slate, get down on the now.”

“How about November twenty-eight?”

“Who keeps track? I was in workshops for three weeks running in September, then the backing fell out. I remember that. Man, I was this close. Second lead.”

He brooded into the distance.

“Do you do your own makeup, Anson?”

“For theater, sure.” He gave a little sigh, likely over being this close, then seemed to cue back into the moment. “It’s part of the immersion. Screen’s different. You need to put yourself into the hands of the artists there.”

“I bet you’re good at it. Doing your own.”

“Took some courses to hone the skills. A lot’s just practice, experimentation.”

“And doing the makeup, that helps you, what, become the character?”

“That’s exactly right.” Earnest, he leaned forward. “I’m already immersed, right? Then, once I’m in makeup and costume, I am the character. The character is me. No separation. It’s exhausting, but it’s the only way.”

“Have you ever played any violent characters?”

“Oh, man, that’s part of the fun. You get to cut those inner demons loose, baby. Joe Boyd, as he descends into madness, he kills a member of the commune he thinks is infecting the crops. Accidentally, but that act pushes him over the edge. He sets fire to the storehouse after that, blames the guy he’s killed. Then—”

“I get it. How do you immerse yourself for the violence?”

“You have to believe it. I mean the staging’s all set, and the cues, the lines, all of that’s around it, but inside, you have to believe you’re going to shove this guy over a cliff to his death.”

“And tap into your own inner demons.”

“We all got ’em, right?”

“How about horror? Ever done a vampire, a ghoul, an actual demon?”

“I was a zombie, an extra on Planet Plague—that got me the audition for the spot on Triple Threat. Man, I would totally kill for a continuing role on Planet Plague.” He caught himself. “Not kill-kill, you get me?”

“Right.” She tried another avenue. “When you’re bartending, I imagine you talk to a lot of people.”

“It’s part of it. You’ve got to talk, but even more, to listen.”

“Do people ever ask you about your outside jobs, the fancy parties?”

He frowned. “The customers? How would they know about them?”

“At the theater, or if you get a screen part, maybe you’d mention the parties you’ve been to. Do a little name-dropping, or talk about what you’ve … observed?”

“I guess. Maybe.”

“And maybe if you’ve got one coming up, you chat about it.”

“Maybe.”

“Anybody specific you might chat with about it?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, it’s just the day job.”

She worked him another half hour, then cut him loose. She stayed in Interview A, brooding into the distance.

Peabody poked her head in. “How’d it go?”

“Either Wright’s an oblivious moron or a hell of an actor.”